Florence felt little stir at the news. Her father had crossed her life only once or twice; visits so rare they could be counted like omens rather than memories. In her former life, she recalled it clearly: a handful of days after such tidings, he would die, and soon after, his estate would pass to her by the quiet authority of his will.
Yet this life had already begun to deviate. The Loxleys had never summoned her before. She had gone to London of her own accord then, drawn by instinct and inevitability rather than invitation.
Does my fate fracture each time I choose differently?
Florence studied her reflection, scarcely recognizing the girl who stared back. Gone was the image of the scullery maid whose head bowed, sleeves stained, presence forgettable. In her place stood someone uncertain, altered, poised on the edge of becoming.
Elizabeth wasted no time. She seized Florence's arm and hauled her toward the station, a packed suitcase in each hand, the portmanteaus swollen with belongings as though she were fleeing toward a future she alone had already envisioned. The station throbbed with noise and motion, bodies colliding in a fevered rush that left Florence dizzy and breathless.
"Mother, where are we going?" Florence tried to ask, but her voice dissolved into the clamor, swallowed by whistles, shouts, and the grinding cry of iron against iron.
Elizabeth, ever opportunistic, claimed a vacated seat the instant a passenger rose, settling herself with practiced entitlement. Florence lingered awkwardly beside her, cheeks burning beneath the stares of onlookers.
"That seat is occupied," Florence murmured, mortified.
Elizabeth clicked her tongue, seized Florence's wrist, and dragged her down beside her. "If a man is foolish enough to abandon his place, he deserves to lose it."
Florence folded her hands tightly in her lap, uncertain how to reconcile herself with her mother's brazenness. For four long hours, she kept her gaze fixed on the passing landscape beyond the window, refusing to meet the eyes of the man who now sat opposite them, his resentment palpable.
Elizabeth laughed softly at her discomfort. "You are far too meek, Florence. The world does not reward politeness; it takes from those too timid to seize what is offered."
She cast the man a bright, unrepentant smile. "A life spent not taking from others is a life squandered."
Florence recoiled inwardly. The words felt rotten, a philosophy born of hunger rather than wisdom.
At last, the train slowed and shuddered to a halt. When Florence stepped down onto the platform and saw the city unfurl before her, the truth struck with startling clarity.
London.
Her confusion hardened into disbelief.
"I thought we were buying a dress," she said quietly. "Why are we here?"
Elizabeth's mouth tightened.
"Would you present yourself to the Loxleys dressed like an outsider?" she snapped. "Your father is dying, Florence, and mark my words, everyone there will be circling his inheritance like vultures."
"He would not marry me," Elizabeth said, her voice edged with bitterness, "for he claimed my profession was a stain no absolution could cleanse. And yet, within his own bloodline dwell sins far fouler than mine ever were."
Florence offered no reply. She merely followed in the wake of her mother's steps, silent and watchful. The manner in which her parents had come together had always been shrouded in half-truths and omissions, a history never fully spoken.
Her father, Gillian Loxley, had been a man of appetites and ambition in equal measure. In his early ventures, when fortune still wavered beyond his grasp, he had greased the palms of constables with borrowed coin and called it investment. It was an age ripe for indulgence, and while grand hotels flourished, Gillian saw deeper into the rot beneath noble civility. He recognized the hunger cloaked beneath fine coats and polished manners and concluded that a discreet brothel would prosper where decorum pretended virtue.
Though such establishments were meant to be crushed beneath the law's heel, Gillian ensured otherwise. Gold and whispered assurances passed easily into willing hands, allowing his small district of hidden houses to thrive. Their secrecy was their strength. Men confided only in men of their own ilk, and silence, when paid for, was faithfully kept.
Elizabeth Moore, hungry for opportunity and blind to consequence, mistook brothels for nothing more than crumbling inns. It was an error that marked her undoing. Yet within that fall, she found a perverse comfort—one that grew into attachment. When she conceived a child by the proprietor himself, the solution was swift and merciless. She was ordered from London, compensated with a villa in Manchester, and bound by unspoken command to disappear and speak nothing of what had passed.
