The air felt unusually light for London. The sun shone through a lacework of clouds, its warmth softened by a breeze that teased the ribbons of our bonnets and sent our parasols swaying like blossoms in motion. We slowed at the corner, carriages clattering past, the scent of fresh bread wafting from a nearby bakery. Caroline linked her arm with mine, and we laughed at a small dog trotting purposefully after a hansom cab, tail high with self-importance. It was absurd and delightful.

“I can’t remember the last time we were all out like this,” I said, glancing from one to the other. “Just us.”

Caroline gave my arm a light squeeze. “It’s because everything’s always so serious now.”

That wasn’t untrue. With Father’s moods, my work at the hospital, the quiet tension that seemed to thread through every conversation—every day felt like a negotiation between duty and desire. But here, now, walking with my sister and mother under a forgiving sun, I felt something I hadn’t in weeks: ease. A quiet part of me unclenched. We passed under a canopy of young plane trees, their new leaves rustling overhead. The city bustled around us, but our little procession—Mother with her determined stride, Caroline in constant orbit of every window, and me somewhere in between—felt insulated, almost sacred. We walked together, the three of us in step.

“I want to stop at the florist first,” Caroline said, adjusting her parasol with practiced flair. “If I don’t get those pink roses, I’ll simply wither.”

Mother glanced sideways at her, amused. “Let’s not be dramatic, Caroline. You’re not a cutting.”

“She’s close,” I added with a grin. “She does wilt without attention.”

Caroline elbowed me gently, but she was laughing. “Cruel, both of you.”

We turned the corner, and the florist came into view—its display spilling with bright dahlias, sunflowers, and astrantia. Buckets crowded the walkway, filling the air with the soft tang of greenery and the sweetness of petals. The breeze fluttered through the flowers, making them tremble in place. We stepped inside together, the little bell chiming overhead. The shop was close and fragrant, sunlight slanting through the glass and catching on dust motes that danced like lazy fairies.

“Oh, look at these,” Caroline breathed, rushing toward a bunch of pale pink garden roses. “They’re perfect.”

I moved slowly through the space, fingers brushing the velvety edge of a hydrangea, pausing near a vase of white peonies. “They smell like the gardens back home,” I said softly, to no one in particular.

Mother lingered near a small arrangement of lilies, her gloved hand lightly adjusting a stem. “I used to bring flowers like these to your grandmother,” she said. “She always insisted on lilies for the drawing room.”

For a moment, we were still. Caroline holding her roses. Mother lost in thought. And I, just observing, realizing how rare it was lately to have this—uncomplicated time, the kind that doesn't demand anything but your presence. “I’d like to stop by Monsieur’s next,” I said, almost gently. “They’ve likely got the new installment of the Dublin Journal ”

Caroline groaned. “More books?”

“And after that, we’ll find some lace,” Mother added, already moving toward the counter. “I’ve had enough of our seamstress complaining about the stock in the country.” We exited with Caroline cradling her roses like a prize, our skirts brushing in rhythm as we walked. The city hummed around us, but for once, it didn’t feel overwhelming. We were just three women in the sun, laughing, moving from shop to shop, our parasols flickering like small sails above us.

 

The walk to Monsieur’s was short—just a few blocks past the tea shop with the painted windows and the old tailor’s with its ever-silent bell. The bookstore was tucked into a narrow building with ivy curling around its sign, its name—DeLyoncourt & Co. Antiquarian Booksellers—painted in fading gold leaf. It had been our family’s preferred shop for years, largely due to Father’s allegiance to its curious charm and Aunt Eliza’s insistence that no other place in London carried such “books with proper soul.”

If the old rumors were to be believed—and in our family, they often were—Simon, Father’s elusive and alarmingly competent butler, had been close friends with Monsieur DeLyoncourt for decades, perhaps longer. They shared the same quiet precision, the same glint of something otherworldly in their expressions. And, though it was whispered only in jest, neither seemed to have aged a day since before we were born. It wasn’t polite to comment, of course, but even Caroline had once whispered, “They don’t age, they just re-alphabetize.”

