The morning after the engagement announcement, I move through the estate like someone operating machinery I no longer understand.
My hands arrange papers on the schoolroom desk. My mouth forms words about geography and mathematics. My body sits in chairs and walks corridors and performs all the expected functions of a tutor going about her day.
But I'm hollow. Completely hollow. Like someone reached inside my chest and carved out everything that made me feel human, leaving only the mechanical parts that know how to pretend.
The estate thrums with activity I can't escape. Servants rush past carrying fabric swatches and ribbon samples. Voices drift through windows discussing flower arrangements—roses or peonies, white or cream, traditional or fashionable.
The kitchen staff debates menu options for two hundred guests. Every conversation, every decision, every excited whisper is another stone added to the weight crushing my lungs.
The wedding is happening. The machinery has started, and I'm standing in its path watching it roll toward me with the inevitability of a season changing.
I'm in the schoolroom with Isla when her voice cuts through my fog. "Mrs. Farren, are you listening?"
I blink, realizing I've been staring at the same page of her history text for several minutes without seeing a single word. "I'm sorry, what did you ask?"
She sets down her pen, studying my face with that unnerving perception children have when adults think they're being subtle. "I asked you three times about what year the treaty was signed, but you didn't hear me."
"My apologies." I try to pull myself back into the lesson, but my voice sounds distant even to my own ears.”The answer is 1702.”
She frowns, checking her book. "It says 1704 here."
Heat floods my face. "You're right—1704. I wasn't... I'm not feeling well today."
Isla sets down her pen, studying my face with that unnerving perception children have when adults think they're being subtle. "You look sad."
My throat tightens. "I'm fine, Isla."
"You look the way Father looks." Her observation is matter-of-fact, without judgment. “He hasn't smiled once since Grandmother's announcement. Not even when I showed him the essay you said was my best work yet."
I force myself to meet her eyes, to keep my expression neutral. "Your father has many responsibilities. Wedding preparations are demanding."
"He doesn't care about the wedding." She says it with the blunt honesty of a child who hasn't learned to soften truth yet. "He looks miserable. And so do you."
The accuracy of her perception makes my chest ache. I close the history text gently. "Isla, sometimes adults have complicated situations they need to navigate. It doesn't mean anything is wrong, just that life is... difficult sometimes."
When the lesson ends and Isla leaves for her riding instruction, I wander into the gardens because I can't bear being inside the house anymore. The walls feel like they're closing in, every corridor filled with servants discussing wedding details, every room a reminder of what's coming.
I find a bench tucked behind a hedge of roses and sink onto it, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
"I thought I might find you here." Bridei's voice makes me drop my hands.
She's standing at the entrance to the alcove, dressed in deep blue silk that makes her look every inch the duchess. But her expression isn't formal—it's worried in a way that makes my stomach drop.
"Bridei." I stand quickly. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you." She crosses to the bench and sits, patting the space beside her. "Sit. We need to talk."
I obey because her tone leaves no room for argument. She doesn't speak immediately, just sits there studying my face with the same uncomfortable perception Isla showed earlier.
Finally, I break. "Go ahead. Say it. Tell me how foolish I've been."
"You haven't been foolish." Her voice is gentle. "You've been human. There's a difference."
"Is there?" My laugh sounds bitter. "I convinced myself I mattered to him. That what we had was real. That maybe…" My voice cracks. "That maybe I could be chosen for once instead of being the secret everyone hides."
"Mairead..."
"When we played with the children he was laughing and covered in grass and looking at me like I was the only person in the world."
The words spill out now, unstoppable.
“The bridge when he caught me and his hand stayed on my waist too long and I could feel his heartbeat racing. The late nights talking about Isla and Sorcha and everything he's carried alone for years."
I'm crying now, hot tears tracking down my cheeks. "I let myself believe it meant something. That he felt what I felt, that this could be more than stolen moments and careful lies. I was so stupid."
Bridei pulls me against her shoulder, one hand stroking my hair like I'm one of her own daughters. "You weren't stupid, you were hopeful."
"It feels the same right now."
She lets me cry until the worst of it passes, until I can breathe without my chest hitching. Then she pulls back, her hands on my shoulders, her expression serious.
"I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."
My blood goes cold. "What?"
"Lady Catriona has hired investigators, professional ones. They're digging into your background leaving no stone unturned." Bridei's grip tightens on my shoulders. "The widow story about Thomas Farren won't hold much longer under that kind of scrutiny."
The world tilts. I grip the bench edge to keep from swaying. "How do you know?"
"I have people who watch for these things. They reported back this morning." Her voice is grave. "Catriona is being thorough. She's checking parish records, questioning witnesses, following every thread. She's looking for something to use against you."
"How much time do I have?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Weeks. Maybe less if she's more persistent than I expect, which given what I know of her character..." Bridei trails off meaningfully. "Once she discovers the truth about the fabricated husband, everything collapses—your position here, your credibility, your reputation."
"My children." The words are hollow. "If Catriona decides to be vindictive..."
"She could make it very difficult for you to maintain custody. Claim you're an unfit mother, a liar, a woman of questionable morals who deceived her way into a noble household." Bridei's honesty is brutal but necessary. "She has resources, influence. She could destroy you completely if she chooses."
I can't breathe. The garden is too bright, too warm, everything is closing in. "What do I do?"
"I don't know yet. I'm trying to buy time—feeding the investigators false leads, paying clerks to lose paperwork, creating bureaucratic tangles that will take weeks to sort through. But Mairead, you need to understand—this is temporary. Eventually, the truth will surface."
Before I can respond, footsteps crunch on gravel. A servant appears at the alcove entrance—young, nervous, carrying herself with the careful deference of someone delivering unwelcome news.
"Mrs. Farren?" Her voice wavers slightly. "I have a message from Lady Catriona."
My heart stops. Bridei's hand finds mine, squeezes once.
"Yes?" I force the word out.
The servant extends a folded paper sealed with the Morvaine crest. "Lady Catriona requests your presence in her private sitting room tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock precisely." She pauses, then adds quietly, "She specified you should come alone."
The paper feels heavy in my hand. The servant curtsies and retreats quickly, clearly relieved to be dismissed from this particular duty.
I stare at the seal, watching it blur as my vision unfocuses. Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Alone.
"She knows something." My voice sounds dead. "Or suspects enough to confront me directly."
Bridei takes the paper from my shaking hands, examines it. "The phrasing is polite, but the command is absolute. This isn't a request—it's a summons."
We sit in silence for a long moment. Birds sing in the hedge behind us. Somewhere in the distance, servants laugh about something innocuous. The world continues turning while mine stops.
"What do I say to her?" I finally ask. "How do I defend myself when she has investigators and resources and I have nothing but a borrowed name and a duchess's word that won't stand up to determined scrutiny?"
"You tell her as much of the truth as you can without exposing everything." Bridei's voice is steady, practical. "You acknowledge what she can prove, deflect what she can't, and protect the children above all else."
"And if that's not enough?"
She meets my eyes.
"Then we find another way. But interrogation is coming. She's found something, or suspects enough to move against you. You have one night to prepare your defenses before facing the woman who could destroy everything you've built to protect your children."
I nod, but my hands are shaking in my lap.
One night. One night to prepare for a battle I'm not equipped to fight. One night before I face Lady Catriona alone and try to survive the conversation that could end with me losing everything—my position, my safety, my children.
One night to figure out how to protect them from the woman who already destroyed my mother, my family, my entire bloodline before I was old enough to know what any of it meant.
I look at the sealed summons in Bridei's hands, at the Morvaine crest stamped in red wax, and wonder if I'm strong enough for what's coming.