These are difficult times, darling. Surely we must help each other; how else will our daughters marry?
The heat during these events was suffocating, the etiquette even more so. But the cold, ancient pearls rested somehow reassuringly against her neck.
After all, they held her other dreams, too.
In her adolescence, Lucy used to be mesmerized by the dreams of this elegant future. But, to an even greater extent, she was transfixed by the thoughts of the murky past that the pearls came from. She never asked her mother about their origins directly: partly out of her usual wariness, partly out of fear that the blunt truth might shatter her stories.
And these stories seemed to swirl around her pearls, like moths swirl around a source of light. Maybe – small, fanciful Lucy wondered – her ancestress was a selkie, a sidhe, an elf? Maybe she brought these gleaming pearls as a keepsake from her native land? She abandoned them after falling in love with a mortal – Lucy’s ancestor who was a knight.
Maybe – older, worldlier Lucy pondered – her ancestress was a royal favourite, who received this necklace as a high gift? She took it with her after abandoning the court for the seclusion of Hebden Hall due to some magnificent scandal …
These stories whirled, and tangled, and intertwined with one another. They simply refused to lie still. They buzzed in Lucy’s head, like a swarm of bees. They ignited her blood and pricked her skin, urging her to write them down.
The pearls slid across her palm now, their sublime beauty a sharp contrast with the ugliness of the scar.
… Her mother never shouted. She was, in fact, extremely patient. She often sacrificed hours to sit by Lucy’s side after some lapse, and explain in her gentle, tired voice, how worried she was to have such a daughter. How sad that Lucy would never be received in any good houses. How heartbroken, that she would never inspire love in anyone, that her habits and outlook would earn her so many enemies, so much scorn.
What, Lucy didn’t want to believe it? Oh, of course; she was so young, so foolish. But she had to understand that no one else would tell her these things, because no one else cared about her half as much as her mother did. No one but her mother cared about her at all, in fact. At best, they were just being polite – but she could not believe empty politeness, could she? She was not that foolish, after all.
Her mother was patient, extremely patient. She could go on for hours, hours, hours. Her words filled Lucy’s head, like the thick, stifling fog of the old cities.
At the end of such conversations, Lucy was left stiff and pale as ash, choking back tears. It was so strange; it felt as if she had been beaten black and blue, and yet there was not a single mark on her skin. She felt battered, almost dead, and the fact, that she was still breathing felt somehow unnatural.
She desperately needed something else to fill her head with, some soothing alternative, some safe refuge, something.
And so, she took cover under her stories, as if they were a makeshift tent in a violent storm.
At the end of the day, it was these stories that opened the brilliant new perspectives for her. Perspectives that lay as far from the gilded ballrooms and borrowed fans as they did from the world of gargoyles and draughts.
Lucy could still feel a dreamy smile on her lips when the door creaked behind her. These doors always creaked. On the one hand, it was irritating; on the other hand, though, it provided a sure warning against any unwanted intrusions.
There was no unwanted intrusion this time, though; it was just Hester coming in with a neat stack of clothes. Lucy felt a familiar warmth touching her heart when she saw the girl’s broad features. Hester’s eyes were filled with concentration.
There was a strange pleasure in observing Hester’s precise movements. They were now getting more and more assured, Lucy noticed, as she grew used to her work and her new life. The clumsiness Hester displayed in her first days – sometimes endearing, sometimes as irritating as the creaking doors – was all but gone now.
Lucy was quietly glad. It pained her to see this sweet girl growing rigid with discomfort.
If there was one person in this house whom Lucy wished no ill, it was Hester.
As the maid turned away from the wardrobe now, Lucy could clearly see how her eyes were ringed with red, her face pallid with fatigue.
‘You look quite exhausted,’ she said gently, fighting with the desire to come closer, to stroke the girl’s hair. ‘I hope it isn’t my doing?’
‘Actually, my lady …’ Hester’s white teeth suddenly flashed in a slightly mischievous smile ‘… I am afraid it is.’
‘Indeed?’ Lucy raised her eyebrows. ‘I can only hope you’ll forgive me, then. I certainly never wanted to give you a sleepless night.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have been writing so well.’
‘I apologize, then!’ Lucy couldn’t hold her laugh now. However, her eyes focused on Hester with the utmost earnestness. ‘And, if we speak seriously … did you really like it?’
‘I thought it was marvellous!’ Hester said, agitated. ‘I only wish you would’ve written more.’
***
‘Really?’ Lucy leaned forward eagerly, staring at her maid with unnerving attention. ‘And which part did you like most?’
‘I don’t know. I am not sure … I think I loved all of them.’
‘But if you think of it carefully?’ she persisted. ‘There must be some episodes you liked more than others.’
‘Well …’ Hester struggled. She plucked a hasty answer from the depths of her memory, if only to sate that ravenous demand in Lucy’s eyes. ‘I … I loved that chapter where she outwits the Spanish convoy.’
‘I knew it! That one was incredibly difficult to write, by the way,’ Lady Lucy said with a hint of relish. ‘I think I spent days inventing a way to get the heroine out of that corner.’
Now, when Lucy’s face was ablaze with happiness, Hester felt she could relax.
Almost.
‘I only wanted to ask …’ She hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘I thought … well, might it be possible that you were inspired … at least partly …’
‘By the story of your ancestors from Granada?’ Lady Lucy asked plainly. ‘I was, yes. Of course I was. Although, to be honest, I’ve been just as inspired by you.’
‘By me?’ The dazed question left her lips before Hester could think of anything cleverer to say.
‘But of course!’ The young lady shrugged her shoulders, as if it was the most mundane observation in the world. ‘You really do look like you’ve come here straight from the streets of old Spain. It’s plain to see for anyone who would care to look. For instance, you have such golden skin …’
Lucy lowered her voice, and Hester was forced to step closer to hear her better.
‘Such enthralling dark eyes,’ she continued, ‘such lovely curls.’
She reached out, touching Hester’s hair, slowly moving one lock away from her brow.
Hester couldn’t see anything remarkable in her hair – sensibly cut short, as always – but she enjoyed the gesture. For the first time in her life, she wished her locks to be more unkempt, with more strands hanging out of place, so that Lady Lucy could repeat it.
‘You are too kind,’ she said quietly. ‘My curls are nothing special.’
‘Oh,