I met my first love at boarding school. She was two years my senior, with one year left before graduation. She graduated on schedule, and the following year, she married her fiancé. My heart felt like it was being torn apart. Compared to losing her, a crippled leg was no pain at all. My next love was someone I met in Africa. She was from America and had been divorced for about five years. We lived together for several years. If the law had allowed, I would have married her.

She tapped the floor with the tip of the cane she’d been holding throughout her story.

“That person ran into the flames to put out a fire at my coffee plantation and lost their life. It was a pain greater than bankruptcy, and I tried to end my life several times but failed each time. Eventually, I came to believe that continuing to live was what they would have wanted. So, I decided to make a living with the writing talent they always praised.”

“You’ve been through a lot of pain,” Laura said.

“I have no regrets. Meeting those two people made me happy. But, Miss Pendleton, my relationship with Jane is different.”

Miss Lottis stopped tapping the ground with her cane.

“The people I loved had been in such relationships multiple times before. They instinctively knew who I was and approached me with confidence. But I have no idea. I don’t know if Jane is like me.”

“You could just ask Miss Hyde directly,” Laura suggested.

“Jane probably doesn’t know either. It’s a matter of invisible emotions. Above all, Jane idolizes me. That’s the biggest problem. Idolatry and love are different. But Jane likes me so much that she might confuse the two. Or she might feel obligated to accept my feelings. That would be the worst—for her and for me.”

Miss Lottis shrugged.

“Now you understand why I can’t muster the courage.”

Laura gave a bittersweet smile.

“Yes. And why you’ve been giving me such earnest advice.”

Miss Lottis laughed and looked down at the streets of Bath again, hoping to catch sight of a lovely woman with an armful of books.

“If I could be certain that Jane feels the same way I do, like you and that man, I wouldn’t hesitate for a single second. Humans are born to love. That’s the most precious lesson the two people I loved taught me.”

Laura couldn’t take her eyes off Miss Lottis’s back. Despite her small stature, her presence was as grand as a mountain in Laura’s eyes.

To be so brave in love.

Miss Lottis was caught in a tragic love. But she herself was not a tragic person. She was cooler and stronger than anyone.

Laura let out a soft sigh. For some reason, she envied her. That courage to embrace passion despite being hurt and broken.

Two days earlier.

It was an evening in Bath, where gas lamps illuminated the dark surroundings as brightly as day.

Thomas Willow, the owner of the century-old hat shop “Isabella Willow,” was alone, tallying the day’s sales. Inside the empty shop, after all the staff had left, only the clinking of coins, the rustling of bills, and the scratching of a quill pen on the ledger echoed.

Then, with a jingle, the door opened.

“Sorry, we’re closed for the day—good heavens!”

Mr. Willow nearly dropped the bills he was holding.

A gentleman stood at the shop’s entrance. Covered in dust from head to toe, his face half-soaked in blood, he was a ghastly sight.

The owner scrutinized him and then shouted, “Sir, what happened?”

The gentleman addressed as “sir” strode into the shop. His gait was as steady as ever, but his expression was grim.

“Bring me the medical kit,” he said.

He climbed the stairs and disappeared.

Mr. Willow put the bills back in the safe and hurried to the third floor, where the workers crafted hats. He grabbed the medical kit from a drawer and ascended to the fourth floor.

The fourth floor of Isabella Willow was the building’s top level, a storage space for out-of-season inventory.

As Mr. Willow opened the door to the fourth floor, he frowned. The view was completely blocked by stacks of hatboxes reaching almost to the ceiling.

The air was as stifling as the view, thick with dust. Since the inventory had begun piling up to unmanageable levels, Mr. Willow hadn’t cleaned or aired out the place properly.

Over the past three years, Isabella Willow’s stock had grown to unprecedented levels. Customers had flocked to the new department store, leaving only older aristocrats as regular patrons. With young, fashion-conscious customers gone, the shop had been in the red for years.

“My grandmother, who passed this shop down to me, must be crying in heaven,” Mr. Willow thought.

With a gloomy expression, Mr. Willow navigated the narrow path between the boxes. As the passage grew tighter, he had to tilt his body and sidestep like a crab.

Finally emerging from the maze of boxes, Mr. Willow approached the window. There, in a small space of about five square yards, was a makeshift bed made of wooden crates, a water basin, a candlestick, and a sturdy trunk used as a table.

The gentleman who had requested the medical kit was seated there.

