Everyone Does

In the morning, Sebastian was gone before I woke, some early call about the family's shipping business. I found Constance in the sunroom, reading correspondence with a fountain pen, and asked her straight out. "What paper, Constance?"

She didn't look up. "A formality. Every Thorne spouse signs it. Sebastian's grandmother signed it. I signed it, the week after my own wedding."

"Signs what?"

"You'll see this afternoon. Gideon is coming." She finally met my eyes. "It's nothing to fret over, dear. Unless you intend to give us reason to fret."

I didn't know what that meant, and she didn't explain, just returned to her letters like the conversation had already ended.

I went looking for Sebastian instead and found Rosalind first — the housekeeper, sixty-something, gray hair pinned back so tight it looked painful, hands that never stopped moving even when she talked. She'd worked for the family since before Sebastian was born. I liked her instantly; she was the only person in the house who'd asked how I was actually feeling.

"Rosalind," I said, "what's this paper everyone keeps signing?"

Her hands stopped.

"You should ask your husband," she said carefully.

"I'm asking you."

She glanced down the hall, both directions, the way people check for traffic before crossing somewhere they shouldn't cross. Then she stepped close enough that I could smell the lavender starch on her apron.

"Don't ask Constance," she whispered. "Don't ask anyone in this house. And whatever Gideon puts in front of you this afternoon —" her fingers closed briefly around my wrist, cold and urgent — "don't sign it alone."

"Rosalind—"

"I have linens to see to." She was already walking away, faster than a woman her age should have been able to, leaving me standing in the hallway with my own heartbeat suddenly very loud in my ears.