As we entered, the small bell above the door gave its usual single chime—clear, silvery, almost too refined for a bookshop. The scent of old paper, ink, and faint lavender greeted us like an old friend. Caroline walked in with a sigh, her posture already drooping under the weight of anticipated boredom. “I’ll never understand why the bindings are always brown or green,” she murmured, trailing behind. Mother stayed close to her, glancing around with fond familiarity, while I moved forward—pulled, as always, by the soft lure of old spines and forgotten margins.

And then there he was: Monsieur DeLyoncourt. He stood behind the polished oak counter, exactly where he always had, like a figure painted into the frame of the store itself. His shoulder-length, wavy blond hair caught the light, and his eyes—an unworldly shade of blue, the kind that made you forget what you were saying—brightened when he saw me.

“Mademoiselle Elizabeth,” he said warmly, with the faintest French lilt in his voice. “Always a pleasure.”

I smiled, genuinely. “Monsieur DeLyoncourt. You’re looking well.”

“As are you,” he said, rounding the counter with a grace that suggested time moved differently for him. “I’ve just received something I believe you’ll enjoy. But first—how lovely to see the whole family.”

Caroline gave him a distracted nod, already eyeing the small stack of sketchbooks by the window. Mother offered a polite greeting, then turned to examine the shelf of French periodicals, leaving me with him.

“I’ve missed this place,” I said quietly. “It smells the same.”

“As it should. A proper bookshop never loses its scent.” He tilted his head slightly. “And neither should its patrons forget to visit more often.”

I laughed. “We’ve been busy. The usual kind of busy, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “the world may change, but some things endure: words, stories, and friendships.” He gestured towards the rear table, where a few copies of The Dublin Journal of Medical Science were stacked neatly, their spines still stiff with newness. My heart lifted at the sight. “Ah, there it is—the look I wait for.”

I grinned as I picked one up. “Not exactly popular reading, I suppose.”

He shook his head. “Not in the slightest. Most don’t even glance at it. That’s why I only order a few. Two or three copies at most. You, of course, are the exception.”

“You knew I’d want one.”

“As surely as I know you’ll read it cover to cover by Tuesday.”

I laughed softly. “You’re not wrong. I’ll take it.”

We made our way to the counter, and he began wrapping the journal in brown paper, tying the twine with quick, elegant knots. I glanced absently toward the front window—and froze. Outside, a small group of well-dressed men had gathered, mid-conversation, gesturing with cigars and walking canes, their laughter muffled through the glass. Among them stood a man with striking red hair, sharp and vivid even in the filtered daylight. He wasn’t looking inside, but I saw enough. The set of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw, the air around him—it was off. Cold.

I knew it wasn’t Benedict, the presence was wrong. Something in my chest tightened without permission. The red-haired man turned slightly as if sensing something, and just as quickly, the group moved on down the street, swallowed by foot traffic and the curve of the block.

“Mademoiselle?” Monsieur’s voice called me back. I blinked hard, realizing I’d been standing still with coins in one hand, the other clutching my parcel.

“Apologies,” I said, stepping closer and placing the payment in his chilled hand. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

Monsieur didn’t ask. He simply gave a slight nod and handed over the bundle with the same gentle efficiency he always had. “Until next time,” he said.

I turned back toward the door, spotting Caroline and Mother still near the display of botanical books, Caroline poking at a volume with theatrical disdain. As I rejoined them, Caroline looked up. “You went all dreamy-eyed at the counter. What caught your attention?”

“Nothing,” I said too fast. Then, more composed, “Just a trick of the light. Come on, don’t we have lace to find?”

Mother, already moving toward the door, nodded. “Before the seamstresses decide to riot.”

Caroline gave me a lingering glance but let it go as we stepped back into the sunlight. I held the journal tight to my chest, trying to shake the shadow that had settled, as if some unseen thread had been tugged loose in the world.

We made our way down Regent Street toward Urling’s Lace Warehouse, the sunlight beating straight down with the stark clarity of high noon, casting sharp shadows and bleaching the street in a brilliant glare. Caroline walked just ahead, twirling her parasol with a flair that seemed both practiced and entirely natural. She drew glances from passing gentlemen like a flame draws moths—smiling at none, but knowing full well that they were watching. Mother walked beside her, purposeful as ever, her eyes scanning storefronts for the unmistakable brass-lettered windows of Urling’s. I lagged a few paces behind, clutching my parcel a little too tightly and scanning the street with what I hoped passed for casual interest.

