𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙠.

"It is only because it feels such a way with you," Arden finds himself admitting. If he had known better, this was a confession— something worth guilt and shame lingers underneath. Isadora's company is what convinces him that it's a truth to set him free above all else. "You come from a time in my life when it was so simple. Though, I suppose it was our life the way we were all intertwined with one another.

She made him realize how many thorns were in his palm, how much it ached to wrap his hand around the things that were not his. All the same, she left hm questioning if he could hold her in such hands. Would he stain her, or could the very silk that she was made of be pulled by scabs on his hands that he did not even see anymore? Old blood, ancient wounds, still cling to his palms and hiding the lines of fate he defied over and over again.

You speak as if I chose to return. I simply did not know where else to go.

Something threatens to break, the sun to dull, his chest too heavy— of course, Sienna's touch still reaches him even in the moments where he swears he could barely fathom the thought of her. Their loyalty to her returns, a chime like the church bells you can feel in your heart with its slow and heavy growl.

"We have both done things for Sienna that were not our choice," He says quickly, unable to help the stir of aggravation his former wife instills. "She was always interrupting, always scheming. There was never a moment to savor what was unless it was to take account of what was missing. I thought that was the only way to live and perhaps it was, once upon a time, when I needed greed and lust and gluttony to convince myself I was worthy. I knew I would have been content with the things she called too simple."

His gaze returns to her, musings of Sienna like a breath of fire and the burn after a sip of liquor. But Isadora? Just in thought, she is like the splash of the first rain of spring midday.

“our  life  …”  the  words  are  not  ones  she  meant  to  repeat.  certainly  not  aloud,  where  he  might  hear  them.  yet  they  linger.  clinging  to  her  ribcage  like  a  gasp  misplaced  on  its  way  to  the  lungs.  pressing  down  against  her  skin,  rivaling  the  sun’s  warmth  now  casting  a  tint  of  rose  across  her  cheeks.  isadora  can't  understand  why.  it  is  hardly  the  first  time  she  has  been  folded  into  the  lives  of  others.  his.  sienna’s.  wherever  they  went,  she  followed.  and  for  many  years,  the  three  of  them  had  moved  as  one.  even  if  the  intimacy  of  marriage  had  always  belonged  to  them  alone.  they  had  not  cast  her  aside  entirely.

but  it  is  the  way  he  speaks  them.  not  the  words  themselves,  but  the  shape  of  them  on  his  tongue.  gentle.  drifting  across  the  water  like  a  sigh.  they  settle  in  the  strands  of  her  hair,  and  she  cannot  help  but  wonder  if  they  mean  more  than  he  lets  on.  simple.  with  her.  and  had  he  not  said  that  he  …  enjoyed  such  moments?

her  gaze  drifts  to  him  once  more,  catching  the  flicker  of  displeasure  that  flares  at  sienna’s  name.  she  does  not  pretend  to  understand  what  it  must  feel  like  to  love,  to  be  everything  to  someone,  and  to  surrender  it  all.  “i  hope  you  have  come  to  understand  you  do  not  require  such  things  to  be  worthy.  not  of  affection,  nor  anything  else.  you,  your  enjoyment  of  life,  your  interests  …  a-all  that  you  are,  and  all  that  you  long  to  be  make  you  worthy,  arden.  of  anything  you  should  desire.”

voice  falters.  the  honesty  sits  heavy,  like  gravel  on  her  tongue.  without  meaning  to,  she  has  leaned  in  again.  half  bent  and  nearly  across  the  narrow  boat.  her  breath  catching  in  the  wake  of  her  own  words.  caught  up  in  him.  in  their  small  world.  in  her  quiet  defense.  she  blinks,  startled  by  his  question,  and  attempts  to  draw  herself  upright.

Rapid blinking, as if to test her own draft of reality, kept Evie from doing anything but smiling, a short, stuttered incredulous laugh hitting the guttural part of her throat. She recognized Miss Blythe, she was an easy spot. Hard-earned respect under drapery for dresses. Something lethal hidden among jewels - at least, that's how she appeared.

Still, she offered her apologies. Evie snorted. "Right, of course," she chuckled, "bottom feeders need not be surprised when they find themselves underfoot." A comment laced with a tangle of good humor and truth serum.

