Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Somewhere near the Welsh Countryside, 1815

The carriage jostled unevenly over the poorly maintained roads, each bump sending a jarring shock through Cressida’s already tense body. The wheels creaked under the weight of the carriage, the horses struggling against the steep, muddy incline they found themselves on. The air outside was thick with the damp chill of an early spring morning, and the mist hung like a veil over the landscape.

Cressida stared out the window, her face pressed against the glass, though her eyes weren’t really seeing anything. It won’t be long until she’s under her Aunt Joanna’s care, far from the bustling streets of London where her social status had once been a glittering, if controversial, star.

The scandal in Mayfair had been the final blow. Lady Whistledown's pen had torn her reputation to shreds—exposing everything from Cressida's social missteps to the downfall of her and her family’s reputation. When her father had received word of the latest scandal, he'd made it clear: Wales would be her home for the foreseeable future.

So here she was, in the back of a carriage, heading toward an unknown future in a place that felt more like exile than refuge. There were no promises of an eventual return to London, no more lavish parties, or the chance to regain her former status. Just an endless stretch of road, as bleak and empty as her life felt at the moment.

Cressida hadn’t spoken a word in hours, which wasn’t odd since she was alone inside the carriage. Only the driver and a couple of footmen sitting out front had accompanied her journey. But even if someone was inside with her, she knew she would still not utter a word. The road ahead seemed endless. The thought of being alone, isolated in a place she didn’t even know, filled her with a growing sense of dread. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the front, the composure she had worn so easily in Mayfair. What was the point now?

She was pulled out of her thoughts when they hit a particularly harsh bump.

At first, the jolt was nothing more than a minor discomfort, a little shake that rattled the bones. Nothing she hasn’t felt for the past few hours. But then came another. And another. And another until it was more consistent.

It wasn’t long until the horses snorted in surprise, their hooves scrambling against the loose dirt as the carriage lurched again. The sound of wood cracking rang out as one of the wheels gave way. 

The driver, a man Cressida had known for years but never truly trusted, pulled on the reins, forcing the horses to slow to a stop. The carriage came to a jerking halt, rocking back on its axle with a groan of protest. The world outside was silent for a moment, save for the muffled thrum of her heart in her ears.

Cressida took a deep, steadying breath, her hands pressed against her seat as she tried to quell the rising unease in her chest before calling out to the driver. “What’s happened?”

“We don’t know, miss,” he replied before she heard the thump of his boots hitting the ground. She thinks for a moment before deciding to step outside, wanting to see what’s happening. The cold, damp air hit her like a slap to the face, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

The driver was already at the back of the carriage, inspecting the wheel while the footmen calmed the horses. “The axle’s snapped,” he muttered. “We might not be going anywhere for a while.”

Cressida’s stomach turned. It’s true that she did not want to reach their destination, but it did not mean that she wanted to be stuck in the middle of nowhere. Especially with only men around. 

“What do you mean? Can’t you fix it?” she asked, her voice rising slightly at the thought of this setback. She did not want to spend hours or however long it would take on the side of the road.

The driver shook his head. “I’ll need proper tools—might be a day before I can get this back in working order.”

A day. A day in the middle of nowhere? It’s not as if they’re prepared to spend a day out there. They had no provisions, no other items with them other than Cressida’s luggage. 

Her chest tightened, and her throat closed as she looked out over the empty expanse of the Welsh countryside. There was nothing here. No houses, no villages—just rolling hills and the ever-present grey sky that hung heavy over everything. She felt a shiver crawl down her spine, not from the cold but from the overwhelming sense of isolation.

“There must be something we can do,” Cressida said sharply, though she felt anything but certain. “Perhaps someone will pass by and offer help.”

The driver nodded, but Cressida could see the doubt in his eyes. There was no one on this road. The thought of spending another night out here, cold and alone, was unbearable.

She climbed back into the carriage and shut the door behind her. There was nothing to do now but continue staring out the window at the still landscape, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress. 

The minutes stretched into hours, each one dragging by like an eternity. Cressida kept glancing out the window, hoping for some sign of a traveler, a fellow soul who might come to their aid. But the road remained empty, the silence growing thicker with each passing moment. The thought of being stranded here, of spending a cold, uncomfortable night on this godforsaken road, gnawed at her insides.

It was during one of these moments of quiet despair that she first heard it—the distant sound of hooves, rhythmic and steady and coming closer.

Her heart leaped in her chest.

“Do you hear that?” she asked out loud, knowing the driver and footmen would hear her. 

Cressida leaned forward in her seat, straining her eyes as she scanned the horizon. The fog had thickened, but through it, she could just make out the shape of another carriage in the distance. It was coming fast, cutting through the mist like a dark shadow.

A rush of relief washed over Cressida. Could it be? Could it really be someone who could help them?

She stepped out of the carriage, her breath coming in small puffs of air as she tried to steady herself. The carriage grew nearer, the sound of the wheels becoming clearer, the horses’ hooves striking the ground with a cadence that was almost too perfect.

At first, Cressida didn’t believe her eyes. The wheels of the carriage rolled toward them, appearing out of the mist like some strange apparition. It was sleek and black, polished to a shine that contrasted sharply with the muddy, worn path they traveled on. The horses were white, their coats gleaming, and they moved with an elegance that seemed at odds with the rough terrain.

The carriage slowed to a stop beside hers, and a woman emerged from it—all regal and cloaked in dark fabrics that seemed to shimmer under the faint light. Her movements were fluid and purposeful, and when she stepped forward, Cressida felt an odd shiver, though she couldn't quite place the exact feeling.

She was tall, taller than most women Cressida had known, with dark, flowing hair and an air of authority that made her stand out even against the grey backdrop of the countryside. Her eyes were dark, almost impossibly so, and when they met Cressida’s, there was an intensity there that made her feel as if she were being seen in a way she had never been seen before.

The woman was older than Cressida, her face marked with an enigmatic serenity. Her eyes, knowing and intelligent, studied Cressida with an intensity that made her feel exposed.

Cressida swallowed, suddenly unsure of what to do or say.

The woman’s lips parted into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Are you in need of assistance?” she asked, her voice smooth and almost too calm, as if this were an ordinary interaction.

Cressida hesitated, her heart pounding. “I… yes,” she said eventually, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “The carriage is broken. The wheel’s snapped, and we’ve been stranded here.”

The woman’s gaze flicked to the wheels of Cressida’s carriage, then to the exhausted horses pulling it. She took in the scene with an almost detached air as if this were an everyday occurrence.

“I see,” the woman said simply, her lips curving into a slight smile. “I can offer you a ride. It’s not far from the village. A charming place called Blackwood.”

Cressida blinked in surprise. A ride? It seemed almost too easy, too convenient.

Her first instinct was to decline. She had been taught not to trust strangers, especially in such a situation. And something about this woman, something she can't place, made Cressida hesitate. There was no malice in her gaze—only a quiet, knowing calm. It unnerved her.

“Are you certain it’s no trouble?” Cressida asked, even though she already knew she didn’t have many options.

The woman nodded. “I would not offer if it were,” she said softly. “Come. There’s no reason to remain stranded here. I can take you where you need to go.” the woman said, her tone final.

Cressida hesitated for only a moment longer before nodding, not seeing much of a choice.

She and the woman climbed into the carriage, the interior of which was surprisingly luxurious—rich velvet seats and intricate woodwork. The air inside was warmer, and the faint scent of herbs lingered in the corners. Cressida’s driver and footmen loaded her things into the carriage before the driver hung off to the side of the carriage, leaving the footment behind to watch over the horses. The driver would come back once he had the proper tools for the fix. 

The woman sat across from her, and the carriage jolted as it began to move, the horses’ hooves striking the ground with a steady rhythm. Cressida sat back against the plush seat, her mind racing at the turn of events.

After a few moments, the woman spoke again, her voice cutting through the stillness.

“You’re running away,” she said matter-of-factly, or maybe just having noticed all the trunks and suitcases with her.

Cressida stiffened, startled by the bluntness of the statement. Her eyes flicked up at the strange woman before fixing her gaze out the window. 

“No, I– I… was sent away,” Cressida murmured, refusing to make eye contact again. 

The woman’s gaze remained steady, unwavering. “Hm. I see.”

There was no judgment in her voice, no mockery. She did not even ask the reason. 

“Would you rather run away?” she asked instead, and that made Cressida look at the woman again. “Run away from the place you were sent off to?”

“I— what?” 

The woman smirks. “You understand my question perfectly, child,” she continues. “I do not know why you were sent away, but I do know that it is to a place you’d rather run away from. And I know a thing or two about what it’s like to run from something. To hide away from what you cannot face. To seek a place where you can rebuild, away from the eyes of those who have judged you. I could offer you a place to stay, a new life. A job. A way to leave the past behind, if that is what you wish.”

Cressida stared at the woman, her mind racing to process the audacious offer. A place to stay? A new life? It was absurd, unthinkable. The kind of proposition one would expect to hear in a fever dream rather than in a luxurious carriage surrounded by Welsh mist.

Her instincts flared—this woman, with her calm demeanor and penetrating gaze, couldn’t be trusted. No one was this generous without ulterior motives. Either that or she’s cracked. 

“I appreciate your... generosity,” Cressida said slowly, carefully. “But I must decline. I have obligations to fulfill, and my family… they’ll come looking.” Cressida tried not to wince, convincing herself that her family would care if she suddenly went missing. 

The woman’s expression didn’t change. Her lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile. “As you wish,” she said simply, her tone devoid of disappointment or insistence. “I have a shop at the edge of town. The offer stands, should you ever reconsider.”

They said little else for the remainder of the ride. The woman seemed content with the silence, and Cressida was too consumed by her own thoughts to speak. Just the clatter of hooves filled the air, blending with the jostling and low creaks of the carriage.

By the time they reached the nearest village, the mist had begun to lift. It was nestled in a shallow valley, its stone buildings huddled together like a protective cluster against the vast, empty countryside. Narrow cobblestone streets wove between cottages with moss-covered roofs, their chimneys releasing thin tendrils of smoke that curled into the pale morning air.

A low mist clung stubbornly to the ground, softening the sharp edges of the landscape and muting the colors of the world. To Cressida, it felt as though she had stepped into a place untouched by time—a forgotten corner of the world where the pace of life had slowed to a crawl.

The village square was little more than an open patch of uneven ground, ringed by a handful of modest establishments: a butcher’s shop with its faded red sign, a baker’s stall already busy with locals collecting fresh bread, and a small inn with a swinging wooden sign that bore the faded image of a stag. A well stood at the center, its stone base worn smooth by countless hands over the years.

Despite its quiet charm, there was a heaviness to the air, an unspoken history etched into the very stones of the village. The people moved with purpose, but their eyes were wary, their conversations low. Cressida felt their curious gazes linger on her as she descended from the carriage, her fine cloak and grand dress marking her as an outsider.

The carriage came to a halt in front of the inn, and the woman gestured toward it. “You’ll find lodging here until your carriage is repaired.”

Cressida hesitated, her fingers curling tightly around the folds of her cloak. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, forcing the words out.

The woman inclined her head. “Safe travels, Miss Cowper,” she said, for some reason already knowing her name. Before Cressida could respond, the woman signaled to the driver, and the black carriage rolled away, taking a turn and disappearing from her sight. 

The innkeeper, a stout woman with ruddy cheeks and a fraying apron, greeted her with a polite but cautious smile. “You’ll be needing a room, miss?” she asked, her voice carrying the faint lilt of the local dialect.

Cressida nodded. “Just for the night, please.”

The innkeeper led her up a narrow staircase to a small room on the second floor. The space was tidy if spartan—a simple bed with a quilted coverlet, a wooden chair by the window, and a chipped porcelain basin on the washstand. The scent of beeswax and herbs lingered in the air, a faint comfort against the unfamiliarity of her surroundings.

From the window, Cressida could see the edge of the village, where the cobblestones gave way to dirt paths leading into the surrounding hills. The land stretched out endlessly beyond, its muted greens and browns blending into the horizon.

It was peaceful, but it was also stifling. This wasn’t the kind of place where one reinvented themselves. It was a place where people faded into obscurity.

That thought stayed with her through the night, tossing and turning in the narrow bed. She tried to sleep, but the bed felt foreign, the air too still. Every creak of the floorboards or rustle of the wind outside sent her thoughts spiraling. By the time dawn broke, Cressida was still wide awake, her eyes dry and heavy with exhaustion.

The following morning, the faint clatter of hooves and low voices reached Cressida’s ears, pulling her from a fitful, sleepless night. She lay still for a moment, the thin quilt pulled up to her chin as her mind wrestled with the unease that had followed her since the strange woman’s offer. 

With a deep breath, Cressida forced herself to rise and get ready for the day, hoping they’d be able to leave soon. Something about the place made her feel… uneasy. The morning air was crisp, biting at her skin as she dressed and gathered her belongings. The room felt even smaller now, as though it were closing in on her.

She descended the narrow staircase once she was ready, her gloved hands gripping the wooden banister tightly. The innkeeper offered a brisk nod as Cressida passed through the small common room, the smell of fresh bread and porridge hanging in the air. It should have been comforting, but the knot in her stomach only tightened.

Outside, the carriage stood ready, its polished black surface gleaming faintly in the weak morning sunlight. The footmen worked efficiently, securing her trunks with practiced ease. The sight of them hoisting her belongings—the tangible remnants of her old life—felt oddly final.