Florence learned early that her father's devotion lay not with people, but with appearances. Reputation ruled him with an iron hand. He visited her only twice. Once, he summoned her to his carriage some distance from the villa, his gaze cold as he remarked upon her unkempt face, questioning whether she could truly be his blood. The second time, he arrived under the pretense of asking directions, only to stand and stare at her as though burdened by a yearning he refused to name.
As a child, Florence could not piece together the meaning of these moments. Now, as memory and understanding coiled together, the truth still felt disjointed—senseless, cruel, and hollow. Even with all its fragments laid bare, it remained a story without comfort, a lineage steeped not in love, but in silence and shame.
Florence watched her mother's back as Elizabeth paced ever faster, her skirts whispering with restless agitation. Florence could never truly know what trials had carved such sharpness into her mother's soul, yet she knew, achingly that whatever cruelty Gillian Loxley had inflicted upon Elizabeth was no burden meant to be laid upon her own shoulders.
Elizabeth seized Florence by the arm and drew her into a dressmaker's stall, where bolts of fabric hung like slumbering phantoms. Her gloved fingers skimmed over each custom piece with reverent scrutiny, testing silk and wool as though weighing their worth in gold. At last, with a satisfied curve of her lips, she gestured silently for Florence to step forward and submit herself to measurement.
The seamstress worked with tireless precision, the tape looping again and again around Florence's frame. Pins pricked, fabric whispered, and thread tightened like quiet vows. Elizabeth observed from her seat, eyes keen and appraising, her satisfaction growing with each careful adjustment.
"I have heard," Elizabeth said lightly, breaking the hush, "that Lord Eulothorne and his mother are to return to London within the week. Their modest manor in Manchester has been sold, and Lord Thomas's inheritance has been formally transferred to Eulothorne."
She rose and approached Florence, her voice dropping with intention. "He expects you to present yourself in no less than a week's time."
Florence's heart sank with familiar resignation. Escape had always dangled before her like a mirage; a visible, tempting, and forever unattainable. Each attempt had ended the same, thwarted by unseen hands. Even in her former life, Eulothorne's pursuit had been relentless. Yet she clung, foolishly, to the belief that he would honor his promise.
Although, the forfeited dowry unsettled her, though she could not yet name why.
She did not know that to Eulothorne, the dowry had never been the true aim. It was a spark meant only to ignite Elizabeth's greed, hastening the wedding while Florence remained unaware. To him, it was strategy, not sacrifice. To Florence—poor, trusting Florence—truth was a thing rarely offered without a blade concealed beneath it.
Obediently, she followed her mother from place to place, mistaking this flurry of preparation for reassurance. She did not see that it was all designed to soothe her unease, to soften her resistance, and to deliver her quietly and efficiently into the hands of the House of Oberon.
Elizabeth halted and secured lodging at a grand hotel, her heels striking sharply against the marbled floors, each step echoing like a crack of judgment. This place had been erected by Gillian Loxley himself, raised in the aftermath of his decision to erase the evidence of his daughter's birth in favor of an untarnished name. As Elizabeth crossed the threshold, an old pain lodged itself deep within her chest, tightening with every step she took farther inside.
She moved briskly toward their assigned chamber, her pace restless, almost frantic. Eyes followed her through the corridors; measuring, assessing, dissecting. There was scrutiny in their gazes, thinly veiled disdain. Elizabeth did not possess the quiet authority of true nobility; she only wore its imitation. She knew it, and she did not care.
Her muttering filled the corridor, low and insistent.
"This is your father's wealth," she whispered fiercely. "You must fight for what is owed to you."
Florence could scarcely comprehend her meaning. Ordinarily, Elizabeth would have insisted the inheritance fall to Florence alone, only to be seized and spent without remorse. Yet now, she spoke as though the riches were a burden rather than a prize. Elizabeth had never desired dominion over estates or entanglement with the Loxleys, whom she regarded as devourers cloaked in civility. All she had ever wanted was a life unchoked by shillings and desperation—a peace modest enough to survive upon.
As they advanced down the corridor, a voice emerged from the shadows, smooth and unmistakably familiar to them both.
"My, Elizabeth," it said, tinged with amusement. "I did not expect you to arrive so soon."
Elizabeth froze. The color drained from her face, leaving her pale and trembling, as though the walls themselves had spoken her name.