#embczzler

     Perhaps it had happened too soon. Her re-entry into regular life, into surrounding herself with her peers who had tarred and feathered her mere months ago. Hiding in the home she had shared with her husband had seemed the only option in the beginning, as though she were committed to an impeccable impression of Lord Ruthven. Yet it had gone on for too long; she was running dry on excuses for herself, and eventually the childhood wonder had won, and she was to accept the Ashdown invitation. 

     Winifred’s evening, so far, had been relatively quiet. Of course, she was merry, more sociable than she had believed would be possible, but the air of mourning had yet to leave her. Cobwebs formed by grief still hung from her frame, their silken pattern coveted her. The heart within her chest, though it still beat, was still broken. And no amount of crimson wine or diamond gin could heal it fully. She excused herself from conversation, slipped out the back of the ballroom, and allowed herself to be blanketed by the stars. Stars that had watched her for many nights now, watched her moan and wail beneath bedsheets, stain her pillow cases with salted water. Stars that had once been gazed upon by lovers, an arrangement of the cosmos that had brought them together, then lay in anticipation of the unfolding romance. Stars that she had wished upon, cursed, wept for and dreamed of. This was a blanket she was comfortable beneath, one built from safety that easily rivalled any childhood memento of reassurance.