The driver approached her, brushing dust from his coat as he offered a polite but curious smile. “It’s a good thing we’ll be off soon, miss,” he said, his voice tinged with a conversational ease that felt almost cruel given her state of mind. “I’m sure your father’s sister is eager to see you again.”

Cressida froze, the words echoing in her mind. Her throat tightened, her breath hitching as memories surged unbidden—memories of Aunt Joanna’s stern gaze, her sharp tongue, her relentless expectations.

“Cowpers don’t make mistakes,” her aunt’s voice whispered in her mind. “We don’t embarrass ourselves. We don’t fail. I will not allow you to make those same mistakes again.”

A wave of panic rose in her chest all of a sudden, threatening to consume her. She could see it already: days spent under her aunt’s watchful eye, her every move scrutinized, her every choice criticized. There would be no reprieve, no freedom, no Eloise to run to and find solace in. Only the stifling, unyielding structure of a life dictated by someone else.

Her palms grew clammy, her heartbeat quickening. This wasn’t what she wanted—this couldn’t be what her life had come to. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled from her lips. “We’ll need to make one quick stop before we leave.”

The driver blinked, his brow furrowing. “A stop, miss?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice steadier than she felt. “There’s a shop nearby. I saw it when we entered the village. I need to retrieve something.”

The driver hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to discern whether this was a genuine request or a sudden whim. “Very well,” he said after a moment, though his tone carried a note of skepticism. “If it won’t delay us too long.”

Cressida offered a tight nod, her hands gripping the folds of her cloak to keep them from trembling.

As the carriage rolled slowly through the cobbled streets, she kept her gaze fixed out the window, watching as the shop came into view. The building was as unassuming as it had been the day before, but now, it seemed to radiate an odd sense of possibility.

When the carriage stopped, Cressida hesitated for only a moment before stepping out. She turned back toward the driver and footmen, her tone brisk and purposeful. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”

The driver nodded, though she could sense his curiosity growing. She didn’t care. She didn’t have the time or energy to explain herself.

The shop was unassuming, tucked away at the edge of the village, its windows lined with faintly gleaming trinkets that caught the morning light. The wooden sign above the door creaked gently in the breeze, its paint faded but still legible: Ophelia’s Oddities.

Cressida hesitated at the threshold, her gloved hand lingering on the door handle. It had been a whim, a moment of panic that had driven her to request this stop. Now, with the shop mere steps away, doubt crept in again, its familiar weight pressing against her chest.

But the thought of Aunt Joanna’s stern face, her clipped tones, and the suffocating expectations that awaited her burned hotter. Cressida drew a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The scent of parchment, herbs, and aged wood greeted her, wrapping around her like a cocoon. The interior was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft, amber glow of oil lamps and the pale sunlight from a few windows. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with objects that seemed both mundane and extraordinary—tarnished silverware, books with cracked spines, glass bottles filled with indeterminate substances and species.

And there, standing behind the counter, was the woman from yesterday.

“You’ve come back,” the woman said, her voice as smooth and composed as it had been the day before.

Cressida’s heart skipped. For some reason, the words felt like she knew Cressida would come back, though there was no trace of judgment in the woman’s tone.

“Yes,” Cressida said, her voice tighter than she’d intended. “I... I’ve been thinking about your offer.”

The woman’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I thought you might.”

Cressida glanced around the shop, her eyes flitting over the peculiarities that surrounded her. The room felt charged, as if the very air held secrets waiting to be uncovered. She forced herself to meet the woman’s gaze.

“Your offer,” she repeated, her tone gaining steadiness. “I want to take it, I do. But... I can’t leave without ensuring that no one—”

The woman raised a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. “That no one will speak of your departure?”

Cressida nodded, her hands twisting in the fabric of her cloak. “Yes. If word gets back to my family... if they know I left on my own terms...” Her voice faltered.

The woman studied her for a moment, her dark eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Then, with a graceful turn, she moved past the counter and toward the door.

“Wait here,” she said simply.

Cressida watched as she stepped outside, her movements unhurried but purposeful. Through the small window, she could see the driver and footmen standing by the carriage, their postures stiff with impatience.

The woman approached them, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She spoke softly, her words too quiet for Cressida to hear. The driver’s brow furrowed at first, his lips parting as if to argue, but the woman placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression calm but commanding.

The footmen exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes darting between the woman and the driver. Whatever she was saying, it was enough to quell their resistance. Slowly, the driver nodded, tipping his hat in acquiescence.

When the woman returned to the shop, her expression was serene, as if the exchange had been of no consequence. “It’s done,” she said simply. “They’ll say nothing. You’re free to go.”

Cressida blinked, her mind racing. “What did you tell them?”

The woman’s smile deepened, though it remained enigmatic. “The truth,” she said, her tone light but impenetrable.

“The truth?” Cressida pressed, her voice tinged with suspicion and worry.

“That you have chosen a different path,” the woman replied. “And that it is not their concern, nor will they stand in the way.”

The simplicity of the statement struck Cressida like a blow. It was so matter-of-fact, so self-assured. And yet, it had worked. But was it really that simple? Was that really all it took?

She swallowed hard, her throat dry as she tried to push the doubt away. “And they won’t tell anyone?”

“They gave me their word,” the woman said. “And they will keep it.”

Cressida wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or unnerved by how easily the situation had been handled. But the woman’s calm demeanor was infectious, and slowly, the knot of tension in her chest began to loosen.

“There is one condition though. You’ll need to leave your belongings,” the woman continued, gesturing toward the shop’s back door. “Bring only what you can carry. The rest will return to London with them.”

Cressida hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the carriage outside. Her trunks, her gowns, the remnants of her old life—they would all be left behind. But wasn’t that the point?

She nodded, her decision made. “All right.”

“My name is Ophelia, by the way,” The woman smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “Come, then. There is much to do.”

Cressida followed her, the weight of the past slowly peeling away with every step. For the first time in months, she felt as though she could breathe.

Chapter Text

The shop felt different in the light of a new day. As the morning sun struggled through the thick Welsh mist, Cressida stood in the center of the main room, turning slowly to take it all in. She had seen it yesterday, briefly, but now it was hers—or at least, she was part of it.

It was a curious space, deceptively small from the outside but cavernous within. Shelves climbed the walls, crammed with objects that defied categorization: silver chalices tarnished with age, vials of unidentifiable powders and liquids, miniature sculptures of animals carved from ivory or bone. The light was dim, mostly provided by oil lamps that gave off a warm, golden glow, though shadows seemed to gather in corners stubbornly untouched by their flickering light.

It was exactly the kind of place her mother would turn her nose up at. The kind that her father would forbid her from going to. She liked it. 

Cressida ran her fingers over the edge of the counter, its surface worn smooth by time and countless hands. A delicate, herbal scent hung in the air—lavender, yes, but something sharper beneath it. Something she couldn’t name.

“This place is…” she began, searching for the right word.

“Strange?” Ophelia supplied, stepping out from behind a curtain that led to the back room. She was carrying a small tray of tea, steam curling from the spout of the pot like a lazy cat stretching in the sun.

“Yes,” Cressida admitted, though she felt foolish saying it aloud. “Not that that’s a bad thing. I quite like it.”

Ophelia smirked, setting the tray down on a small table near the window. “You’ll grow used to it,” she said. “Eventually, it will feel as though it’s always been a part of you.”

The words sent a shiver down Cressida’s spine, though she couldn’t say why. This woman is odd, but not in a bad way. Slightly unsettling, yes. But not in a way that scared Cressida. 

“Now come, let’s have some tea and I’ll tell you more of what you’ll be doing for the day.” 

Her first task was inventory.

Ophelia handed her a worn leather ledger, its pages filled with columns of neat handwriting that listed the shop’s stock. “We’ll start you off with something simple,” Ophelia said, her tone light but her eyes watchful.

Simple was not how Cressida would describe it. Each item seemed more baffling than the last. She had obviously not had a job before, and she said as much. But Ophelia was patient, so long as Cressida did her best to learn. 

There were the straightforward pieces: pocket watches, candlesticks, a collection of old books whose spines were cracked and titles nearly illegible. But there were also stranger things—a set of wooden dice that felt oddly warm in her palm, a jar of something that looked like sand but glittered faintly in the low light, and a small music box that, when opened, played a tune so hauntingly beautiful it brought tears to her eyes.

“Don’t wind that too often,” Ophelia said from across the room, her voice sharp enough to startle Cressida.

“Why not?”

Ophelia didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the music box for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Because some things are best left to their purpose,” she said at last, and something told Cressida that she shouldn't question it further. “You will learn that not everything in this shop is what it seems.”

The first customer arrived just after midday.

The bell above the door jingled softly, and Cressida looked up to see a man in a long coat step inside. He was older, with a weathered face and a nervous energy that made him glance over his shoulder before fully entering. His eyes darted around the shop as if searching for something—or someone.

“Good afternoon,” Ophelia said smoothly, stepping out from behind the counter. Her presence was commanding yet somehow soothing, and the man’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the sound of her voice.

“I… I’ve come about the box,” he stammered, his voice low. He had obviously been there before.

Ophelia nodded, her expression calm but serious. “You have it with you?”

The man produced a small, wooden box from inside his coat, holding it as if it might shatter in his hands. He placed it carefully on the counter, his fingers trembling.

“I need it fixed,” he said. “It’s… it’s not working like it should.”

Ophelia regarded the box for a moment before nodding. “Leave it with me. I’ll have it ready by week’s end.”

The man hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but then he simply nodded and hurried out, the door swinging shut behind him.

Cressida stared after him, her curiosity burning. “What was that about?” she asked.

“None of your concern,” Ophelia replied without looking at her, though not unkindly.

“But—”

“Curiosity is a dangerous habit, Miss Cowper,” Ophelia said, her voice sharp. Then, more gently: “You’re to follow my instructions and observe for now.”

Cressida bit back her retort, her frustration simmering before eventually giving a nod in understanding. 

By the end of the day, Cressida’s head was spinning. She sat on the narrow bed in her new room upstairs, staring out the window at the quiet village below. It was considerably smaller than the one she had in London, but she would not complain. She’s just grateful that she was given her own space. 

The sun had long since set, and the street was bathed in silvery moonlight. A single lamp burned at the edge of the square, casting long shadows that danced across the cobblestones. Maybe one of these days, Ophelia would let her explore the village. 

But for tonight, she let her thoughts consume her. She couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the box, about the way he had looked at Ophelia as though she were his last hope. What sort of shop was this? And what kind of woman was Ophelia, to inspire such trust in strangers?

The questions buzzed in her mind, insistent and unrelenting. But there were no answers—not yet. She was told to be patient and it seems that she had no choice but to do so. 

She climbed under the quilt, her body exhausted but her mind restless. Outside, the wind whispered against the window, carrying with it the faint sound of distant laughter—or perhaps it was just her imagination.

As sleep finally claimed her, one thought lingered, heavy and unshakable: she had left one cage behind, but had she simply stepped into another?

—

Weeks passed, though the exact number eluded Cressida. The days blended into one another in a rhythm that was both comforting and disorienting.

She had learned the nuances of the shop—how to navigate its crowded shelves without disturbing the delicate balance of its contents, how to read Ophelia’s moods through the slight shifts in her tone or expression, and how to interact with the steady trickle of peculiar customers.

There were the quiet ones, who spoke in hushed tones and left as quickly as they came. There were the desperate ones, whose trembling hands betrayed their need for whatever Ophelia could offer. And there were the skeptical ones, who lingered a bit too long, their eyes darting between Ophelia and the strange wares, as though trying to unravel a mystery they didn’t understand. Cressida could relate to them more often than not. 

She observed them all, careful to keep her own questions at bay. But her curiosity grew stronger with each passing day.

It was during one quiet afternoon, while she was polishing a brass candlestick at the counter, that her thoughts drifted back to Mayfair. 

It always began with her family.

Did they even realize she was gone? Had the driver or the footmen told them the truth? Did her Aunt Joanna inquire about her whereabouts? 

Her father had been so quick to send her away after the scandal, his voice cold and sharp as he dictated her fate. Her mother said she’d find a way to help her, but did she mean it? 

Did they even care that she was gone? Were they relieved that she had vanished, that the problem she had become had simply disappeared? Or had there been a moment, however brief, where they had panicked, wondering where she’d gone, if she was safe?

Perhaps they had searched for her. Hired investigators. Posted inquiries. Or perhaps they had simply moved on, content to forget the daughter who had caused them nothing but trouble and embarrassment.

The thought twisted in her chest, a sharp pang that she couldn’t shake.

And then there was Eloise.

One evening, while sorting through a box of new items for the shop, Cressida found herself lingering over a set of quills. They were beautiful—delicate and sleek, with feathered tips dyed in shades of black and gold.

Eloise had always loved reading, sure, but Cressida knew that she wasn’t one to shy away from annotating the books she read, filling pages with her thoughts, her observations, her fiery opinions. She’d appreciate a good quill. 

Cressida picked one of them up, running her fingers along its smooth length. If she concentrated hard enough, she could still hear Eloise’s laughter echoing in her mind, soft and fleeting.

The memories of their brief friendship were clearer than she liked to admit.

It had started after Eloise’s falling out with Penelope. Cressida hadn’t expected to find herself in her company that summer, but Eloise had been so... lost. The sharp-tongued, fiercely independent Bridgerton had stumbled into her life like a bird with a broken wing, and for a time, Cressida had sincerely tried to be a better person. To be a friend.

It wasn’t a friendship in the traditional sense. But there had been understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of their mutual isolation at the start until they became more acquainted. 