He was wiping blood from his face with a cloth soaked in the basin’s water. As the bloodstains came off, his battered appearance became clear: a crusted lip, a purplish bruise on his cheekbone, and a long gash on his forehead.

He gestured for the medical kit.

“Will this do? Should I fetch a doctor?” Mr. Willow asked.

“No need. It’s just a cut on my forehead,” the gentleman replied.

“If you were attacked by robbers, you should report it to the police.”

The gentleman said nothing, silently disinfecting his forehead with alcohol and wrapping it with a bandage.

“What on earth has this man been up to?” Mr. Willow wondered, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and fear.

This gentleman had come to the shop about a week ago. Mr. Willow had briefly admired his handsome, elegant face before the man abruptly asked to rent the shop’s window space as a lodging.

Mr. Willow refused, of course. This was no inn but a sacred space for crafting luxury hats for refined customers.

Then the gentleman pulled a stack of pounds from his coat and placed it on the counter.

“I’ll pay five hundred pounds a month for the room.”

Mr. Willow quickly pocketed the money. It was a necessary choice to offset the shop’s losses.

There was no proper living space in the shop, naturally. Fearing the man might demand a refund, Mr. Willow offered the storage room.

Surprisingly, the gentleman settled in without complaint.

He occasionally asked for laundry, meals, or mail delivery. Through these errands, Mr. Willow learned his identity.

Ian Dalton from Yorkshire.

Dealing with the wealthy, Mr. Willow vaguely recalled the name. The Dalton family was a storied lineage owning over half of Yorkshire’s land.

Mr. Willow was stunned by his identity, and his curiosity grew. What was this enviable landlord doing in the storage room of a failing hat shop?

Mr. Willow kept a close eye on the young landlord’s movements.

He stood by the window all day, staring outside—specifically at the Lorelia Hotel across the street.

If his identity weren’t so clear, Mr. Willow would have mistaken him for a private detective. His relentless watch over the hotel entrance, even while eating or changing, was like a detective staking out a case.

“He could hire a hundred detectives. Why do this himself? It’s a mystery,” Mr. Willow thought, shaking his head as he watched the gentleman disinfect the crusted blood on his face.

After finishing his treatment, the gentleman handed the medical kit back to Mr. Willow. The owner took it and sidestepped back through the narrow passage.

Soon, the gentleman, Ian Dalton, was alone in the storage room.

The young man who had baffled Mr. Willow stood from the trunk he was sitting on and opened its lid. Inside were various travel items delivered by his butler, Ramswick. He picked up a shaving mirror to inspect his face.

A pathetic face marred with wounds.

“Damn it,” Ian muttered, putting the mirror away. He began changing out of his dust-covered clothes, revealing a body covered in bruises.

He had arrived in Bath the day after meeting Ann Steel in London.

The first thing he did in Bath was buy a tourist guidebook from a bookstore. He visited every hotel and upscale inn listed, searching for Laura’s name on their guest registers. But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find it.

Hoping to spot her by chance, he roamed the busy streets. Knowing her love for books, he lingered all day in Bath’s largest bookstore.

He feared finding her arm-in-arm with a handsome old flame.

Then one day, on a whim, he visited the mineral water hall and, like fate, found Laura.

She was with unfamiliar women. Relieved she wasn’t with John Ashton, joy overwhelmed him, and tears welled up.

Laura was smiling, radiant in a way he’d never seen. She was far more beautiful than the image he’d held in his anxious mind for days.

Wiping tears from his eyes, he gazed at her face. How he’d longed to capture that sight for the past week.

He realized anew: without Laura, he couldn’t live. Without seeing that face every day, life wouldn’t be worth living.

When Laura’s group left the mineral water hall, Ian followed them in a hired carriage. They arrived at the Lorelia Hotel. He immediately entered the hat shop across the street, spending all his cash to rent the storage room.

He was a man so fastidious that he was teased for carrying a handkerchief to keep dust off and showering thoroughly after visiting dusty places.

Living in a storage room where even rats would catch consumption was unthinkable for him. But he had no time for fussiness.

He needed a place where he could see Laura without being seen by her.

She mustn’t know he was there. Her letter had clearly stated that if he followed her, she’d flee further.

For a week, he stood by the window, waiting for Laura to appear. But cruelly, she didn’t step foot outside the hotel.

His longing quickly turned to disappointment.

“Better this way. If she doesn’t go out, she won’t run into John Ashton,” he told himself, unable to tear his eyes from the hotel entrance. He wanted to see her face. If not her face, a strand of her hair. Or even her shadow.

He was addicted to Laura, craving her presence.