Laura laughed faintly, her heart a tangled mix of admiration and disbelief.

‘Fiery Miss Lotis. Free-spirited Miss Hyde. Yes, those two would never hesitate. Unlike me.’

Laura’s smile faded. The thought of Mr. Dalton surfaced in her mind.

While confined to her sickbed, Laura thought of Mr. Dalton at Whitefield. She pictured him working in his study, strolling among the apple trees with a cigar, or sitting by the window, sketching.

In those moments, her heart tightened, as if gripped by illness.

Laura felt she could no longer suppress her feelings for him. She yearned to confess this overwhelming love, unstoppable by any obstacle, even if only through a letter.

But Laura was ill with a cold, surrounded by those who constantly cared for her. She lacked the energy to write a heartfelt letter of love, nor did she have a moment alone.

Above all, Laura was a soul like a gently flowing stream. To move toward him, she needed a little time.

Since her reckless elopement at seventeen ended in heartbreak, Laura had lived cautiously. She required more resolve and courage than most, especially when it came to love.

‘If only I could become a bird and fly to him. If only I could show him my fiery heart.’

Though mature enough to understand and accept her own nature, Laura envied Miss Hyde and Miss Lotis when it came to love.

She shook her head and rose from the sofa to return to her room.

At that moment, a low knock came from the parlor door.

“Come in,” she said.

A servant in uniform bowed politely.

“There’s someone downstairs asking for Miss Laura Pendleton,” the servant said.

Laura glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten o’clock at night.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Mr. John Ashton,” the servant replied.

Laura’s expression turned cold in an instant.

“Tell him to leave,” she said.

“He left a note for you,” the servant added.

“Send it back,” she replied.

The servant bowed again and left the parlor.

Laura returned to her room. Kneeling by her bed, she closed her eyes. As always, she prepared to pray before sleep.

She prayed for the happiness of those dear to her: her grandmother in heaven, her schoolteachers, friends scattered across England, Miss Hyde, Miss Lotis, and Mr. Dalton, wherever he might be.

‘And… Cecilia.’

Laura felt guilt for so coldly breaking off contact with Cecilia. At the time, anger had left her no room to consider another’s feelings. It must have wounded the child’s heart.

But she couldn’t visit to apologize. Doing so would inevitably mean facing John Ashton again. Though she felt sorry for Cecilia, Laura had no desire to see him.

To ease her guilt, Laura prayed at length for Cecilia.

As she finished her prayer and prepared to slip into bed, a loud banging came from outside the door.

Startled, Laura leapt from her bed and went to the parlor.

Someone was pounding on the parlor door. Fear gripped her as she checked the lock. To her dismay, the bolt was undone—a habit from frequent visits by maids or meal bearers.

Laura crept toward the door and quickly secured the bolt.

Click.

The knocking stopped.

“Laura?”

Laura held her breath. It was John Ashton’s voice.

“Laura, is that you?”

She stepped back from the door.

“Laura, open the door. I’ll stay here until you do.”

A chill of fear ran through her. She recalled how Miss Lotis’s leg had been ruined—shot by a suitor enraged by her refusal.

‘Could this man…?’

Laura moved toward the bell to call for a guard. Meanwhile, John Ashton’s voice grew frantic outside.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late, and you’re upset. But please, open the door… I’m not here to woo you again. I’ve come to my senses, I swear… Please…!”

As Laura reached for the bell, he shouted desperately.

“…Our Cecilia is dying!”

Laura froze.

From beyond the door, his anguished sobs echoed—a raw, animalistic wail, like a beast mourning a lost cub.

Soon, the door creaked open, and Miss Lotis, her hair disheveled, stormed into the parlor.

Disturbed from her rest, Miss Lotis snapped irritably, “Damn it, what lunatic is causing a ruckus outside someone’s room!”

She noticed Laura frozen by the bell.

“Miss Pendleton, what are you doing? Ring the bell.”

“…Miss Lotis, I’m sorry. He’s my guest.”

্র

“Who? Mr. Ian Dalton?”

“Mr. Ashton.”

“Are you going to meet him?”

“…”

“If you don’t want to end up like me, call the guard.”

“He says his daughter is dying.”

“Even if he said his daughter’s grandfather was dying, don’t believe him. The man who did this to my leg came to my house raving about old family ties.”

“He’s not the type to sell his daughter for a woman.”

Miss Lotis stared at Laura for a moment, then told her to wait. She went back to her room and returned with a pistol in her hand.

Hiding the gun behind her back, she nodded.

Laura walked to the door and opened it.