Cressida had been surprised by how much she had enjoyed it. The long walks through the countryside. The afternoons spent debating novels or criticizing the latest ballgown trends. Eloise had a wit that was both cutting and endearing, and Cressida had found herself laughing more in those weeks than she had in years.

But it hadn’t lasted.

The guilt crept in like a shadow, darkening even the fondest of memories.

She should never have claimed to be Lady Whistledown. At the time, it had seemed like a brilliant idea—a way to regain her footing, to reclaim some semblance of control over her life. But it had been a lie, and worse, it had been a betrayal.

The things her mother had written about the Bridgertons, about Eloise’s family... they haunted her despite signing off on it. She hadn’t meant for it to go so far, but the damage had been done in the end.

And whatever fragile bond they had built, and the weight of that failure sat heavily on Cressida’s chest.

She wondered if Eloise thought of her now, if she ever reflected on their friendship. Did she hate her? Pity her? Had she heard that she was gone?

Would she ever forgive her?

She never got a chance to ask. Cressida doubted it. She wasn’t even sure she could forgive herself.

Cressida shook her head, banishing the thought of Eloise. It didn’t matter. Eloise was part of the life she had left behind, and there was no use dwelling on it.

It wasn’t long until Ophelia came and handed her a cup of tea before sitting by the fireplace in the small parlor behind the shop.

“You seem quieter than usual,” Ophelia observed, her dark eyes flicking to Cressida over the rim of her own cup.

Cressida hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. Ophelia had never pried into her past, but her silence often felt heavier than any direct question.

“I was just... thinking about London,” Cressida admitted finally. “About my family.”

Ophelia nodded, her expression understanding. “It’s natural to think of what you’ve left behind,” she said. “But getting lost in the past won’t serve you any good now.”

Cressida frowned, her fingers tightening around the porcelain cup. “It’s not that simple,” she said. “You can’t just erase years of expectations, of—”

“Pain?” Ophelia interjected gently.

Cressida looked away, the word hanging between them like a specter.

Ophelia leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. “The past has its place, dear girl. But don’t let it tether you. You’re here now, and here is where you must decide who you are.”

The words settled over her like a blanket, heavy but warm. She didn’t respond, but something in Ophelia’s tone stayed with her long after they had gone to bed.

—

And as the weeks turned into months, Cressida began to notice things she hadn’t before.

The way certain items in the shop seemed to hum faintly when touched. The way customers always left looking lighter, as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. And the way Ophelia always seemed to know exactly what they needed, even when they couldn’t articulate it themselves.

There was a quiet power in the shop, a current that ran beneath the surface, just out of reach.

Cressida didn’t know what to make of it. But for the first time in a long while, she felt a spark of curiosity, of possibility.

Perhaps this place wasn’t a cage after all.

Chapter Text

London, 2019

The bell above the shop door jingled, its sound sharp and clear against the quiet hum of the morning.

Cressida didn’t look up at first. She stood behind the counter, absently polishing the glass of a display case that held an assortment of antique jewelry. The shop was quiet, as it often was in these early hours, the sounds of the city outside muffled by the thick, leaded windows.

The shop was newly opened, its shelves lined with carefully curated artifacts: brass compasses, delicate silver hairpins, pocket watches that ticked faintly in the silence, and countless other items. Each piece had been chosen with care, their history tangible, even if their stories were only half-remembered.

It wasn’t Mayfair, but it was London, and it was hers.

“Good morning,” a voice said, casual but clear. “I’m looking for a gift for my mother.”

The words weren’t unusual. Neither was the request. But something about the voice made Cressida pause, her hands going still over the display. There was something about the voice—its cadence, its tone—that sent a ripple of unease through her. She looked up slowly.

The woman at the door was rummaging through her handbag, her brow furrowed as she muttered something under her breath about misplaced lists. Her coat, a deep navy wool, hung open to reveal a simple sweater and jeans, her scarf loosely draped around her neck.

Ordinary. She looked entirely ordinary.

But then the woman straightened, and their eyes met. And for a moment, the world seemed to tilt sideways.

The display cloth slipped from Cressida’s fingers, falling to the counter as her breath caught in her throat. The air felt heavy, pressing against her chest as her mind struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. She knew that face—the piercing blue eyes, the defiance etched into the corners of her mouth, the gaze that seemed to want to unravel every thought in her head.

Eloise.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

It had been over two centuries since she’d last seen Eloise Bridgerton. Since she’d been exiled by her family and the Ton and all the tangled threads of her old life in Mayfair. Way back in 1815.

She’s dead, Cressida thought. She has to be.

The Eloise lookalike’s expression mirrored her own. She stared at Cressida as though she were seeing a ghost, her hand frozen mid-search in her bag. Her lips parted, but no words came.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Neither of them moved. For a moment, Cressida thought she might faint. 

“I’m sorry,” Not-Eloise said suddenly, breaking the tension as she snapped her bag shut. “It’s been a long morning. Do you have anything... unique? Something elegant but not too fussy?”

The words were so ordinary, so mundane, that for a moment, Cressida wondered if she had imagined the flicker of recognition in Faux-Eloise’s eyes. She forced herself to smile and nod, though her hands trembled as she placed the display cloth aside.

“Of course,” she said, her voice coming out steadier than she felt. “I believe I have just the thing.”

Cressida stepped around the counter, gesturing to a nearby display of brooches. They gleamed under the soft glow of the shop’s lamps. “These are one of a kind,” she said, her tone polite but distant. “Handcrafted and elegant.”

Fake Eloise stepped closer, her gaze flickering over the brooches but returning frequently to Cressida. It felt like a game of cat and mouse—both of them studying the other while pretending not to.

Cressida reached for the brooch the Eloise doppelganger had been eyeing, her movements slow and deliberate. “I think you should get this one,” she said, holding it out. She couldn’t help but envision Violet Bridgerton wearing it. “Simple, but striking.”

Maybe-Eloise took it, her fingers brushing against Cressida’s for the briefest moment. Cressida had to stop herself from being transported back to a time when the touch was so easily recognizable. 

“I’ll take it,” Eloise 2.0 said quickly, as though eager to end the interaction. She pulled out a credit card and handed it over.

Cressida’s fingers hesitated as she took the card, her eyes flickering to the name embossed on its surface. But no matter how subtly she did it, she couldn’t quite get a good read at the name. She just needed something— anything, that confirmed that this wasn’t actually Eloise Bridgerton. 

The machine beeped, and Cressida returned the card with a smile that felt as fragile as glass. “Would you like a receipt?”

Off-Brand Eloise nodded, her gaze flicking to the counter as Cressida printed the slip. Her eyes lingered on the bottom of the receipt, where the cashier’s name was usually printed but found none. 

“Thank you,” Pseudo-Eloise said, folding the receipt and tucking it into her coat pocket. She hesitated, her lips pressing together as though debating whether to say more. “Sorry, do you have a name?”

Cressida’s heart skipped, the question striking like a challenge. She hesitated only for a moment. “Ophelia,” she said smoothly, the lie slipping easily from her lips. It was just one of the many names she had used over the years, a shield against the questions she could never answer. “Lia, actually.”

Almost-Eloise’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile showing. “Lovely name,” she said.

Cressida inclined her head, her own smile brittle and thin. “And you?”

The Eloise Wannabe paused, her expression guarded. “Emma,” she said finally, her tone unreadable.

So definitely not my Eloise. Cressida thought. Good. I don’t need her here. 

The exchange was almost comical in its transparency. Two strangers pretending not to recognize one another. Two liars offering false names in the hope of avoiding the impossible.

“Anyway, thanks for your assistance. You have a lovely shop. I’ll keep it in mind for next time.” 

She turned around and Cressida watched as she left, the bell jingling softly behind her as the door closed. Cressida just stood there for a long moment, her hands gripping the counter as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Emma,” she murmured under her breath, tasting the name with quiet disbelief. Was that just a coincidence? Or had she just seen a ghost? 

She knows firsthand; stranger things have happened.

Chapter Text

Blackwood, 1815

“Pack up, child. The shop is closing.”

Cressida nearly dropped the stack of books she was cataloging, her heart lurching at the suddenness of Ophelia’s words. She turned sharply, finding Ophelia leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed and a faint smile playing on her lips.

“What?” Cressida blurted, her voice tinged with alarm. “Closing? What do you mean ‘closing’? Why?”

Ophelia arched an eyebrow, amused by her reaction. “Exactly what I said. The shop is closing.”

Cressida’s heart sank. Her mind immediately raced to the worst possibilities—Ophelia had grown tired of her, decided to go somewhere without her, or even worse, thought she should return to her family.

Cressida stared at her, trying to reconcile the calmness in Ophelia’s demeanor with the panic rising in her chest. “I... I don’t understand,” she stammered. “Are you leaving me behind? Where am I supposed to go? I can’t—Am I supposed to crawl back to my parents—or worse, Aunt Joanna?”

Ophelia’s amused expression softened slightly, and she shook her head. “Good heavens, child, no.” She chuckled softly, the sound light and unbothered. “You wound me with those questions, dear. I’d never abandon you to such a fate.”

The panic in Cressida’s chest lessened, but she was no less confused. 

“You didn’t think this was where we’d settle forever, did you?” Ophelia asked lightly, pushing off the doorframe and strolling further into the room. Her tone was teasing, but her words carried a weight that made Cressida’s chest tighten.

“I don’t know,” Cressida said, her voice faltering. “I never thought about it.”

“Well, we’re moving,” Ophelia said simply. “I’ve been running shops like this for far longer than you’ve been alive. Every few or so years, it’s good to pack up and go somewhere new. Staying in one place too long isn’t good for this type of business. Things grow stale, customers stop coming or grow too reliant. It’s important to keep things fresh—for the shop and for ourselves. Besides,” she added, glancing around the shop with a practiced eye, “this place has grown stagnant.”

“So we’re just... leaving?” Cressida asked, still trying to process the sudden news. “Just like that?”

“Precisely,” Ophelia said with a smile. “It will do you some good, this change. And I’ve already chosen our next destination: St. Ives.”

Cressida frowned, the name unfamiliar. “St. Ives? Where is that?”

“Cornwall,” Ophelia said with a small smile. “A charming seaside town. I think you’ll like it.”

Cressida hesitated, torn between apprehension and the faint flicker of excitement at the thought of getting to travel somewhere new. “But what about this place?” she asked, gesturing to the shop around them.

“We pack up everything worth taking, lock the door behind us, and let it go,” Ophelia said simply. “It’s just a building, Cressida. The magic is what we bring to it.”

-

The days leading up to their departure were a whirlwind of activity.

Cressida threw herself into the task of dismantling the shop, carefully wrapping fragile items in layers of fabric and paper, organizing the stock into crates, and labeling each one with meticulous precision. She may never have had a job before this, and it was surely tiring work, but she’d grown to love it.

 Ophelia worked alongside her, packing with an efficiency that spoke of years of practice while making sure to give Cressida all her tips and tricks. 

When the shop was finally emptied, its once-vibrant shelves standing bare, Cressida felt an unexpected pang of sadness. It wasn’t the building itself she mourned, but the months of memories it held—the moments of discovery, the countless hours of being taught what to do and how to do them, the quiet evenings spent laughing with Ophelia, the sense of belonging she had found here.

Ophelia must have noticed her expression because she placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You’ll find new memories wherever we end up,” she said softly. “Ones that are just as precious, if not more so.”

Cressida nods, letting out a slow breath before smiling softly. 

–

The journey began a week later on a clear spring morning, the shop carefully dismantled and its contents packed into crates and trunks. The wagons were heavy with their collection—boxes of books, trinkets, and curiosities piled high, each one wrapped meticulously to ensure safe passage.

At first, Cressida had been apprehensive, getting into the carriage and watching as the familiar streets of the village faded into the distance. But as the days turned into weeks, and the road stretched before them like a promise, her apprehension gave way to something she hadn’t felt in a long time: excitement.

The road to Cornwall was long and winding, taking them through bustling towns and quiet hamlets, past rolling hills and dense forests. Each stop along the way was an adventure—a chance to explore, to meet new people, and to add to their collection.

It was in one such village, small and unassuming, nestled in a green valley, that they came across the dagger.

—

Along the many roads, Ophelia had taken it upon herself to teach Cressida all that she knew about trading, buying, and selling. It had never been a subject that Cressida took interest in but now that she has embraced her new life, she soaked up every lesson that she was taught. 

She went from being patient and observing to actually being up front and speaking to people, grateful that Ophelia trusts her with such tasks now. They had been in the village for a day and were ready to depart again when they entered one last shop. 

The blacksmith’s shop smelled of smoke and iron, its walls lined with tools and half-finished projects. But among the clutter, one piece stood out. Ophelia had told her that they could find the best pieces in shops like that, and of course, she was right. 

Cressida saw it first, her eyes drawn to the blade like a moth to flame. The dagger was exquisite—its handle carved with intricate floral patterns that seemed to shimmer under the dim light. The blade itself was flawless, its edge sharp and gleaming, with a Latin inscription etched delicately along its length.

“What does it say?” Cressida asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ophelia stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied the inscription, making a mental note to teach Cressida how to read Latin down the road. “ Tempus omnia revelat, ” she said softly. “Time reveals all things.”

Cressida reached out, her fingers brushing against the hilt. The moment she touched it, a strange sensation rippled through her—a sense of familiarity, as though the blade had been waiting there for her all this time.

“This is special,” she murmured.

Ophelia glanced at her, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “And here I thought you weren’t one for weapons. Have you met someone who’d be interested in buying it?”

“No, this will not be for sale,” Cressida shook her head. “And it is not just a weapon. It’s... it’s something more. I can't explain it but there’s... something.”