Another small laugh, this one without the weight of an assumption. "Where else does a working class lady like me belong at a party like this?" She held up the stem briefly before hiding it away in her reticule again. "Thyme. New recipe." Then, her expression soured - not into one of contempt, but of concern. A crinkle between narrowing brows, the telltale dip of her mouth into a top-heavy crescent. "I'm sorry, Miss Blythe, but are you all right? You look..." a wince, a flinch, "green."

it  is  not  until  miss  huntington’s  words  echo  back  that  amira  feels  their  weight.  clinging  to  the  corners  of  her  mind,  as  stubbornly  as  she  herself  clings  to  the  paneling  of  the  wall.  of  course  she  meant  to  keep  upright.  of  course  she  meant  no  harm.  but  words  thrown  without  care,  have  landed  far  from  their  mark.  her  expression  tightens,  features  gathering  into  something  far  from  the  composure  she  wore  upon  first  stepping  aboard.

“no,  i’m  sorry—  i  did  not  mean…”  but  the  ship  sways.  cresting  over  a  wave,  she  imagines.  and  her  stomach  follows.  the  contents  floating,  unmoored  from  what  had  once  anchored  them.  “if  you  are  a  bottom  feeder,  i  dare  not  ask  where  you  might  place  me.”  and  again,  her  tongue  betrays  her.  the  words  fall  without  thought.  without  understanding  the  truth  they  reveal.“i  truly  am  sorry.  for  both  my  misstep…  and  my  misguided  tongue.”

she  does  what  she  can  to  follow  the  shape  of  conversation,  to  fold  herself  into  some  silhouette  of  normalcy.  but  the  gods  are  not  paying  enough  attention  to  keep  her  steady.

He leans close to hear the soft breaths in which she speaks, devour it for all it is worth as he knows it is his. No one else is privy to such fragile words and he holds them in his teeth, pearlescent frame to just the sound of each letter and no matter the meaning. How blessed he must be to catch them. Yet, Arden is seemingly too close— his own breath grazes against her cheek as hers does just over his lips.

"I do hope you did. We were stuck with them all until they died for over a week— fifteen arrangements to every room in the manor," He nods, the furrow of his brow unraveling with a mockery of delight and wonder at the memory. It is not difficult to pretend, as he swears through her eyes and the moments beside her make them more than bearable. "When was the last time you had so many flowers in your possession, hmm? I should think a crime was committed that day. The florist must have eradicated an entire meadow from existence."

And if she dared to tell him it had been less than a week, he'd ensure a funeral would proceed if only to steal flowers from a grave for her.

"You would not mind such public displays of adoration and affection?" He asks her, his voice dipping low once more to the very whisper she let graze the smile he leans into. Hanging to every word, he can just barely fight the hiss of disappointment when her laugh silences her confession. Still, he basks in the warmth of such a sound. "What other ways would you be so privy to, Isadora? I-I ask only to ensure if someone dares to cross your path this season, they exceed your expectations but still remain true to your... passions."

Ardens fingers catch hers, and it surely a mistake so openly. He does not drop her hand, though— never, not even when Sienna would catch his other hand to lay claim. Her hand slips across his palm and off the tips of his fingers, swift but diligently.

Would he seek love again? The sun burns where is reaches them, and he thinks of her. Woven in a web is the only way he ever finds her, ever loves her again and is loved. He does wish even a semblance of the same fate on Isadora, but it does not mean he doesn't want it at all.

“sixteen,”  she  corrects.  but  it  slips  out  like  a  secret.  fragile  where  it  drifts  between  them.  and  she  feels  everything.  the  erratic  rhythm  of  her  heart,  the  tremble  in  her  voice,  the  waver  of  her  lips.  his  breath  grazes  the  edge  of  hers,  close  enough  to  steal  the  air  she  meant  to  keep.  “i-i  had  sixteen  in  my  room.  i  stole  one,  from  the  kitchen.  they  thought  to  brighten  it  but  ...  it  was  too  close  to  the  stove.”  teeth  catch  the  curve  of  her  lower  lip.  it  seems  silly,  almost  childish,  to  admit  aloud.  but  she’d  never  even  told  sienna.

humor  and  embarrassment  mix  across  her  features.  whisper  of  a  smile.  but  the  lightness  falters.  it  always  does.  “that  would  be  the  last  time,  i  suppose.  i  kept  them.  even  long  after  they  turned.  curling  inward  …  like  they'd  been  scolded  for  staying  too  long.”

her  breath  catches  when  his  words  turn  toward  affection.  toward  her.