I didn’t see him. Not in the shop windows we passed, not among the strolling couples or the loafers perched on benches, not in the reflections of carriage glass. But the feeling hadn't left me. It stayed there—just under my ribs, low and tight, like the memory of being watched. I looked behind us more than once, always careful, always subtle. Nothing.

 

By the time we reached Urling’s, I was both relieved and uneasy. The warehouse was larger than most shops, its wide windows trimmed in navy paint and crammed with rolls of lace like spun sugar in ivory and cream. Inside, the air was cooler, thick with the scent of starch and linen, and the low murmur of women debating patterns and trims. Mother went straight to the far wall where bolts of Battenburg and Alençon lace were displayed in careful rows. Caroline followed close behind, already exclaiming over a swatch of netted silk as though she’d discovered buried treasure.

I stayed near the center of the room, pretending to browse. My fingers drifted along the edge of a soft Venetian lace, the delicate pattern catching at the tips of my gloves. Some of it was genuinely beautiful—intricate as pressed frost, weightless but strong. I could understand the appeal, in a way. The detail, the precision. It felt less like fabric and more like a language written in thread.

“Too floral,” Mother murmured, passing over one roll. “I want something with presence, not something that looks like it belongs on just any debutante’s hem.”

“This one,” Caroline said, holding up a finer piece edged in scalloped stitching. “This has presence. Look at the shadow it casts.”

They fell into quiet discussion, the kind that could last hours if no one interrupted. I let them have it. It gave me space to listen—to the floorboards, to the door, to the street just beyond the open windows. But the red-haired man didn’t appear. Nor did anyone with his shape or gait. The street remained just that: a street. Still, I didn’t let go of the feeling. I just tucked it deeper. Folded it like a note I wasn’t ready to read, and kept watching.

After much deliberation—and more than a few of Caroline’s dramatic sighs—Mother and she finally settled on two bolts of lace. One was a delicate ivory with looping, frost-like filigree; the other, a sharper pattern with clean lines and quiet confidence. They handed them off to a clerk who looked thoroughly relieved that the decision had been made.

As they rejoined me near the front of the shop, Caroline looped her arm through mine once again, eyes bright with victory. “I’m absolutely famished,” she declared. “Do you remember that tea house just down the street? The one with the blue awning and the scandalous little lemon tarts?”

Mother didn’t hesitate. “That would be sensible. Something light before the journey home.”

“Tea sounds nice,” I said, quieter than them, but no less certain. I welcomed the idea of a table and a pause. A space to breathe that didn’t smell like starch and linen and old tension.

We stepped back into the street, the sun still high but beginning its descent, its light bright yet losing the harsh edge of midday. Caroline led the way, glancing back only once to make sure we were keeping up. She always moved with more certainty when food was involved. Mother followed close behind, the lace parcel tucked under her arm like a secret, her stride as composed as ever. I trailed beside them, one hand resting over the wrapped journal in my bag, the other fidgeting absently with my parasol.

 

The tea house came into view just as I remembered it—quaint and cluttered behind its wide windows, its name Lady Agatha's Tea Room still painted in curling script along the glass. Inside, the space was teeming: dresses in pastels and prints, trimmed bonnets neatly in place, tea trays weaving between elbows. There was only one empty table as if it had been kept waiting just for us—small, round, and directly in front of the window.

Caroline made for it with barely restrained triumph. “Providence,” she said, sliding into the chair with the best view of the room. Mother took the seat opposite her, the one catching the best light. I took the last, setting my parcel gently on the floor beneath me.

The waiter arrived quickly, flustered but kind, and we placed our orders—Earl Grey for Mother, something floral and needlessly sweet for Caroline, and a strong Assam for me, with a plate of sandwiches and scones to share.

As he vanished into the bustle, I let my gaze drift to the window beside us. The street outside was ordinary in every visible way. Pedestrians passed, couples strolled, carriages moved with their usual clatter. Still, I found myself watching for something that wasn’t there. No figure standing too still. No wrongness pressing at the glass. And yet, the feeling lingered. Quiet now, but not gone. Like a page I hadn’t quite turned.