Ophelia raised her eyebrows but didn’t argue. “Then it is yours,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for questions or argument. It was rare to feel such a connection like that, and she wouldn’t take it away from Cressida. 

Cressida carried the dagger carefully back to the carriage, holding it as though it were a treasure. And to her, it was. The blade caught the sunlight, glinting like something out of a dream.

—

After many months on the road, they finally reached St. Ives. 

The journey was long but filled with moments that Cressida would carry with her forever.

And then, at last, there it was—the sea.

It stretched out before them, an endless expanse of blue stretched to the horizon, the waves shimmering under the golden sunlight. The salty breeze filled Cressida’s lungs, and she felt an ache in her chest—a longing she hadn’t realized was there.

The sight of it stole Cressida’s breath away. “I’ve never seen the ocean before,” she said softly, her voice thick with wonder.

Ophelia stood beside her, watching her with a small, knowing smile. “Then go,” she nods towards the water.

Cressida didn’t hesitate. She kicked off her shoes and stepped onto the warm sand, the grains soft beneath her feet. The waves lapped at her ankles as she waded into the shallows, her dress billowing around her legs and the cool water sending a shiver up her spine.

She tilted her head back, the sun warming her face as the breeze tousled her hair. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled—a real, unguarded smile that lit up her entire being.

Ophelia watched her from the shore, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. “You’ll do just fine here, Miss Cowper,” she said quietly. "You'll be just fine."

–

The new Ophelia’s Oddities was set up along a cobblestone street just a short walk from the sea. The building was small but charming, its windows opening onto the salty breeze.

For Cressida, it was a new kind of freedom—a chance to start fresh, to explore, to live. And for the first time in her life, she felt truly free.

St. Ives, 1822

The shop was unusually quiet one morning, the air thick with the stillness that only came during the rare lulls between customers. The faint scent of lavender and beeswax lingered in the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea breeze that wafted through the open window.

Cressida sat behind the counter, the dagger she so treasured resting in her lap as she polished its gleaming surface with practiced care. She traced the intricate floral carvings along the handle with her thumb, her mind far from the task at hand.

The year was 1822.

Several years had passed since she found herself in the company of Ophelia. She came there a wide-eyed girl with little more than her pride and a battered sense of self-worth. And now, she could scarcely recognize the person she had been back then.

The dagger caught the sunlight streaming through the window, the Latin inscription shimmering faintly: Tempus omnia revelat. Time reveals all things.

Today, of all days, the words felt heavy with meaning.

It was the anniversary of her friendship with Eloise. Or what had been her friendship.

Cressida sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around the dagger’s hilt. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop the memories from surfacing—those fleeting moments of laughter, the shared secrets, and the sharp end to it all. She remembers them every year. 

“Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath, though the bitterness in her tone was directed at herself. Why did she still cling to these memories? Why did she let them linger like a ghost haunting the corners of her mind?

The answer, she supposed, was simple. Eloise had been the first person to see her for who she was, beyond the façade she wore in Mayfair. And even though she had ruined that connection with her lies, the bond they had shared had left a mark. 

She sometimes wondered if Eloise still thought of her. Had she gotten married, or had she had her way in the end and resigned herself to a lifetime of spinsterhood? Is Eloise still angry with her, of lies and the words she let her mother write about the Bridgertons? 

Lost in her thoughts, Cressida didn’t notice the newest employee of the shop, a beautiful black cat, leap gracefully onto her lap until it was too late.

The sudden weight startled her, and the dagger slipped from her hands.

She reached out instinctively to catch it, her fingers brushing against the blade as it fell. Then, a sharp, searing pain shot through her palm, and she let out a gasp as the dagger clattered to the floor.

The pain was blinding at first, radiating up her arm as she crumpled to her knees. Blood welled from the deep gash in her hand, pooling on the wooden floor beneath her.

“Damn it,” she hissed, cradling her injured hand against her chest, uncaring if she stained her clothes with her blood.

The cat meowed softly, its yellow eyes fixed on her with an almost unsettling intensity as it swished its fluffy tail over the floor. 

Cressida closed her eyes, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she tried to will the pain away. But then, as quickly as it had come, the pain began to fade.

She opened her eyes and stared in disbelief as the torn skin along her palm began to knit itself back together. The blood slowed, then stopped, and within moments, the wound had vanished entirely, leaving behind only a faint pink scar.

Cressida sat back on her heels, her chest heaving as she stared at her hand. The scar was warm to the touch, as if the memory of the wound still lingered just beneath the surface.

She looked down at the dagger, its blade glinting innocently on the floor, stained with her blood.

“What the hell was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

–

The shop was eerily quiet the next morning, the usual hum of life outside muffled by the thick coastal fog.

Cressida couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the dagger, now safely tucked away in its glass case. Always on display, but never for sale. Her thumb brushed absently against the scar on her palm, the memory of the previous day replaying in her mind like a haunting refrain.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice Ophelia enter the room until the older woman’s voice broke through her reverie.

“You’ve been awfully quiet this morning,” Ophelia observed, her tone light but tinged with curiosity. “And you’re staring at that dagger as if it’s going to sprout legs and walk away. Care to share what’s been eating at you?”

Cressida jumped, startled by Ophelia’s voice. The older woman stood in the doorway, a steaming cup of tea in her hand, her expression calm but curious. “I... it’s nothing,” she said quickly, though her words lacked conviction.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp as she set her cup down on the counter. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lying,” she said. “Spill it. Or you know I’ll keep pestering until you do.”

Cressida hesitated, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. But the weight of the secret was too much to bear alone. “Fine,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yesterday, while you were out, I... I cut myself.”

Ophelia’s brow furrowed slightly, already knowing it wouldn’t have been on purpose. “And? I didn’t think you’d be the type to be scared of their own blood.”

“It’s not the blood,” Cressida swallowed hard, her fingers tightening into fists. “It just… it healed. Right in front of me. One moment I was bleeding, and the next, it was just... gone.”

Ophelia didn’t respond immediately. She picked up her tea and took a slow sip, her dark eyes studying Cressida over the rim of the cup.

Cressida continued, if only to fill the silence. “I don’t know what it means,” she said quietly. “But it’s… I don’t know. Should I be scared? I feel like I should be panicking more.”

“Show me,” Ophelia said finally.

Cressida hesitated but extended her hand, palm up. The faint pink scar was still visible, a reminder of the impossible event she had witnessed.

Ophelia leaned closer, her gaze sharp and assessing. “Interesting,” she murmured.

“That’s all you have to say?” Cressida asked, her voice rising with frustration. “I just watched my hand heal itself! That’s not normal, Ophelia! Am I just cracked? Is that it?”

“You’re not cracked,” Ophelia chuckles softly, shaking her head “But you’re right, it’s not normal. But it’s not entirely unheard of, either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Ophelia said, her tone ever patient, “that you’re not the first person to encounter something... unusual. And given where we are and what we do, I’m not entirely surprised that something happened. It was only a matter of time, really.”

Cressida blinked, taken aback. “Matter of time? And what do you mean ‘what we do’? We sell oddities.”

Ophelia smiled, her tone turning practical, “I think it’s time you learned more about the shop. About the things we sell—and the things we don’t.”

Cressida frowned. “Maybe you’re the one who’s cracked.”

The older woman throws her head back, laughing. She smiled faintly after, the kind of smile that hinted at secrets long kept. “Close up shop for the day. There’s much to explain.”

–

Cressida followed Ophelia into the back room, a space she was told not to go into if not strictly necessary. Not that she really minded, she had always thought of it as little more than storage for the more delicate things they sold. But as Ophelia lit the lamps, the room seemed to come alive.

Shelves lined the walls, crammed with objects that ranged from the mundane to the extraordinary: jars of herbs, small bottles filled with shimmering liquids, talismans carved from wood and bone. A large, battered ledger sat on a desk in the corner, its pages yellowed with age and covered in looping script.

“This,” Ophelia said, gesturing to the room around them, “is the heart of the shop. It’s where I keep the things that are... less ordinary.”

Cressida stared, her mouth dry. “You mean... magical?”

“I've always preferred the term ‘mystical’,” Ophelia winked. “But some of them, yes. Not everything you see here is enchanted, but enough of it is. A charm to improve a farmer’s crop yield, a talisman to ward off nightmares, a bottle of water from a spring said to heal minor ailments. Small things, mostly. Harmless, if used properly.”

“And the people who buy them?”

Ophelia smiled faintly. “Mostly ordinary folk looking for a little help. A farmer worried about his harvest before the winter, a mother desperate to cure her child’s fever, a young woman seeking protection from an unwelcome suitor. They come to me because they know I can provide them with what they need.”

Cressida frowned. “But you’re not... you’re not magical. Or are you?”

“Heavens no,” Ophelia said, shaking her head. “I’m not. But I know the right people. Witches, alchemists, hedge magicians. People who create these things, who understand how they work. I’m just the middleman—or middlewoman, I suppose. I bring the magical and the mundane together. And now, you do too.”

Cressida’s gaze drifted to a small glass vial filled with a silvery liquid. She wondered if she’d sprout wings if she consumed it. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Ophelia sighed, leaning against the desk. “Because I didn’t think you needed to know. Not yet. This shop has always been a balance—a place for curiosities, both ordinary and extraordinary. You’ve done well with the ordinary side of things. I didn’t want to overwhelm you with the rest.”

Cressida looked down at her scarred palm, her mind spinning. “And the dagger?”

Ophelia’s expression darkened slightly. “That,” she said carefully, “is something I don’t fully understand. The dagger itself isn’t that old, maybe only a few decades. But it’s old magic, I know as much. Especially with how drawn you were to it. You were right to keep it off the shelves.”

Cressida felt a chill run down her spine. “So what does this mean for me?”

Ophelia reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Cressida’s shoulder. “It means we take things one step at a time,” she said. “Whatever this is, whatever it means, we’ll face it together.”

Cressida exhaled shakily, the tension in her chest easing slightly at Ophelia’s words. Right. She wasn’t alone in anything. Not anymore. 

Chapter Text

London, 2019

Across town, Eloise paced her flat, her hands moving restlessly as she talked to herself.

“It’s ridiculous,” she muttered, stopping in front of her bookshelf. She ran her fingers along the spines without really seeing them. “There’s no way it’s her.”

But the thought refused to leave her.

Lia’s face had haunted her dreams every night since their encounter. She had woken up more than once, her heart pounding, convinced that she was back in Mayfair. Back in a world where Cressida Cowper had been part of her life.

But Lia wasn’t Cressida. The idea was absurd. And yet, Eloise couldn’t stop replaying their brief interaction, searching for clues.

Was it the shape of her smile? The way she tilted her head when she spoke? Or was it something deeper—an instinct she couldn’t quite name but couldn’t dismiss either?

Eloise let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m overthinking this,” she said aloud, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s not her, end of story.”

And yet she couldn’t stop her eyes drifted to her handbag, where the receipt from her first purchase  was tucked away. Some things never really change, and one of those things is her relentless need to know something once she sets her mind to it. So before she could stop herself, she grabbed her coat and keys.

And that’s how she found herself sitting in her car on the other side of town, the engine idling as she stared at the small shop across the street. The sign above the door read Ophelia’s Oddities, its faded script curling like tendrils of ivy. The sight of it made her chest tighten with anxiety, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation swirling in her mind.

It had been over a week since her first visit, and while she managed to talk herself into driving all the way there, she was still thinking about whether or not it was a good idea to go inside. She just couldn’t get the shopkeeper—Lia, she had called herself—out of her head.

It wasn’t just the uncanny resemblance to Cressida, someone who Eloise had long ago resigned to memory. But it wasn’t just her face. It was the way she spoke, the way she carried herself. The sharp, measured way her words fell, always polite but somehow guarded. It was the way the Cressida lookalike had looked at her, the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes, like she, too, was struggling to make sense of it.

It felt like stepping back in time.

“Lia,” Eloise muttered to herself, leaning back in her seat and staring at the front of the shop. “Who are you, really?”

Eloise shook her head, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “This is stupid,” she muttered to herself. “There’s no way she’s... her. She’s probably some very, very distant relative I’ve never heard of. Yeah. Probably just a great-niece five times removed or something equally absurd. Or maybe they just happen to look alike. People say everyone has a doppelganger.”

The logic didn’t help.

The more she thought about it, the more questions piled up. She needed answers, even if those answers turned out to be the most simple of explanations that it just went over her head. 

She groaned and dropped her head onto the steering wheel. And when she closed her eyes, she saw Cressida’s face. The way her fingers had trembled ever so slightly as she handed over the brooch. The way her polite smile faltered for the briefest moment when their eyes met.

It had been years since Eloise had allowed herself to think about Cressida Cowper. The girl who had been both an enemy and a friend, a strange blend of admiration, guilt, and regret wrapped into one person.

She thought she had left all of that behind. It’s quite literally been centuries. And yet here she was, agonizing over a woman who for all she knew, could just be some random person who didn’t know her at all. 

She sighs heavily and lifts her head, digging into her coat pocket to look at the receipt for the shop. “You’ve got this.” She muttered to herself before grabbing her keys and bag, stepped out of the car, and crossed the street. 

–

The bell chimed softly as Eloise stepped into the shop, the familiar scent of lavender and aged wood wrapping around her like a cloak.

Cressida—or Lia, whatever her actual name is —stood behind the counter, her expression perfectly composed. But Eloise noticed the way her hands stilled on the ledger she was writing in, the brief flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

“Morning,” Eloise said, her voice deliberately casual. 

