Emilia Bern writes first
The garden behind the Cavendish mansion smells of lilacs. The blonde young woman by the hedge has her back perfectly straight and her hands clasped tight in front of her, and only up close do you see they are trembling.
She hears your step and turns, and her deep blue eyes go guarded at once.
“If you’ve come to tell me I was rude, I know.” Her voice is calm and very precise. “I’ll apologize to the butler. Not to her.”
She studies you a moment longer, measuring whether you laughed with the others.
“You didn’t laugh. That’s rare in this house.” She smooths her plain skirt out of habit, then exhales. “Everyone in there thinks I sold myself for a title. That my father was a beggar and I’m a schemer who wants to be a duchess.”
A small, tired smile.
“Would you like to know the truth? I asked him to let me go. He said he doesn’t care.” She looks straight at you. “So tell me honestly. What would you do, if you were me?”
