I will pray with all my might that my albatross may fly far, far away, uncaught by human nets, unharmed in its wings, to places no woman, no human has ever reached. You are a symbol of a changing world. I wish for your success. I hope that, seeing you, many women in this world will escape their cages. I sincerely hope so.

Miss Jane Hyde bowed her head and began to weep. Laura Pendleton patted her shoulder, comforting her.

When Miss Jane Hyde finally stopped her tears and wiped her face, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Miss Lotis entered the room, clad in a black fur coat, a black velvet dress, black boots, and a black Russian fur hat.

In her hands were a cake box and a paper envelope.

“I bring glad tidings. The contract with Delson Publishing has been secured. We got a splendid advance. They were quite boastful, saying it’s the largest advance since their founding. We leave this country in March. Now, let’s have a Christmas party and a celebration combined!”

Before Laura could offer congratulations, Miss Jane Hyde burst into tears with a wail, throwing her arms around Miss Pendleton.

Laura patted Miss Jane Hyde’s back, glancing at Miss Lotis. Rumor had it that Miss Lotis’s jealousy was formidable.

But Miss Lotis only clicked her tongue, as if she had expected this.

“My love is such a mama’s girl, isn’t she?”

The living room, with its roaring fireplace, was lively, befitting Christmas.

The table was laden with a feast pre-ordered from room service: roast goose, cake, wine, pudding, cookies, and more. Miss Lotis was elated over the contract, while Miss Jane Hyde, drunk, alternated between crying and laughing.

Laura chattered nonstop between them. She tasted the meat and cake Miss Jane Hyde sliced for her, sipped warm wine, and comforted Miss Jane Hyde each time she cried.

As midnight approached, the party ended. Miss Lotis, taking the inebriated Miss Jane Hyde, who was barely conscious, went to her room. The two had been sharing a room since confessing their feelings.

Laura slowly walked to her own room. As she closed the door, she was alone.

At that moment, the smile she had worn among friends vanished as if washed away.

Throughout the party, Laura had appeared happy to all. But it was merely an act, forced because it wasn’t the time to reveal her true feelings.

Today’s party was a joyful Christmas and a celebration of Miss Lotis’s splendid contract. For the sake of her beloved friends’ happiness, Laura had suppressed her emotions with all her might. Her socialite-honed acting skills shone once again.

Alone, Laura removed her mask, revealing the true face hidden beneath her smile.

With eyes wet as if soaked, Laura looked up at the ceiling. Her expression seemed on the verge of tears.

News of Mr. Ian Dalton, learned through a letter, had stirred a storm in Laura’s heart. That storm grew fiercer, threatening to capsize the small boat of Laura’s reason.

For the past two months, Laura had lain ill, longing for him. Bath, without him, held no meaning anymore. She wanted to rush to Yorkshire, where he was.

She could no longer bear her love for him.

What had comforted her was the news that he had stopped wandering Bath and returned to Whitefield. Laura was certain he was doing well there. Work, family, and beauty to fill his heart awaited him. Imagining him strolling through Whitefield’s woods or playing with his nephews at Dunville Park, she endured her sense of loss.

But Laura’s certainty was utterly wrong. He was not doing well.

Recalling Mr. Fairfax’s letter, Laura’s heart wavered with worry. A pale, gaunt face. Occasional coughs. A lethargic, melancholic state.

“A face that looks like it would rather die.”

He was unhappy. Deeply heartbroken.

Laura’s limbs grew weak. Her head spun. Leaning against the door, her body slid down and collapsed onto the floor.

At that moment, tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

“Oh, Mr. Dalton…”

The news of his unhappiness shook Laura to her core—her heart, reason, soul, and even her body.

The news of Mr. Ian Dalton’s depression sank her heart into despair. The news of his illness worsened her condition, which had been improving with rest and care.

“Mr. Dalton… Mr. Dalton… Mr. Dalton…”

Laura mumbled in a dazed voice.

“…What are you doing now? Your mood… your health…? Are you better? It’s not still like it was two months ago, is it?”

The void offered no reply. Laura felt utterly lost. Covering her face with both hands, she began to sob.

“Oh, Mr. Dalton… my…”

Unconsciously, she murmured.