Caroline, meanwhile, had already begun peeling off her gloves. “If I never see another bolt of lace again, I’ll count myself blessed.”

Mother arched an eyebrow. “You say that every season, and yet every season we return to this exact ritual.”

“Because I’m tragically consistent,” Caroline said with mock solemnity.

I was grateful for their chatter—it gave me something to focus on besides the way my pulse still hadn’t settled. The server returned with a tray of steaming cups and porcelain plates, and for a while, we allowed ourselves the luxury of silence. The clink of china, the soft warmth of tea, the scent of lemon and bread. We let the city go on without us.

The tea was good, better than expected actually. The Assam had the depth I liked—strong without being bitter—and the scone, still warm, crumbled just enough around its edges to catch the clotted cream in soft, buttery ridges. I allowed myself to relax. Just a little. Caroline talked nearly the entire time, flitting from topic to topic like a bird determined to land everywhere at once—an artist she’d met at Lady Darcy’s, a dreadful novel someone had pressed on her, a pair of gloves she’d seen on Bond Street that were apparently “so divine, it was almost immoral.” Mother listened with the practiced patience of someone who had raised three children and survived it with her sanity intact. She offered the occasional dry comment, just enough to keep Caroline on her toes.

I mostly listened. Nodded when I should, smiled when it was expected. But part of me was still tuned outward—toward the window, the street, the shifting shape of the city beyond the glass. Halfway through my second scone, I reached for the teapot and poured another cup, watching the amber liquid rise and curl into the porcelain. The steam lifted gently, fragrant and curling like smoke. That’s when I saw him.

Crossing the street outside, moving with the quiet assurance of someone used to attention—even if he didn’t seek it. He was tall, but not looming. Broad in the shoulders, though his frame was lanky. His jacket—black and perfectly cut—moved like poured ink when he walked. His waistcoat and trousers were the same shade. The white of his shirt, stiff and pristine, gleamed starkly against all that black. A top hat sat low over his brow, casting just enough shadow to make his features difficult to read. The hair—short, dark red, like wine catching fire. And then the eyes—when I caught the faintest glimpse—almost black, hard and unreadable. Like stone under glass.

It clicked, fast and absolute.
Andrew. Benedict’s brother.

The last time I saw him was the night Benedict brought me to dinner at his family’s house. Andrew had said little the entire evening. Just sat at the end of the table in that same black suit—watching. Listening.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. Just kept walking, vanishing past the edge of the window like smoke drawn down a vent. But I knew. He wasn’t just watching Benedict—he was watching me, too. My fingers curled tighter around the teacup, though the warmth had long since faded. I didn’t look toward the window again. I didn’t need to. He was gone, but the shadow of him lingered—coiled around my ribs like smoke.

I glanced at Caroline—my beautiful, golden sister, who sparkled even in repose. She had no idea. She sat there, teasing Mother over lemon tarts, her hair catching the light like polished silk. Already considered the incomparable of the season and she hadn’t even been properly introduced yet. Gentlemen turned to look when she walked past. Some followed. Most smiled. Caroline didn’t notice half of them. She was used to being adored.

But what would Andrew do, if he turned that gaze on her? I didn’t know. That was what scared me. I didn’t know him at all. I hadn’t even heard his voice, but I knew the type. I knew what power looked like when it went unchecked. When it was fed by cruelty and wrapped in charm. He was his father’s son.

“Elizabeth?” Mother’s voice cut through my thoughts—too casual to be truly casual. She was watching me closely, her brow creased just enough to betray concern. “Are you quite alright?”

I blinked. The cup in my hand was trembling. Caroline’s laughter faltered, and when I looked up, she was staring at me, wide-eyed. “Lilibet?”

I forced my mouth into a smile. It felt wrong, stiff. “I’m fine,” I said, too quickly. They didn’t believe me. I could see it in both of their faces. But what was I supposed to say? That a man I barely knew had left me rattled like this? I glanced down, buying time. “I was just… thinking about one of my patients.” I kept my voice steady, made myself shrug. “She's not recovering the way I’d like. I suppose it followed me here.”

