Mary stood still under the willow tree long after Isabelle disappeared into the crowd.
Her cheeks were warm. Her heart still fluttering. The breeze lifted her curls as if to cool her, but her thoughts spun faster than any wind.
"You were in my dream last night."
That single line echoed in her mind like a secret prayer. Or a curse.
"Mary!" a sharp voice snapped her back to reality. Her mother's voice tight with disapproval.
"There you are," Lady Whitmore huffed, storming toward her with two gloved hands folded tightly at her waist. "What on earth are you doing lurking behind trees like a servant girl?"
Mary straightened. "I—I was just getting some air."
Lady Whitmore narrowed her eyes. "Well, you've had enough air. Your father is waiting. And so is Thomas." Her voice softened just slightly, but the words remained brittle. "You mustn't embarrass us today, Mary. Smile. Speak properly. No more of your wandering off."
Mary nodded silently and let herself be ushered away, her shoes clicking softly on the stone pathway.
The central garden was bathed in golden light. Fairy bulbs strung between the hedges began to glow as twilight set in. Guests stood in polished clusters, voices floating like bubbles in the air—gentle laughter, the clinking of glasses, the same polite conversations spun a thousand times before.
Near the grand fountain stood the mayor of Whitmore—tall, dignified, and sharp-eyed. Beside him, a young man in a charcoal grey suit stood with a glass of brandy in one hand and the posture of someone always preparing to leave.
Thomas Ashton.
Her future.
"Ah, there she is!" Mayor Whitmore boomed. "Come, Mary, we were just discussing the trade routes through Dover. Thomas has some remarkable ideas about expansion."
Mary stepped forward. "Good evening, Father. Mr. Ashton."
Thomas turned and offered a polite smile. "Mary. You look... pleasant this evening."
"Thank you," she replied with an awkward tilt of her head. "And you... look like you've recently traveled."
He blinked. "Yes, I... just returned from Kent."
A pause.
Lady Whitmore jumped in with a forced laugh. "Isn't that charming? Mary's always so observant. She notices things others don't."
Mary bit the inside of her cheek.
As the conversation swirled around her—Dover, taxes, the shipping lanes, she felt herself drifting.
Her gaze, unbidden, slipped past the mayor's shoulder.
Across the lawn, under the warm orange lights, Isabelle stood with a small crowd, a wine glass in hand, laughing at something someone said.
Her dress gleamed like red wine, and her curls caught the light like ink in motion.
She didn't look at Mary.
But Mary couldn't look away.
Her heart jumped when Isabelle suddenly leaned close to a guest and whispered something. The guest chuckled, but then Isabelle's eyes flicked—only slightly—in Mary's direction.
Their gazes met again.
Just for a second.
Then Isabelle looked away.
But it was enough to unravel everything inside Mary all over again.
"Mary?" Thomas said.
She startled. "Sorry—what?"
"I asked if you've ever been to the coast. My family owns a house near the cliffs. Beautiful views."
Mary forced a smile. "I like the sound of that."
He nodded. "We could ride horses there in the spring."
"Lovely," she said, though her stomach twisted with guilt.
She should be trying harder. She should be grateful. She was lucky, wasn't she?
But in that moment, all she could think of was a different ride entirely through fields of wildflowers with wind in her hair, her hand tangled in another girl's.
She shifted slightly to the side, pretending to sip from her glass, just to catch another glimpse of Isabelle Hart.
This time, Isabelle raised her own glass in a silent toast—so subtle no one else would notice.
Mary's lips parted, her heart now echoing the word she'd buried inside her.