“Good morning,” Cressida felt her chest tighten, though she forced her voice to be steady. Of course she had come back. Why wouldn’t she? “Back for another brooch or is there something else I can help you with?

Eloise hesitated, her mind scrambling for an excuse. She hadn’t planned this far ahead. What excuse could she give for coming back? For all the time she spent thinking whether or not she should go into the shop, she spent none on why she was there in the first place. 

“My sister,” she began, searching for words. “She needs a replacement part for her piano. It’s… old. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check here, antiques and all. Would you happen to have something like that?”

Cressida’s heart raced, but she forced herself to smile. “I can take a look,” she said, not willing to just say no and have the Eloise lookalike leave empty-handed. But it would certainly be easier that way. “I can’t promise we’ll have exactly what you’re looking for, though.” 

Eloise nodded, stepping closer to the counter as Cressida or Lia or who the fuck ever, moved toward the shelves at the back of the shop. Her eyes darted over the woman, noting the way she moved with quiet confidence, her blonde hair pinned back neatly, her dress simple yet elegant. No puffy sleeves, but Eloise could envision it quite clearly. 

It’s not her, Eloise told herself firmly. But the thought did nothing to calm her.

Eloise took the opportunity to glance around the room. The shop was fascinating—filled with an eclectic mix of antiques, oddities, and curiosities. But her attention kept drifting back to the counter, to the spot where Cressida had been standing just moments before. 

It may not be her, but she’s… someone. Eloise thought, shaking her head and wondering what the hell had gotten into her. 

–

For Cressida, the days since Eloise’s—no, Emma’s —first visit had been a waking nightmare.

She had spent literal centuries mastering the art of composure, building walls so high and strong that even she couldn’t see over them. But the moment Eloise—this Emma— had walked through her door, those walls had begun to crack.

It wasn’t just the resemblance, though that alone was enough to set her heart racing. It was the way this Eloise looked at her, as if she were trying to peel back the layers and see the truth beneath.

And Cressida had no idea what she would do if she succeeded. She wished she could talk to Ophelia about it. 

So when the Eloise from this life returned, Cressida forced herself to remain calm. Her movements were steady as she retrieved a box of piano parts from the back room, her face a practiced mask of polite indifference. She mentioned a sister. Which sister of Eloise’s played the piano? Daphne, if memory serves her right. But so did Francesca. 

And it’s not like that mattered anyway. They were all dead. Right? 

But when Cressida handed over the parts and her fingers brushed against Eloise’s, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. If only for a moment. Neither acknowledged it though. In fact, it went a lot like last time. Handing over the credit card, printing the receipt, and the chime of the bell as Eloise exited the shop. 

–

Cressida thought she might be lucky after that. Lucky enough that she’d be left alone by the ghosts of her past. 

But by the end of the week, Eloise was back. Or, well, Emma. 

“My younger brother has this... unusual taste,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “He’s very into strange things right now. Gory books, horror stories, morbid things and all that. Do you have anything along those lines? Maybe an old anatomy book or something?”

Cressida tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into the faintest smile since she wouldn’t deny that this interaction amused her. Younger brother… could she mean Gregory? Or whoever it is that Emma has for a younger brother. 

“I might,” she said, nodding her head for Eloise to follow her. “You know, it’s not common for one person to come in here so often. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were casing the place for some nefarious reason.”

To Cressida’s amusement, Eloise actually snorted. “Do people still say words like ‘nefarious’? Besides, if I was a person who sought you harm, I wouldn’t be paying for your very overpriced items.”

“They’re vintage!” Cressida said in defense, though not actually offended. They both laugh at that, and for the first time since this Eloise came into her shop, Cressida feels at ease. 

Cressida eventually found what she was looking for. “Here, how’s this?” 

Eloise watched as Cressida retrieved a battered leather-bound book from a shelf, her movements precise. She handed it over without hesitation, her fingers brushing against Eloise’s briefly.

Eloise ignored the sudden jolt that ran up her arm as she flipped through the book, as if she was actually interested in its contents. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steadier than she ever felt since coming into the shop. “I suppose it’s time to pay for such a ridiculously expensive item now.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, and this time she smiled genuinely at the light teasing. 

And when the door chimed as Eloise walked out, Cressida actually looked forward to the next time she came in. 

–

It turns out, she didn’t have to wait for too long. Because three days later, Eloise was back again. 

Cressida smiled and waited for Elosie to come closer, wondering what reason Eloise had found to come in. Not that she minded. In all her worries, she forgot how fun it was to be around Eloise. So much so that it slipped her mind that this wasn’t actually Eloise. 

“Okay, so. My youngest sister is obsessed with mythical creatures right now,” she said once she was near the counter, two coffees in hand. “Do you have anything on unicorns or mermaids or hell, the loch ness? Not big foot though, she was very clear on that. Says it’s a sham.”

“Do you just think that I carry all those stuff in stock?” Cressida arched an eyebrow, amused. 

Eloise met her gaze head-on. “Don’t you?” 

Cressida couldn’t help but roll her eyes before sighing. “Fine, I do.” 

“I knew it,” Eloise grinned triumphantly before holding out one of the cups towards Cressida. “This is for you, by the way. It’s just black since I don’t know how you take your coffee but I stole a bunch of sugar and creams.” 

Cressida stared at the offered coffee, her hands instinctively reaching out to take it. For a moment, she said nothing, her mind scrambling for an appropriate response. This wasn’t something she had prepared for—Eloise offering her coffee, standing in her shop as if they were old friends. Perhaps they were. 

But that was in another lifetime. 

“Thank you,” Cressida said finally, her voice soft but steady. She set the cup on the counter, taking a glance at Eloise as she deposited the packets of sugar and cream. “You really did come prepared.”

Eloise shrugged, her grin unrepentant. “What can I say? I’m nothing if not considerate.”

“Considerate,” Cressida echoed, her lips twitching upward in a reluctant smile. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

She then busied herself with the task of rummaging through a nearby shelf, pulling out a slim, leather-bound volume titled Legends of the Loch.

“This should do,” she said, handing the book to Eloise.

Eloise took it with a small nod, flipping through the pages absentmindedly. “You really have something for everything, don’t you?”

“Almost everything,” Cressida replied. “You’d be surprised how often people ask for the oddest things.”

“Oddities in an oddities shop,” Eloise said lightly. “How fitting.”

There was something in her tone—a thread of curiosity that made Cressida pause. She glanced up, meeting Eloise’s gaze. For a brief moment, it felt like the air between them grew heavier, the weight of unspoken questions pressing down on them both.

Cressida cleared her throat, breaking the tension. “Will that be all for today?”

Eloise hesitated, her fingers brushing over the cover of the book. “For now,” she said, her voice quieter. “But I might have a reason to come back soon.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow. “Another sibling with a peculiar request?”

“Maybe,” Eloise said with a faint smile. “Or maybe I just like pestering you now. See if I can find something you don’t have.”

As Eloise paid for the book, her hand brushed against Cressida’s once more. It was brief, fleeting, but enough to send another jolt through both of them. Eloise ignored it, while Cressida turned to the register, her movements brisk and efficient.

“Thanks, Lia. I’ll see you next time.” Eloise said as she left, the bell chiming softly behind her.

Cressida stood motionless for a moment, her hand still resting on the counter. She exhaled slowly, her thoughts a tangled mess.

Later that night

Eloise sat on her sofa, the book unopened in her lap. Her flat was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of traffic outside.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Cressida—or Lia, or whoever she was. The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way her smile seemed to hide more than it revealed.

“It’s not her,” Eloise whispered to herself again, though the words rang hollow.

But if it wasn’t her, then why did it feel so much like stepping into the past every time she walked into that shop? She kept going back just to what? See if something else sparks? It’s not like she can just ask hey, are you Cressida Cowper from Mayfair back in the 1800s?

Eloise shakes her head before pulling a cushion over her face and groaning. 

–

For Cressida, the unease lingered long after Eloise left. She found herself sitting by the window of her flat above the shop, the untouched cup of coffee still on the table beside her, having gone cold long ago.

She looked out at the city lights, her mind filled with memories she had spent lifetimes trying to forget.

It wasn’t her . It couldn’t be.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Eloise—about the girl she had once known, the friendship they had shared, and the way it had all fallen apart. And now here she was, faced with a woman who was both a stranger and a mirror to her past.

And yet, as she traced the rim of the coffee cup with her finger, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her past was catching up to her in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

Chapter Text

St. Ives, 1827

The years slipped by with the ease of a tide retreating from the shore. St. Ives became home, though never permanent—a place of fleeting familiarity that Ophelia and Cressida knew they would eventually leave behind. 

The shop welcomed a quiet stream of customers, a mix of curious locals and the occasional traveler drawn by its peculiar reputation. For Cressida, the simplicity was a balm. She no longer craved the lavish excesses of her former life—didn’t need the grandeur or extravagance. She had learned to find joy in the little things: the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the street, the satisfaction of balancing the shop’s ledger at the end of the day.

Ophelia’s Oddities was never busy, which Ophelia often said was by design. “Too much attention, and it’s time to move on,” she would remark with a knowing smile. Cressida had come to appreciate this transient lifestyle, the way it allowed them to carve out small, quiet worlds for themselves wherever they went.

But today wasn’t like most days.

It was Ophelia’s 55th birthday, and Cressida had woken early, the crisp morning air filling the flat above the shop. The sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the worn wooden floor as she tied her apron and set about her task.

She had debated for weeks about how to mark the occasion. Ophelia had always been dismissive of celebrations, waving off any suggestion of parties or gifts. 

“Let’s keep it simple,” she had said. “I’ve never been one for fanfare.”

But there was a sadness in her eyes whenever she spoke of her birthday, a melancholy that lingered just beneath the surface. 

Cressida respected her wishes just the same. So instead of planning a celebration, she decided to pour her efforts into something small but heartfelt: a cake. 

The recipe was one she had practiced several times—layers of soft sponge filled with lemon curd and frosted with a thin glaze of vanilla buttercream. She had chosen it not for extravagance but for its balance—a quiet kind of beauty, much like the woman she had baked it for. Baking had become a quiet passion of hers over the years, a skill born of necessity after Ophelia had insisted that she had to know how to handle herself in the kitchen. She had nurtured it out of curiosity when she found out that the act of measuring, mixing, and folding was meditative, a way to lose herself in the present.

As the cake baked, the kitchen filled with the bright scent of citrus and sugar, making her smile. Cressida carefully prepared the frosting, her movements deliberate as she spread it over the cooled layers. She added a single candle, its wax a soft lavender shade, and stepped back to admire her work.

It wasn’t grand, but it was enough.

Ophelia spent most of the day away from the shop, leaving Cressida to her thoughts. She didn’t ask where Ophelia went, she never does since it’s not her business and more often than not, it was only to meet with people for more items for the shop, but today she noticed the way Ophelia’s shoulders had slumped slightly as she left, the way her gaze lingered on the door before stepping out into the street. 

It’s not that Ophelia wasn’t open with Cressida, she was. They both were given that all they had was each other. Cressida had started to see Ophelia as a mother figure over the years, and Ophelia seemed happy to treat Cressida as a daughter. But there were still some things that weren’t discussed, and Cressida would never push it out of respect. 

By evening, Cressida had everything prepared. The cake sat in the center of the table, illuminated by the soft glow of a single candle. She had set two mismatched teacups beside it, the aroma of chamomile wafting from the pot between them.

When the sound of the front door opening echoed through the flat, Cressida lit the single candle atop the cake and turned toward the doorway, her smile tentative but hopeful. 

“This is as simple as I could make it. I won’t even sing,” she said softly. “Happy birthday.”

Ophelia’s eyes fell on the cake, and for a moment, she didn’t move. The flickering candlelight danced across her face, highlighting the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, and the subtle streaks of silver in her hair. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. 

“Ophelia?” Cressida prompted, her smile faltering. “Is something wrong? It’s just cake, I—I didn’t think my baking was that terrible...”

But Ophelia shook her head, a quiet laugh escaping her lips even as her eyes filled with tears. She stepped closer, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out, though she didn’t touch the cake.

“It’s not the cake,” she said finally, her voice thick. “It’s beautiful. Truly, it’s perfect.”

“Then why—”

But as the moments stretched on, her composure cracked. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to will them away.

“Ophelia?” Cressida’s concern deepened. “What is it?”

Ophelia let out a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the flickering candle. “It’s not the cake,” she said finally. “It’s what it represents. What it reminds me of.”

She furrowed her eyebrows before gesturing for Ophelia to sit down. They sat together at the table while Cressida poured them both some tea, the lit candle burning low. Cressida waited patiently as Ophelia traced the rim of her teacup with a fingertip. 

“I once loved someone,” Ophelia began, her voice quiet but steady. “A woman.”

Cressida’s breath caught. She stared at Ophelia, her mind racing to process the words.

A woman.

It wasn’t that Cressida found anything wrong with the idea—it was just that it had never been part of her world. Growing up in Mayfair, such things were whispered about, hidden behind closed doors, painted as impossible or scandalous. She had never known anyone who loved the same gender, at least not openly.

“I—” Cressida started, then stopped, unsure of what to say.

Ophelia’s lips curved into a faint, understanding smile. “It’s not what you expected to hear, is it?”

Cressida shook her head, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry, I just... I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Ophelia said gently. “How could you? It’s not something I’ve spoken of before. But she was the love of my life. Brilliant, kind, with a sense of humor that could light up the darkest day, a heart that made everything else pale in comparison.”