“arden,  i—”  words  slip  before  they  can  root,  stolen  by  the  weight  of  his  fingers  curling  against  hers.  his  touch  sears  through  the  thin  barrier  of  her  glove.  how  she  regrets  wearing  them.  her  gaze  drops.  fixed  on  the  place  they  touch,  the  way  their  hands  move  as  if  they’ve  always  belonged  to  each  other.  she  nearly  forgets  what  she  meant  to  say. 

when  she  does  manage  to  lift  her  eyes  again,  there  is  something  too  raw  in  them.  “how  could  i  know?”  question  aches  in  its  vulnerability.  because  truthfully,  she  hadn’t  known.  if  she  could  accept  affection.  or  even  recognize  it  when  it  came.  the  suitors  had  once  been  there.  not  many.  just  enough  to  soothe  the  bruises  of  her  ego.  but  she’d  turned  them  away.  thrown  herself  into  a  best  friend  who  demanded  more  than  she  ever  returned.  “i  do  not  think  you  need  worry  too  much.  there  are  so  many  lovely  young  ladies  this  season.  i  am  not  exactly  at  the  top  of  anyone’s  list.”

her  tone  is  light.  a  veil  she’s  worn  too  long.  but  the  next  words  rise  through  her,  timed  with  the  waves.  “no,  of  course  not!”  isadora's  hand  lands  against  the  curve  of  his  forearm.  meant  only  to  reassure.  but  for  a  moment,  she  forgets.  not  just  herself.  but  the  world.  the  rules.  the  watching  eyes.  she  sees  only  him.  “i  do  not  think  it  greed.  after  all  that  has  been,  you  do  not  shut  yourself  off  from  the  possibility.  that  is  a  wonderful  thing.”

her  thumb  shifts.  a  small,  unthinking  movement,  up  and  then  down.  breath  that  hitches  behind  it  is  not  meant  to  be  heard.  and  though  she  does  retrieve  herself,  it  is  not  a  fast  movement.  she  does  not  want  to  go.

as beatrice looked to the woman beside her, she felt a sort of kinship to her that she could not describe. the battle between head and heart was one that she battled with often - constantly. especially as of late. she wished to press isadora a little more but she refrained. she had only known this woman a matter of moments - that was something which she had to keep reminding herself. she did not want to do something which would scare her away.

though as she described the person that she had been thinking about, her smile widened a little bit. "ridiculous sounds like a pretty good word for it." she joked. she could certainly picture that feeling too. the giddy feeling that you could feel when thinking of that one person. before a few weeks ago, that person would have been callum. but now? she wasn't so sure. "well, if you want my opinion on a situation that i hardly know the details of and should not be poking my nose in -" she giggled, "if he makes you feel happy - then maybe it is something that you should pursue. what is the worst that could happen?"

it  was  the  first  time ,  or  perhaps  too  long  had  passed  for  her  to  rightly  remember ,  that  isadora  had  felt  the  soft  brush  of  encouragement.  had  been  offered  support  rather  than  subtle  correction.  though  such  things  often  occurred  only  within  the  confines  of  her  own  mind.  a  quiet  withholding.  but  in  a  case  such  as  this  …  it  was  all  she  could  do  not  to  lay  herself  bare  for  the  woman  whose  growing  ease  made  isadora  long  to  cling  tightly  to  something  like  friendship.  a  stranger  still.  not  the  sort  before  whom  one  should  confess  one’s  sins.

“how  is  one  to  know  if  they  are  happy ?  is  it  like  some  ache  behind  the  quiet  moments ?  or  a  retreat  into  childish  delight ,  all  laughter and  no  sense ?”  she  wishes  to  bury  her  face  in  her  hands  the  moment  the  words  pass  her  lips.  there  is  a  spiral  upon  which  she  cannot  quite  stand.  and  arden  ..   he  has  become  the  very  tipping  point.  “oh ,  please  do  not  answer  that.  i  do  not  even  wish  to  know  the  truth  of  it.  especially  in  the  world  of  men.  but  …”  she  falters.  tries  to  still  the  fluttering  in  her  chest.  “he  does  make  me  whatever  sort  of  happy  one  might  hope  for.  though  i  fear  it  is  not  so  simple.”

she  will  not  give  thought  to  the  storm  that  would  tear  london  apart  should  she  pursue  him  and  sienna  come  to  know.  nor  the  humiliation  that  would  bury  her  should  arden  not  feel  the  same.

Arden swears he can feel her heartbeat through the thin skin of her fingertips, and if he moves too quickly, she'll pierce the delicate flesh and bleed out over him. He finds himself holding his breath, taunting sedated if only to drink the very same air as her. Never once had Arden ever thought to savor anything, and here he stands with the aching fear hat if he takes too much too fast— he will consume her completely, and she will vanish once more. Like a match struck in the dark, her light will be swallowed whole against him.

But all he does is stand still, wrinkle between his brow to feign disinterest until she echoes the dream he plays out in his head. It is only then that he softens, makes it known that she is all that is in focus in the face of the indulgence and extravagance that spills around them in promises, clamor, and the crash of waves below.