That part, at least, was true. Guilt was always easy to reach for. It wore the right shape. Caroline tilted her head, still watching me like she was trying to read something on my face. I met her eyes and smiled again—warmer this time, softer. She let it go, for now. I picked up my teacup, hand steady now, and took a slow sip. The heat had dulled, the flavor was fading, but it gave me something to do. Something to hold.

We lingered over the last of the tea. The lemon tarts had vanished, crumbs scattered like confetti across the delicate china, and the sunlight filtering through the window had begun to shift—no longer bright and high, but lower, softer. It touched everything in gold now, glazing the edges of the table, catching in Caroline’s hair like a halo. Mother flagged the waiter and paid the bill with her usual brisk grace, already reaching for her gloves. Caroline stood, stretching her arms with a dramatic sigh, then grinned at me as we stepped back onto the street.

 

The street was quieter now—more hush than hum—as if even London had decided to take a breath. We walked slowly toward the carriages, the clink of Mother’s heels and the whisper of Caroline’s skirts the only real sounds between us. Caroline kept close to my side, her parasol swinging at her side in lazy arcs. She wasn’t linking arms, not this time—just walking beside me, eyes forward, the silence between us comfortable, for once.

When the carriages came into view, Caroline gave a small sigh. “Well,” she said lightly, “this was far less dreadful than I expected. Tea was tolerable. Lace was acceptable. And you,” she added, glancing at me with mock severity, “were entirely too quiet.” I arched an eyebrow. “You’ll write, won’t you?” she said. “If anything else with Benedict happens. Even if he just manages a halfway decent sentence.”

That got a laugh out of me—a real one, from the chest. “If he manages a single sentence without stammering, I’ll write it in ink and frame it.”

Caroline gave a satisfied nod. “Good. I expect full reports.”

At the carriages, she stepped toward hers but didn’t climb in right away. She turned and studied me with a look that was more sister than socialite. “Take care of yourself, Lilibet.”

“I always do,” I said, gently.

She didn’t argue, just smiled faintly. Then climbed into the carriage with a flutter of skirts. But Mother stayed behind. She hadn’t moved toward the door. She was watching me. There was a moment—small but sharp—where she just looked at me, eyes narrowing the way they did when she was turning over more in her head than she’d say out loud. “Walk with me a moment,” she said softly.

I nodded. We stepped a little away from the carriage, just enough to hear each other clearly, to be out of earshot. She folded her hands neatly in front of her, her voice low but firm. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

I blinked. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” There was no sharpness to it—just that particular clarity she used when she already knew the answer and was giving me the grace of saying it myself.

“I’m tired,” I admitted. “That’s all. The hospital’s been—more than usual.”

She looked at me steadily. “It’s always more than usual.” I couldn’t argue with that. “You’ve always carried more than you should,” she said. “Since you were a girl. You’ve taken care of your patients, of your father, of Caroline—even of me, at times. But you cannot go on like this, Elizabeth. You’ve looked like someone waiting for a blow all afternoon.” I looked away. She reached out and lightly touched my arm. “I’m not asking for details, but I see it. Something’s changed.”

A pause. “I will rest,” I said finally. “When I get home, I’ll draw a bath. Sit by the window. Maybe breathe in the garden for once instead of rushing past it.”

Mother smiled gently, but it was lined with something else—worry that had sunk too deep to fully hide. She stepped closer and, without hesitation, kissed my forehead just like she used to when I was small. “I want you to be well,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “I will be.”

We stood there a moment longer before she gave my hand a final squeeze and turned back to the carriage. As she climbed in beside Caroline, I felt a brief, aching swell in my chest. The kind that only ever came when someone loved you enough to see what you tried to hide. “I love you,” I called after her.

She leaned out slightly, one gloved hand on the door. “I love you, Elizabeth. Always.” And then they were off—their carriage wheeling smoothly away down the sun-warmed street. I stood watching until they turned the corner, then stepped into my own.

As we pulled away, I leaned back in the seat and finally let my head rest against the cushion. The city blurred past in shades of gold and grey. But every so often, I turned to glance behind us. Just to be sure. No red hair. No dark coat. No figure lingering in the corners.

Still, I watched. Just in case.