“…my Ian…”

For a long time, only the sound of sobbing filled Laura’s room. She could not stop her tears. She was worried about him, missed him, resented him, and…

“…I love him… I love him… I love him… I love him so… so much!”

Laura finally burst into tears.

Her true feelings could no longer be hidden. Laura loved him. With all her heart, with all her soul, she loved him.

Laura realized resisting her heart was futile. It was a foolish battle. To think she could turn away from him, to believe that was possible—she had been a fool.

He and she could not live separate lives. They were destined from the beginning, like interlocking wheels of fate. That was Ian and her.

Where he was, she must be. The air he breathed, she must breathe. The pain he felt, she must feel.

“Two bodies, one fate. That’s who we are.”

Laura finally accepted her fate. Some call it the natural order; others, the will of God.

Her sobbing gradually subsided. With her resolve set, her worries and sadness softened by half.

She wiped her face and stood up. To rise, she stumbled several times. Her unhealed body, exhausted by heartbroken tears, was drained.

But with a resolute heart, she moved her body and soon stood firmly on the floor.

She slowly walked to the window.

It was well past midnight, a true night. The gaslit streets, festive for Christmas, bustled with carriages and passersby.

Shifting her gaze from the lively scene, she looked up at the sky. A full moon shone brightly, illuminating the dark outlines of graphite clouds.

The moon floated in Bath’s sky, as it did in Whitefield’s. Perhaps Mr. Ian Dalton was gazing at it too.

Staring at the moon, she touched the pearl necklace around her neck. Rolling each pearl like prayer beads, her fingers reached the silver filigree.

Once a shield of love, it now symbolized great love—her mother’s legacy. Laura gripped the filigree tightly. Strength surged through her body. Passive sorrows like sadness or longing vanished, replaced by courage.

Laura clenched her teeth.

“When I recover, I’ll go to him.”

Her heart raced. Excitement and fear shook her simultaneously.

A flood of thoughts overwhelmed her—pessimistic ones. Her status as an illegitimate child, poor and insignificant. Would he regret marrying someone like her? And their future children?

But Laura no longer wavered.

“I’ll make him so happy he won’t have time for regret. If we have children, I’ll teach them to fight. To stand tall against unjust blame. To do that, I, their parent, must be proud. Yes. I’ll live proudly. A proud wife, a proud mother.”

Laura took a deep breath in and out. Her body and mind filled with resolve. Before the future with her beloved, Laura stood vast and unyielding, like a fortress of steel.

Gazing at the moon, as if it were the face of her beloved, she whispered tenderly.

“Just wait a little. I, Laura Sheldon, will give myself entirely to you. I’ll be the brightest key among your many keys, making you happy forever. So.”

Laura finally smiled.

“Wait for me, Ian.”

Click. Click.

The cold sound of shoe heels striking marble stairs echoed through the grand staircase of Whitefield Hall.

A small, neatly groomed white-haired butler, Mr. Ramswick, with a white mustache as well-trimmed as his hair, ascended the stairs carrying a silver tray.

A uniformed maid, polishing the stairs in a sweater, stopped her work and bowed politely upon seeing him. Though Mr. Ramswick usually acknowledged subordinates with at least a glance, he passed by as if unaware of her presence.

The maid watched his retreating figure with a sad expression. The old butler’s sorrowful face stirred concern rather than embarrassment.

The maid was not alone in her worry. Stable hands, gardeners, kitchen cooks, Mr. Philip who led them, and even Mr. Noel, the bookkeeper with whom he was at odds, all watched the butler with troubled hearts.

But all their worries combined paled in comparison to Mr. Ramswick’s grief.

On his tray were steaming soup, easily digestible wheat bread, and a murky herbal concoction—a typical patient’s meal.

It had been four months since he began carrying this tray.

It had been exactly that long since his master, Mr. Ian Dalton, returned from Bath.

The day Mr. Ian Dalton returned to Whitefield after his long journey, Mr. Ramswick nearly failed to recognize him. The gaunt, skeletal face, coughing repeatedly into a handkerchief, staggering out of the carriage—Mr. Ramswick thought this could not be his master.

But the man issued orders in the same stern tone as Mr. Ian Dalton.

“Call for a doctor.”