The raw honesty in Ophelia’s tone steadied Cressida, who nodded slowly. “What happened?”

“She got married. To a nobleman, if I remember correctly,” Ophelia said simply, the words heavy with resignation. “Her family arranged it. Demanded it, really. She had no choice, and neither did I.”

Cressida’s chest tightened, knowing it was never easy to have someone plan your life away. The pain in Ophelia’s voice was palpable, cutting through the quiet warmth of the room. 

“We were young,” Ophelia continued, her gaze fixed on the flickering flame. “And foolish. We thought we could rewrite the rules, that love would be enough to shield us from the world’s expectations.” She laughed softly, though the sound was bitter. “But it wasn’t.”

Cressida found herself leaning forward, hanging on every word. She could hear the weight of the years in Ophelia’s voice, the lingering pain of a love lost not to death but to circumstance.

“We made a promise once,” Ophelia said, her lips curling into a bittersweet smile. “That if we ever grew old and unmarriageable, we’d live together as spinsters. Just the two of us, in a little house by the sea. It was a foolish promise, but a beautiful one.” She shook her head, her gaze distant. “A silly dream, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Cressida said quickly, surprising herself with the force of her response. “It wasn’t silly. It was... hopeful.”

Ophelia turned to her, her eyes glistening. “Hopeful,” she repeated softly. “I suppose it was.”

As the candle burned lower, the room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hum of the sea breeze outside. Cressida was content with the silence, giving her a chance to think about Ophelia’s story but not able to stop the thoughts there. 

“What about you?” Ophelia asked eventually, her tone gentle, as if she could sense where Cressida’s mind was. “Is there someone you think of still?”

Cressida hesitated, the question stirring memories she had tried to bury. As if opening a door she wasn’t sure she wanted to step through. But the quiet patience in Ophelia’s gaze made her feel safe.

“There was someone,” she admitted. “Not someone I was in love with. Just… a friend. A very special friend. She made me feel... seen. In a way no one else ever had. She made me feel like I could be more than what people thought of me.”

Ophelia tilted her head, her expression encouraging. She sensed there was maybe something more there, but she wasn’t going to point it out if Cressida didn’t see it. “And?”

“And I ruined it,” Cressida continued, her voice trembling. “I lied to her. I let my mother hurt her and her family’s reputation. And I’ve spent every day since wishing I could take it back. I was sent away before I could see her again. Before I had a chance to explain myself, maybe even apologize if she’d let me. I just… wish I could see her again. Talk to her. At least one more time.”

The confession hung heavy in the air, raw and unpolished.

Ophelia reached across the table, her hand warm and steady as it settled over Cressida’s. “Maybe one day,” she said softly, “you’ll find her again.”

Cressida looked down at their joined hands, her chest tightening with a mix of longing and gratitude. She knew it was just Ophelia trying to comfort her. She had absolutely no way of contacting Eloise unless she went back to London. And even then, what would she say? 

She sighed softly, shaking her head. “Maybe,” she whispered. "One day."

Chapter Text

London, 2019

The visits continued.

At first, Eloise told herself it was curiosity that drew her back to Ophelia’s Oddities, but the lie wore thin each time the bell chimed . She would walk in with a purpose—another sibling to shop for, another peculiar request to justify her presence. It even became a game where Eloise swore that one day, she’d stump Cressida and ask for an item she didn’t have in stock. The shop, with its shelves of forgotten treasures and lingering scent of lavender and old wood, had become a strange kind of haven. 

Or perhaps it was the shopkeeper herself.

All she knows is that somewhere along the way, the excuses stopped mattering. 

She still brought them up, of course, but only out of habit. The truth was simpler, though harder to admit: she liked being there. She liked talking to Lia, and not just because she looked so much like Cressida.

–

It began subtly.

On one visit, Eloise lingered a little longer than usual, inspecting a shelf of antique compasses while Cressida—Lia—worked behind the counter.

“You know,” Eloise said, turning one of the compasses in her hand, “I’ve never actually been any good at using these things. My brother, though—he’s always been annoyingly adept. We used to go orienteering when we were younger, and he would always find the markers before I did. Drove me mad. I’m still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t cheating.”

Cressida glanced up from the ledger, her lips twitching in amusement. “Perhaps it’s less about the compass and more about the user,” she said, her tone light but teasing.

Eloise pretended to look scandalized, putting a hand over her chest. “Are you saying I’m directionally challenged?”

“I’m saying you should pick up a map next time you’re out adventuring,” Cressida replied with a faint smile. 

“Hmm… well see, I would, but there’s this super interesting new invention called the GPS,” Eloise shrugged. “Having a smartphone on you wouldn’t hurt either.”

The easy banter surprised them both. Eloise asking for Cressida’s number surprised them even more. 

–

One afternoon, Eloise arrived with her usual air of determination, a battered satchel slung over her shoulder. Cressida looked up from the counter, her expression politely neutral, though Eloise noticed the faintest twitch of her lips—a suppressed smile. She’s been doing that a lot more lately.

“Morning,” Eloise said, setting her bag down. “Okay, I think I’ve stumped you this time. Tell me, do you have any antique magnifying glasses? Preferably one that looks like it’s been used to solve mysteries.”

Cressida arched an eyebrow. “Planning to become a detective, are we?”

“Hardly,” Eloise replied. “But one of my brothers is in one of his eccentric phases. He’s convinced he can restore an old painting he bought, but only if he has the proper tools.”

“And a magnifying glass is part of his master plan?” Cressida asked, her tone dry.

Eloise smirked. “He’s an artist, never said he’s a genius. I’m just here to humor him. And because I think you don’t have them.”

Cressida shook her head but led Eloise to a small display near the window, where a collection of magnifying glasses rested on a velvet-lined tray, and she couldn’t help but smirk at Eloise’s scowl. She thought she heard her mutter something about winning one day. 

“This one belonged to a clockmaker,” she said, picking up a brass-handled piece. “It’s sturdy and functional. Though unless he’s planning on holding it up for painting the tiniest details, I doubt it will improve your brother’s restoration skills.”

Eloise chuckled, taking the magnifying glass. “Probably not, but at least he’ll look the part.”

–

As the visits became more frequent, their conversations grew less guarded. Eloise found herself lingering longer, wandering the shop as if searching for something intangible. Cressida, though cautious at first, began to relax in her presence. There was something disarming about her—the way she spoke her mind without hesitation, the sharp wit that kept Cressida on her toes.

It reminded her of the past, of a girl she had known centuries ago. But Emma wasn’t Eloise. And that made it easier, somehow.

On another visit, Eloise arrived empty-handed, save for two cups of coffee.

“I was in the area and thought you might need this,” she said, setting one on the counter. “Oat milk with two sugars.”

Cressida stared at the coffee, her composure momentarily slipping. She had offhandedly mentioned her coffee order a week or two ago but she didn’t think Eloise would actually remember. “You know you didn’t have to—”

“Yes, yes. But I wanted to,” Eloise interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Besides, I can’t be the only one running on caffeine today. And it’s more of a bribe for letting me hang out in your shop without buying anything.”

Cressida smiled faintly, her fingers curling around the cup. “I wouldn’t say I’m letting you, you sort of just refuse to leave. Still, thank you.”

They settled into an easy rhythm then, chatting about everything and nothing as Eloise browsed the shelves, seeing what was new.

“Do you ever wonder about the stories behind these things?” Eloise asked, picking up a silver locket and flipping it over to inspect the inscription on the back. 

“All the time,” Cressida replied, content to just watch Eloise walk around. “That’s half the fun of running this place. Every piece has a history, even if we don’t know it. And the things we do know, I enjoy learning about.”

Eloise turned the locket over in her hands again before setting it down, her brow furrowing. “And what about you?” she asked lightly. “What’s your story?”

Cressida hesitated, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. She suddenly remembers that she can never say it. Not to anyone. Not if they’re going to just move on and leave her alone again. “Not nearly as interesting as the things in this shop,” she eventually answered, her tone carefully measured.

Eloise didn’t press.

–

One afternoon, Eloise arrived with a book tucked under her arm. Though she looked like she was in a hurry. 

“I can’t stay today, but I thought you might like this,” she said, setting it on the counter. It was an old collection of essays on rare artifacts, its spine worn but intact. “It’s not much, but it reminded me of this place. Of you.”

Cressida blinked, caught off guard. She ran her fingers over the cover, her throat tightening with unexpected emotion. Eloise hadn’t even planned to stay, she just wanted to drop something off for her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Eloise shrugged, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Well, I figured you’d find it more interesting than I did. Besides, it gives me an excuse to ask for recommendations next time.”

Cressida chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “I’ll see what I can do.”

–

For Cressida, the change was profound.

She had spent so many years keeping her guard up, shielding herself from the world. But Eloise—or Emma—slipped past those defenses with ease. It wasn’t just her resemblance to the girl she had once known; it was her kindness, her curiosity, the way she made Cressida feel seen without demanding answers. 

Make no mistake, she did ask them, but she never demanded or pressed. 

A lot of things reminded her of how natural it had been to connect with Eloise back then, how easy it is to connect with Emma now. Things were harder back then, more constricting. But now Cressida could finally indulge in the friendship. 

And for the first time since Ophelia left her, Cressida allowed herself to feel something she had almost forgotten: companionship.

–

One stormy afternoon, Eloise stayed longer than planned, claiming it was her way of “supporting local businesses,” and the rain suddenly came pounding down. She didn’t drive there so Cressida offered the shop as shelter until the rain calmed down a bit. They sat together at a small table near the back, cups of tea between them. Like how Cressida used to do with Ophelia. 

“You’ve been in London for a while now,” Eloise said, her tone casual as she made conversation. “If you didn’t have the shop to worry about, do you ever think about leaving? Going somewhere else?”

Cressida traced the rim of her teacup, her gaze distant. She’s been everywhere at this point. And while she did slow down on traveling, she still needed to go some places to acquire new items for the shop so the itch to travel wasn’t really there anymore. Not like back then. “Not really,” she said softly. “I’ve found that it’s less about where you are and more about who you’re with.”

Eloise studied her, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “And are you... happy? Here?”

Cressida hesitated, the question catching her off guard. “I think I’m starting to be,” she admitted after a moment.

Eloise nodded, her lips curving into a small smile.

Despite surprising herself with the admission, Cressida allowed herself to believe it might be true.

–

The progression was slow but steady. Each visit chipped away at the barriers Cressida had built, each conversation pulling them closer together.

Eloise stopped asking questions about the shop, stopped trying to piece together the mystery of Cressida’s past. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was the way Cressida’s eyes lit up when she talked about a new find, the way her laugh filled the room like a warm breeze.

Eloise felt at ease—like she had found something she hadn’t even realized she was looking for.

And for Cressida, the loneliness that had been her constant companion began to fade. She found herself looking forward to the chime of the bell, the sound of Eloise’s voice, the warmth of her presence.

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t permanent. But it was enough.

Chapter Text

St. Ives, 1835

Cressida stood at the counter of Ophelia’s Oddities, idly tracing the grain of the wood with her fingertips. The shop was quiet, bathed in the amber light of the setting sun. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, illuminated by the golden glow streaming through the front windows.

The stillness should have been comforting, but lately, it felt oppressive.

She didn’t notice the silence as much anymore. It had become part of the routine, the rhythm of life in St. Ives that they still haven’t left. Part of her knew it was only because Ophelia could tell how much she loved the ocean. So they’d stayed longer than Ophelia intended to when they first moved there. 

That had been nearly twenty years ago. 

Her gaze drifted to the large mirror mounted behind the counter. She wasn’t looking for her reflection, not at first. But when her eyes landed on the familiar face staring back, she froze.

Her face, smooth and unchanged, stared back at her. It was a face she had grown used to seeing, but not in the way one grows under the passage of time. There were no lines, no traces of laughter or sorrow etched into her skin. It was the same as it had been when she left Mayfair. 

Her breath caught, and she quickly turned away.

She pressed her lips together, glancing over at Ophelia, who was busy organizing a display of crystal bottles. The older woman moved slower these days, her hands less steady, her steps more measured.

Cressida felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t said anything, but she had noticed the changes in Ophelia too—the stiffness in her gait, the way she leaned on counters more often, the strain in her voice after a long day. She tried her best to take over as much of the heavy lifting without making Ophelia feel less than she was. 

“Ophelia,” she called suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.

Ophelia paused, her hand hovering over a bottle. Her gaze flicked toward Cressida, dark eyes sharp despite the weariness in her features. “Yes, love?”

Cressida hesitated. How could she put her unease into words? How could she ask a question she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to?

“Have you... noticed anything strange about me?”

“What kind of strange?”

Cressida hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to explain the feeling, the creeping suspicion that something wasn’t right. “I... I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. I just feel like... like I haven’t changed.”

She tried to chalk it up to a healthy lifestyle, or perhaps her genes were just really good. She’s older than her mother was when she left Mayfair but even then, Araminta already started showing signs of aging, no matter how subtle. Cressida hasn’t yet. 

Ophelia tilted her head, studying her carefully. “What kind of change do you mean?”

Cressida swallowed hard, glancing toward the mirror. “I don’t look... older. Not like I should.”

Maybe having a husband and children was the reason women aged in appearance. Maybe that was all it was. The stress of running a family and a household took its toll on women and Cressida just didn’t have the same worries. And thank God for that. 

Ophelia set the bottle down carefully and crossed the room to stand beside her. “You’ve felt this way for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Cressida admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ophelia’s gaze softened. “I’ve noticed it too,” she said gently. “But I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Until you were sure.”