His gaze is on hers, fixated no matter where she turns or coos. "My wedding was a demonstration of power and wealth, nothing else. It was all by design to convince the Oliviers that the House of Grant was a worthy gamble. Five days of incessant promises, enough flowers to make everyone weep with sneezes and mistake it for real sentiments, and look how that ended," He recounts, and it's an old complaint because his eyes trace her against that day. There is hardly a difference even after all these years. Even then, he had wondered about her blushing face under the veil. Sienna wore it like a disguise then, and he knew it would only be an injustice if it was over Isadora. "I think love is strongest when it is quiet, and patient. London and the practices of the ton mistake it for a race to the altar. It is very much possible, but when it burns so bright, how long will it take such a flame to lick the entire match clean?"

Her sigh, the dispel of breath he only wishes to catch for her, brushes against him ever so softly. He could nearly pretend he felt it, but it leaves with the softest little thrill over his skin.

the  intricate  retelling  of  his  wedding  day ,  in  details  she  is  ashamed  to  admit  she  still  remembers ,  pulls  at  her  attention.  drawn  impossibly  closer  to  him  as  the  crowd  beyond  gathers  in  intimate  celebration.  vows  shared.  a  blinding  contrast  to  the  ones  she  had  borne  witness  to ,  up  close.  the  ones  she  had  helped  sienna  practice  for  days.  needing  the  delivery  to  land  just  so.  perfection.  not  that  she  had  ever  floundered  a  single  time.  isadora  did  not  know  how  she  had  maintained  such  grace.  not  when  arden  had  looked  …  power  and  wealth  indeed.  it  had  been  a  moment  straight  from  a  fairytale.  or  so  it  had  seemed ,  at  the  time.

“excuse  you !  i  loved  those  flowers ,”  she  murmurs.  voice  not  more  than  a  breath  above  whisper.  the  sort  of  quiet  opinion  not  usually  offered.  but  still ,  isadora  nods  all  the  same.  her  gaze  transfixed ,  wrapped  around  his.  how  was  he  able  to  make  her  feel  seen  and  safe  all  at  once ?

it  is  hard  to  ignore  the  violent  swell  of  her  heart.  rivaling  the  crash  of  waves  beneath  the  ship’s  hull.  as  if  she  might  be  knocked  off  her  footing.  sent  tumbling  into  his  arms.  and  what  then  —  would  that  feeling  of  safety  remain?

isadora  cannot  bring  herself  to  blink.  nor  clear  her  throat  as  a  means  of  escape  from  her  thoughts.  the  burn  of  color  warming  her  cheeks  only  makes  the  spiral  worse.  this  is  unlike  her.  but  the  last  few  weeks  spent  in  london ,  alone ,  had  made  her  feel...  “pa-patient ,  yes.  i  agree.  but  i  am  not  certain  it  need  always  remain  quiet.”  word  catches  in  her  throat ,  clinging  to  dry  patches  she  had  not  realized  had  grown.  her  tongue  swells ,  needing  reprieve  as  she  drags  it  across  her  lower  lip ,  resisting  the  urge  to  chew  down.  “if  love  is…  true ,  rare  as  it  might  be  —  there  should  be  nothing  which  stops  it  from  being  expressed.  perhaps  not  a  race  to  the  altar.  but  surely ,  there  are  other  ways.”

but  her  words  make  her  laugh.  a  quiet ,  sad  little  chuckle.  as  if  she  would  know  anything  of  love.

Time had gotten away from him but he didn't notice or care. Before the guests had arrived, he and Piet had gone through every inch of the boat to make sure it was perfect and exactly what they wanted. Tobias being the instiable man he was had seduced Piet, unable to resist each other they had lay claim to nearly every room in the ship then an old favourite: the crow's nest. They'd been too distracted to notice guests arriving and only when he'd droppped his coat from the nest did Tobias notice. "I think we better get going," he laughs.

On deck, he quickly gets himself dressed and looks to the shocked eyes that greet him. "What?" he grins not even blushing. "We're newlyweds!"

shock  and  awe  flicker  beneath  the  delicate  reserve  of  her  usual  expression.  she  tries  to  withhold  herself.  to  maintain  the  proper  grace  of  a  simple  modiste ,  lingering  at  the  edge  of  the  gathering  she  helped  dress.  but  there  are  too  many  memories.  too  much  history  laced  between  them.  “you  are ,”  she  breathes.  and  then  brighter ,  uncontained.  “you  are !”  her  delight  spills  through  her ,  arms  flung  about  his  shoulders  before  thought  can  restrain  her.  he  is  to  be  a  lord.  far  above  her  station.  but  she  sees  only  the  poor  sailor  who  worked  with  her  to  ensure  they  both  survived.  “congratulations ,  dear  friend.  i  cannot  think  of  anyone  whose  happiness  would  please  me  more.”