John Ashton stood there, his face a mess of tears and mucus, sobbing uncontrollably.

Upon seeing Laura, he fell to his knees.

“Laura, I was wrong. Please, come with me. Our Cecilia, my only daughter, has a fever. The doctor said to bring someone to say goodbye. She’s often been ill, but never like this! Laura, please!”

“What happened to her?” Laura asked.

He choked back a sob.

“…She wanted to find the hotel where you were… She took some medicine and wandered Bath in the rain…”

He buried his face in the floor.

“If I hadn’t spoken so cruelly to you… You would’ve had time to say goodbye to her! It’s my fault! My fault…!”

He curled up, trembling and weeping.

Laura turned slowly. Miss Lotis, who had been standing with the hidden pistol, seemed to judge John harmless. She toyed with the safety, clicking it on and off.

“I’ll step out for a bit,” Laura said.

“Not the best idea,” Miss Lotis replied.

“I’ll bundle up warmly. If the child passes like this, I couldn’t bear the guilt.”

“If you die of a cold, Jane won’t bear it either.”

Laura smiled sadly.

“Still, how could it compare to a father losing his daughter?”

Miss Lotis shrugged.

“Who am I to stop you? Wear Jane’s velvet coat. I’ll lend you my sable scarf.”

Laura nodded.

Bundled in heavy winter clothes, Laura stepped out of the hotel with John. The late autumn weather was now teetering on the edge of early winter.

The carriage was chilly; their breath formed white clouds. Laura huddled tightly against the cold seeping through her layers.

When the carriage stopped at the Farnese Hotel, they hurried to the room.

The child lay unconscious on her father’s bed, her face drenched in sweat, her small lips gasping for breath.

“Little one,” John Ashton said, taking her sticky hand as he knelt by the bed.

“Your Aunt Laura is here. Your friend is here.”

The child didn’t respond. He kissed her hand.

“Open your eyes, darling. We need to finish A Study in Scarlet. And play Beethoven better. Please, darling. Please, open your eyes.”

“Mr. Ashton, she can’t hear you,” said a middle-aged man standing with Mrs. Chelsey in the corner.

“Earlier, she spoke, didn’t she? She asked me to bring Aunt Laura,” John protested.

“Her fever spiked while you were gone. It’s consumed her consciousness. We’ll do all we can, but I can’t promise anything. You may need to prepare a small coffin.”

John Ashton’s knees buckled. He rubbed the child’s hand against his face, wailing.

Laura quietly stepped into the parlor. His cries were painfully vivid even there.

She sat on the sofa, covering her ears with both hands. Her heart felt torn apart.

She couldn’t forgive John Ashton’s insulting words. She firmly believed his foolishness had driven his wife to her death. Yet, he was a father—a father who loved his daughter as dearly as his own life.

‘God, he is a sinful man. But don’t punish him like this. The child is innocent. Please, God,’ Laura prayed, closing her eyes, asking forgiveness for John Ashton. It was her first prayer for him in a long time.

John emerged from the room at dawn, his face aged by a decade.

Laura, who had stayed up all night in the parlor, saw his expression and knew Cecilia had shown little improvement.

She turned her gaze to the dying fireplace, her shoulders slumped. Servants were barred from entering due to infection risks, so no one could add wood. The parlor was bitterly cold.

John sat at the far end of an armchair sofa, distant from Laura.

She couldn’t bring herself to offer words of comfort. He looked wretched. Even when Mr. Dalton had broken his ribs and bloodied his face, John hadn’t seemed this pitiful. He was a man who could charm with a smile in any situation.

But now, he looked like a vagrant barely clinging to life.

“Laura,” he said, his voice cracked.

She turned to him again. His head hung limply.

“I have a confession.”

“…Go on.”

“…I lied to you. Ian Dalton didn’t just attack me out of nowhere. He told me to stay away from you, yes, but he was dignified, gentlemanly. If I hadn’t mocked you insultingly, he wouldn’t have struck me.”

“…”

“I’m a lawyer. I’m used to doing whatever it takes to win a case—omitting facts, twisting nuances, manipulating sympathy, using persuasion or insults. I did the same to win you back, claiming it was for love. But what does that matter? My methods were filthy.”

“…Why confess now?”

John Ashton grimaced, attempting a smile.

“I thought if I repented, God might grant a miracle.”

Laura nodded.

“Then keep going. I’m hoping for a miracle too.”

He gave a bitter smile and confessed every sin of his life to Laura.

From a stolen piece of bread as a hungry child to countless trials where he’d caused pain to innocent victims for his clients’ victories.

But what shamed him most was his petty jealousy of Ian Dalton.