Cressida’s stomach tightened. “Sure of what?”

“That it’s not just in your head,” Ophelia said. “That something about you is different.”

The words offered little comfort. If anything, they made Cressida’s unease grow. “What do you think it means?”

Ophelia exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know. But I think it’s time we found out.”

–

The next morning, Ophelia’s words were as abrupt as they were decisive. She made her announcement over breakfast as the soft clink of cutlery against plates filled the room while they sat at the small kitchen table.

“Close the shop,” she said to Cressida, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Cressida blinked, her teacup halfway to her lips. She wasn’t even sure she was fully awake yet. “What?”

Ophelia glanced up from her plate, her expression calm but resolute. “We’re leaving. It’s time to move on. We’ve been here far too long.”

“But why now?” Cressida asked, her brow furrowing. She’s not as startled by the words as she was when Ophelia first said those words way back when. “I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Ophelia interrupted gently. “But we can’t stay. We need answers. And we’re not going to find them here.”

Cressida shook her head, confusion and frustration bubbling to the surface. “Ophelia, this is—this is our home. What about the shop? What about the customers?”

“We’ve left before,” Ophelia reminded her, her voice gentle but resolute. “And we’ll leave again. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

“That doesn’t explain why now,” Cressida pressed. “Why the sudden urgency?”

“We need to figure out what’s happening to you,” Ophelia answered, her fingers curling around her teacup. 

“Ophelia—”

“I’d like to get answers while I still can,” she said finally, not wanting Cressida to argue with her decision. “I’ve seen enough in my time to know when something isn’t natural. And whatever’s happening to you, it’s not something we can ignore anymore.”

The weight of her words settled over the room like a heavy fog. Cressida wanted to argue, to insist that everything was fine, but deep down, she knew Ophelia was right.

Cressida looked down at her plate, her appetite gone. “And if we don’t find answers?” she asked quietly.

“We will,” Ophelia insists. “I’ve spent my life building connections, gathering knowledge. If anyone can figure this out, it’s us.”

The conviction in her voice steadied Cressida, if only slightly.

“Where will we go?” Cressida asked after a long pause.

“Everywhere,” Ophelia said, her lips curving into a faint smile. “We’ll start with my old contacts, see what they can tell us. And we’ll go from there.”

Cressida nodded slowly, the knot in her chest tightening. She still had questions, but she trusted Ophelia. 

“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll start packing.”

“Bring the dagger,” Ophelia nods before reaching across the table, squeezing Cressida’s hand gently. “I promise, darling, we will figure this out.”

Cressida nodded, but the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind.

–

The shop closed within a week, its windows shuttered but the shelves and wares remained. Ophelia made a compromise with Cressida. They’d leave to travel, only taking what they needed, and then they’d come back for the shop once they had their answers. Cressida was okay with it. That was the home she’d like to come back to. 

The days after they locked the doors of Ophelia’s Oddities were filled with a strange, heavy silence. Their journey began with cautious optimism. Ophelia’s network was vast, built over years of trading in the rare and the peculiar. Though years had passed, some connections remained intact. The people she trusted were knowledgeable, resourceful, and often eccentric—scholars, mystics, collectors of rare and arcane knowledge. They were keepers of secrets that most would never dare to imagine.

The questions they asked were vague at first. Cressida was reluctant to admit what she suspected, and Ophelia was equally careful in her phrasing. But as the days turned into weeks and the answers remained elusive, their inquiries became bolder.

“We’re looking for something... unusual,” Ophelia would begin, her voice steady but her words carefully chosen. “A condition, perhaps. Something that slows the natural process of aging.”

The responses varied. Some scoffed, dismissing them with muttered words about charlatans and fools. Others offered fragments of knowledge, half-remembered tales of cursed artifacts and ancient blessings. But none of it felt concrete, and with every dead end, Cressida’s frustration grew.

One of their first stops was Bath, where an old acquaintance of Ophelia’s ran a shop not unlike their own. The man, a wiry fellow with ink-stained fingers and spectacles perched precariously on his nose, listened intently as Ophelia recounted their situation.

“Well it doesn’t sound like a curse,” he said thoughtfully, tapping his pen against his ledger. “Some would even say that it’s a blessing. But then again, immortality’s a tricky business. Most people who seek it don’t often think about the consequences.”

“She didn’t seek it,” Ophelia interjected firmly.

The man shrugged. “So she stumbled into it, same thing. A lot of powerful artifacts out there, and not all of them come with instruction manuals.”

Cressida bit her tongue, resisting the urge to snap at him. The conversation yielded no answers, only speculation, and they left feeling no closer to the truth.

The pattern repeated itself in town after town. They spoke to many different people—anyone who might hold a piece of the puzzle. Some dismissed their questions outright, their skepticism bordering on disdain.

“Immortality?” one scholar scoffed, peering at them over the rim of his glasses. “A fanciful notion, nothing more. People age. That’s the way of the world.”

Others were more open, sharing stories of artifacts imbued with strange powers or ancient rituals said to grant eternal life. More often than not, they sounded insane. That did not ease any of Cressida’s worries or skepticism. 

“I’m starting to think this is pointless,” she said one evening as they walked back to their lodgings. The cobblestones were slick with rain, and the chill in the air matched her mood. “Maybe we’re chasing a ghost.”

Ophelia glanced at her, her expression thoughtful. “Even if we are, it’s better than standing still, don’t you think?”

–

It was in a small, dimly lit parlor in York where they finally found a solid lead. An answer, but not the answer.

The parlor was tucked away on a narrow side street, its unassuming exterior giving little indication of the treasures and knowledge within. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and dried herbs, the shelves overflowing with books and trinkets. 

It reminded Cressida of home. She longed to return to their charming little seaside shop. Forget all the events of the past months, forget that she has a problem that couldn’t be solved, feign ignorance and carry on bliss. 

Helena, the proprietor, was a sharp-eyed woman with an air of quiet authority. She was much like Ophelia the first time Cressida met her. Helena listened patiently as Ophelia explained their situation, her expression thoughtful. But it wasn’t until her gaze landed on Cressida that something shifted.

Helena studied her intently, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to see beyond the surface. “You,” she said softly, her voice tinged with something like awe.

“Me?” Cressida stiffened. “What about me?”

Helena stepped closer, and Cressida felt like she was being scrutinized. “You bear the mark of eternity. Not in your appearance, but in the essence you carry. It’s unmistakable.”

The truth crashes down like a wave, leaving Cressida reeling.

“I don’t—” Cressida’s voice failed, and she glanced over at Ophelia helplessly, like a child waiting for her mother’s help. 

“You are certain?” Ophelia steps in, seeing the distressed look on Cressida’s face. “We are not doubting, but we need to be sure.”

Helena looked at both of them before gesturing for them to sit. “Quite certain. I look at you and I see that you are not bound by the laws of time in the way the rest of us are. Am I correct to assume that you are more than twenty years of age?”

Cressida could only nod. 

“Well, you do not look it, my dear,” she smiled kindly, sensing that this was a lot to take in. 

The room seemed to tilt sideways after that, the weight of the revelation crashing over Cressida like a wave. “That’s impossible,” she said, shaking her head. “I—I still get sick. I get hurt. I’m not... I’m not invincible.”

“Immortality doesn’t mean invulnerability,” Helena explained gently. “Your body can heal, can recover, but it does not age as others do. Whatever happened to you—whether by artifact, spell or some other means—it has tied you to the threads of eternity.”

Cressida felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, her nails digging into her palms. “There has to be some mistake,” she whispered.

“There isn’t,” Helena said firmly. Her gaze softened as she added, “It is not a curse, child. It’s simply... a different kind of existence. You are just different.”

– 

They left the parlor in silence. The journey back to their inn was slow, neither of them speaking as they navigated the cobblestone streets.

When they reached their room, Cressida sank into a chair, her head in her hands. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said, her voice muffled. “Why me? Why this?”

Ophelia sat across from her, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The words were meant to comfort, Cressida knew that, but they felt hollow. She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. “But what if there’s nothing to figure out? What if this is just... what I am now?”

Ophelia reached out, her hand warm and steady as it covered Cressida’s. “Then we’ll learn how to live with it,” she said softly. “You’re not facing this alone.”

Cressida nodded, though the knot in her chest remained. She had the security of living for eternity. Ophelia did not. 

–

After the encounter in York, Cressida and Ophelia returned home to St. Ives. The journey was quiet, though Ophelia was mostly just following Cressida’s energy. She knew it was a lot to take in. And knowing her, she was likely thinking about how to be alone again. 

The shop remained shuttered, its wares undisturbed since their departure. Ophelia made no mention of reopening it in the meantime, and Cressida didn’t ask why. Instead, they fell into a different rhythm, one that wasn’t driven by schedules or customers but by the fleeting nature of their time together. Their days were spent walking along the cobbled streets of the town or venturing to the beach. Ophelia had always preferred simplicity, but now, it seemed even more deliberate. 

For Cressida, the ocean became her solace. She would sit for hours on the shore, her feet buried in the cool sand, watching the waves crash against the rocks. Ophelia often joined her, though she tired more quickly now, content to sit on a blanket and watch as Cressida let the sea breeze tousle her hair.

“You’ve always loved the ocean,” Ophelia remarked one afternoon, her voice carrying over the sound of the waves.

Cressida turned to her, a rare smile on her lips these days. “You’re the reason I ever saw it.”

Ophelia chuckled softly. “Well, I’m glad I could give you that at least. Why do you think we’ve stayed here all this time? I wanted you to have this for as long as possible.”

The words settled over Cressida like a warm embrace, even as they hinted at the inevitable.

– 

It began slowly, almost imperceptibly as the months flew by.

At first, it was small things: Ophelia reaching for her cane more often, lingering a little longer in bed each morning, her once-vibrant laughter softening into quieter smiles. Cressida noticed these changes with a growing sense of dread but said nothing, unwilling to voice the thoughts that lingered at the edges of her mind.

But the signs became harder to ignore with each passing day. 

Cressida tried not to dwell on it, throwing herself into the small routines that kept their days moving. She cooked their meals, read aloud from the books that lined their shelves, and Ophelia responded by filling the silences with stories that she hadn’t told Cressida yet. But no matter how much Cressida tried to distract herself, the truth was inescapable.

One evening, as they sat together in the dim light of the living room, Cressida finally spoke the words that had been weighing on her.

“You’re not well,” she said softly, her eyes downcast.

Ophelia, seated in her favorite chair by the fire, looked up with a faint smile. “I’m getting old, my dear. It’s nothing more than that.”

“It’s more than that,” Cressida shook her head. Her voice trembled despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “You’re weaker than you used to be. Slower. And I—”

She broke off, unable to finish the sentence.

Ophelia’s smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet understanding. “You’re afraid,” she said gently.

Cressida’s throat tightened, and she looked away. “Of course I am,” she whispered.

“Of being alone?”

Cressida shook her head again. “Of losing you.”

Ophelia sighed heavily and leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Cressida, we’ve always known this day would come. You’ve seen the years pass, just as I have. But my time was always going to be finite.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Cressida murmured, finally meeting Ophelia’s gaze.

“I know,” she said gently. “But you can’t fight time, my love.” 

Cressida scoffed, turning away. “We both know that’s not true.”

–

A week later, Cressida found herself thinking deeply as she sat in front of the fireplace, polishing the dagger in her lap. Ophelia spent most of the evening resting in her room, and the house had gone too quiet. Finally, Cressida couldn’t stand it and stood, rushing into the room. 

“What if we used the dagger?” she asked, her voice tight with desperation.

Ophelia, seated by the window, turned to look at her. “The dagger? What do you mean?”

Cressida hesitated, gripping the dagger tightly. “Just a small cut,” she said. “If it worked for me, maybe it could... help you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Cressida pressed on. “It’s what started all of this, isn’t it? The day I cut myself... it changed everything.” 

“No.” The word was quiet but firm, cutting through the air like a blade.

Cressida’s eyes widened, already expecting it but hearing it didn’t hurt any less. “Ophelia, please. You don’t have to—”

Ophelia’s expression softened, and she shook her head slowly. “No, Cressida,” she said firmly. “Even if it works, that’s not the life I want.”

“But why not?” Cressida’s voice broke, her composure crumbling as tears welled in her eyes. “You don’t have to leave. You could have more time. We could have more time.”

Ophelia stood, her movements a bit more unsteady as the days passed. She crossed the room and placed her hands gently on Cressida’s shoulders.

“My dear,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands, “Time isn’t the gift you think it is. Not for me. Not like it is to you.”

“Being alone doesn’t feel much of a gift,” Cressida choked on her words. 

Ophelia rubbed Cressida’s arms, trying to soothe her. “I’ve had my time, Cressida. I’ve lived my life. I’ve had my joys, my sorrows, and everything in between. And when the time comes, I’m ready to let it go. I’ve made my peace with the end of it.”

“But I haven’t,” Cressida whispered, unable to speak louder than that. “I’m not ready.”

“I know,” Ophelia’s eyes softened. “But you don’t have to be ready. You just have to keep going. I’ve spent years teaching you how to live, how to care for yourself, how to find beauty in the smallest things. That’s my legacy. You are my legacy. And it’s enough.”

Cressida shook her head, the tears streaming down her face. “You’re all I have left, Ophelia. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“Yes you do,” Ophelia said firmly. “You’ve known for a while now. You just don’t see it yet.”

–

The decline came faster than Cressida had anticipated after that night. Ophelia struggles to rise from her bed in the mornings now, her breaths shallow and labored. Cressida stayed by her side, her heart aching with every fragile movement Ophelia made.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in hues of gold and amber, Ophelia asked Cressida to sit by her side.

“There’s something I need to ask of you,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Something very important to me. Two requests, actually.”

Cressida furrowed her eyebrows slightly before nodding for Ophelia to continue. 

“The first,” she began, keeping her eyes on Cressida. “When the time comes, you’ll keep the shop alive. It does not matter if you choose to have one foot in the magical world or not, but I’d like you to keep it open. Not for me, but for yourself. I want you to have something to keep you going. Because this life of yours—it’s extraordinary. And it’s only just beginning.”

Cressida looked at her, her heart breaking. But it’s an easy enough request to grant. It’s not like she had any plans other than to keep Ophelia’s memory alive for as long as she could. “Okay. I can do that.”

 “That’s my girl,” Ophelia smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “And now, the second.”

Cressida’s throat tightened, feeling like the second request would be heavier than the first. “What is it?”

“When I’m gone, I want you to bury me in London,” Ophelia said.

Cressida froze. “London?” 

Ophelia nodded. “I have the papers, and I’ve set aside the money. You know where they are. There’s a small cemetery, not far from the Thames. I’ve always thought it was peaceful there. That’s where I want to rest.”

Cressida’s chest tightened. London was a place she had avoided for twenty years, a place filled with memories she had spent a lifetime trying to bury.

Ophelia let the silence linger for a moment longer before speaking again. “I never did tell you that I hail from London, did I?”

Cressida shook her head, still unable to form words. 

Ophelia’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “The cemetery I spoke of... she’s there too.”

Now that caught Cressida’s attention. “Your love? From back then?” Cressida asked gently, her voice barely audible.

Ophelia nodded, her expression wistful. “I’d like to be near her again. Not because I expect anything after this life, but because... it feels right. Like I’m closing the circle.”

“I can’t go back,” Cressida whispered, shaking her head. “Ophelia, please don’t ask me to go back.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Ophelia interrupted, her voice soft but resolute. “But consider it my last wish. Please.”

Tears spilled down Cressida’s cheeks as she stared at the woman who had been her anchor, her guide, her only family when the one she was born into cast her aside. The thought of London, of being so close to Mayfair, of returning to the city she was forced to leave behind so long ago, filled Cressida with dread. She wanted to say no, to beg Ophelia to choose somewhere else, anywhere else. But she couldn’t.

Her hands trembled as she reached for Ophelia’s. “I’ll do it,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “I promise.”

Ophelia’s smile was faint but radiant, a flicker of the vibrant woman she had once been. “Thank you, my love.”

–

A few nights later, Cressida’s fears came true.

The room was quiet, though the air was surprisingly light. Peaceful. Like Ophelia was ready to go on her own terms. She lay in her bed, her breathing shallow but still steady. The once-vibrant woman who had taken Cressida under her wing now looked so small, her frame frail and her skin pale as parchment.

Cressida sat beside her, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She had spent hours by Ophelia’s side, watching over her, tending to her needs, and dreading the moment that seemed to draw closer with each passing breath.

“I can feel it,” Ophelia murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Cressida straightened, leaning closer. “Feel what?”

“The end,” Ophelia said simply, her lips curving into a faint smile, as if she were greeting an old friend. “It’s not a bad thing, Cressida. Don’t look at me like that.”

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” Cressida asked, her voice trembling. “I’m about to lose you.”

Ophelia’s hand, thin and trembling, reached out to cover Cressida’s. “You’ll lose me in one way, but not in every way. You’ll carry me with you, just like you’ve carried everything else life has thrown at you. You’re stronger than you think.”

Cressida bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. “I don’t feel so strong.” 

“You don’t have to feel it,” Ophelia replied. “You just have to be it.”

“But I don’t know how to do that,” she argued, huffing softly. 

Ophelia laughs softly, shaking her head. “Stubborn girl. Of course you know how, you’ve been strong since before you even met me.”

Cressida didn’t answer after that, not having the strength to argue since she knew she wouldn’t win against Ophelia. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Ophelia murmured after a moment, her voice so faint that Cressida had to lean in to hear her. “You’ve grown into a woman who carries strength and kindness in equal measure. You’ll be fine, my dear girl. You’ll find your way.”

Cressida shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I don’t want to do this without you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Ophelia said, her lips curving into a faint smile. “But you’ll see... you’re capable of so much more than you know.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Then, Ophelia’s grip tightened slightly on Cressida’s hand.

“I hope you know you’ve been more than a companion to me, Cressida,” she said, smiling at the girl to ease her worries. She wasn’t gone. Not yet. “You’ve been a daughter to me in every way that matters.”

Cressida’s breath hitched, her tears spilling freely. “And you’ve been like a mother to me,” she said softly. “Someone who showed me what love and guidance could truly mean. And you gave it unconditionally. I will carry that with me always.”

Ophelia smiled, her eyes glistening. “That’s more than I could have ever hoped for. And it means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Cressida leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Ophelia’s. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll always be with you,” Ophelia replied. “In the shop, in the ocean, in the curiosity of strangers. You’ll feel me everywhere.”

Her grip loosened, her eyelids fluttering closed. “Promise me you’ll keep living, Cressida. Promise me you’ll find joy, that you’ll find happiness. Even if it’s not tomorrow. Promise me that you’ll find it one day.”

“I promise,” Cressida said through her tears, clutching Ophelia’s hand as if holding on could stop the inevitable.

With a final, shuddering breath, Ophelia slipped away, her expression serene.

Cressida sat there for hours, her hand still clasped around Ophelia’s cooling fingers. The weight of loss pressed down on her, a grief so profound it left her hollow. She hadn’t really given a thought to her parents’ lives until now. Had they passed too? Would she be as equally emotional if she had been there with them? She felt like a child again all of a sudden—lost and alone in a world that seemed too big and too cruel.

And when the first rays of dawn broke through the window, she finally rose. She had a promise to keep—a journey to make.

Even though the thought of returning to London filled her with dread, she would honor Ophelia’s wish. She owed her that much.

Chapter Text

London, 2019

Cressida was used to quiet mornings in Ophelia’s Oddities. The kind of quiet where the only sound came from the creaking floorboards as she moved between shelves or the faint ticking of the old clocks scattered throughout the shop.

It was a quiet she usually welcomed, a balm against the noise of a world that never seemed to quiet down.

But lately, that quiet had been accompanied by a new, unexpected sound: her own restless thoughts.

And they all seemed to lead back to her.

Eloise Bridgerton—or rather who seemed to be her reincarnation, Emma—had been visiting more frequently than ever. Each visit brought with it the usual teasing and excuses for why she was there. 

At first, Cressida had braced herself every time the bell above the door chimed, convinced that each visit would be the last. 

But Cressida wasn’t naive.

Eloise lingered. She always lingered.

And somehow, Cressida found that she didn’t mind.

She should have been suspicious. But suspicion had given way to amusement, and amusement had turned into something else entirely that she either ignored, denied, or hadn’t wanted to name. 

And now, on mornings like this one—when the shop was empty, and her thoughts ran wild—she found herself listening for the bell. Hoping for it.

—

It was early afternoon when the shop door jingled, the sound snapping Cressida out of her reverie. She looked up from arranging a tray of antique rings, already biting back a smile.

“You’re here again,” she said, a teasing note in her voice.

Eloise stood in the doorway, holding two coffee cups. She had her usual expression of half-feigned innocence and grinned unapologetically. “I told you already. Supporting small businesses is a very important cause to me, Lia. Surely you approve.”

Cressida rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. “I’m sure there are plenty of other small businesses in London that deserve your attention.”

“Ah, but none of them have you,” Eloise shot back smoothly, crossing the room to set one of the coffee cups on the counter. “Maybe I just like annoying you.”

The offhanded comment caught Cressida off guard, and for a moment, she faltered.

“You know you don’t have to bring me coffee every time you want to hang around,” she said softly, fingers curling around the cup.

“It’s no bother,” Eloise shrugged, though her gaze lingered on Cressida a moment longer than necessary. She leaned her elbows on the counter, looking far too comfortable for someone who claimed to be shopping . “So? Find anything new and strange for me since I was last here?”

Cressida shook her head, hiding a smile as she turned to straighten a nearby shelf. “Strange things don’t just appear on command, you know. It takes time.”

“Well,” Eloise replied, grinning, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

—

The shop had closed hours ago, the windows shuttered against the chill of the evening. Cressida sat curled in the armchair by the fire, all cozied up in her apartment with a book on her lap that she had long since stopped reading in favor of getting lost in her thoughts.

It wasn’t until her phone buzzed against the small table beside her that her wandering mind was pulled back to the present.

When she picked it up, her heart skipped inexplicably as she saw the name on the screen. Sure, she had given her number to Eloise a while back, and they had exchanged a few texts now and then but it wasn’t like they were casual texting buddies. 

So, this is probably going to sound ridiculous.

Cressida frowned, her fingers hovering over the screen. Before she could type a response, another message appeared.

Would you maybe want to go to dinner with me? Like… not as a shopkeeper and a customer. Just dinner with you and me.

She froze.

Dinner.

Dinner?

Dinner like dinner between casual friends or dinner as in like—a date? 

The word seemed so small, so simple, but it echoed in her mind like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples across everything she had carefully held in place.

Eloise— Emma —wanted to have dinner with her. Her.

It was a simple invitation, yet the potential meaning behind it felt heavier than she knew what to do with.

Her first instinct was confusion. Why her? What could Eloise possibly want with her beyond idle conversation and antique oddities?

But as she sat there, phone still clutched in her hands, her thoughts began to wander again.

It wasn’t that Cressida had never thought about affection. But love—romantic love—had always seemed like something that belonged to other people. People who fit neatly into the lives society expected of them. And she did try, God knows she tried. But that was never really her.

Back in Mayfair, she had been paraded around ballrooms and drawing rooms like a doll, her purpose reduced to smiling politely and securing a match. Suitors had come and gone, each one either as insincere as the last or simply not good enough for the standards of her parents. Her mother had taught her what love should look like—a respectable man with a good title, a proper household, a dutiful life.

She had accepted that as her reality, because what other choice was there?

But then there was Eloise.

Eloise Bridgerton had been the exception to every rule. Her wit, her curiosity, her refusal to accept the confines of their world—they had all drawn Cressida in against her better judgment. They had been rivals, yes, but for a short while, they had also been friends.

Proper friends.

And despite everything—her rivalry with those close to Eloise, the barbs they had exchanged, their short-lived friendship—Eloise had been the first person to truly see her.

She still remembered Eloise’s laughter, unrestrained and bright, as though it could cut through every shadow in the world. She remembered stolen afternoons over that one faithful summer when they sat in gardens or libraries, talking about everything and nothing. She remembered the way Eloise had looked at her, eyes bright with curiosity, always pushing her to think deeper, to be more.

Thinking back on it, had there been something else there? A feeling she hadn’t let herself understand? Something she hadn’t let herself see?

She didn’t know. She had never allowed herself to ask that question.

T imes had been different.

It was a thought she might have buried forever had she realized it back then—something that belonged to a girl who no longer existed. But then, years later, Ophelia had told her a story.

“I once loved someone,” Ophelia had confessed on her fifty-fifth birthday, her voice quiet but steady as she sat across from Cressida. “A woman.”

Cressida had been stunned. Not because she judged Ophelia for it—she didn’t—but because it was so far outside the world she had known. Where she came from, such things were hidden, whispered about, treated as impossibilities.

And yet Ophelia had loved. She had loved deeply, and painfully, and Cressida could still hear the wistful tremor in her voice when she spoke of the woman she loved who had married a man instead.

“We made a promise once,” Ophelia had said, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “That if we ever grew old and unmarriageable, we’d live together as spinsters. Just the two of us, in a little house by the sea. It was a foolish promise, but a beautiful one. A silly dream, wasn’t it?”

It was the first time Cressida realized that love didn’t have to follow the rules the world imposed. It could exist in quiet corners, in shared laughter, in the spaces between words. It could belong to people who weren’t like everyone else.

And now, sitting by the fire with Eloise’s message glowing on her phone, Cressida remembered the odd look Ophelia had given her all those years ago when she first spoke of Eloise Bridgerton. And all the indecipherable looks that followed every time she mentioned Eloise. 

Again, she asked herself. 

Had there been something more?

Was it possible that Cressida’s attachment to Eloise all those years ago was more than simple friendship?

She thought about the way Eloise’s smile had made her chest feel light, how her sharp words had made her feel alive, how her presence always brought a sense of calm she had always craved. She thought about the ache of their last parting, how deeply it had settled in her bones.

And now—centuries later—here was Eloise again, walking into her life with that same defiance, that same clever smile. Except it wasn’t Eloise. Not really. 

Emma, she reminded herself. Her name is Emma. 

But no matter how much she told herself that this was someone new, someone different, her heart refused to listen.

A hollow ache filled Cressida’s chest as she thought of Ophelia.

She wished she could talk to her now—to ask her what it all meant, what she should do. Ophelia had always known how to make sense of the things that felt impossible. She would have seen through Cressida’s walls, through all the fear and confusion, and offered her something simple and clear.

“I don’t know what to do,” Cressida murmured to the empty room, her voice catching. “I wish you were here.”

The fire crackled in response, its warmth doing little to ease the chill she felt.

It wasn’t a moment later until her phone buzzed again.

If it’s too weird, you can just ignore me. I’ll still come annoy you at the shop.

A soft laugh escaped Cressida before she realized it. Eloise had always been bold. And here she was again, pressing against the edges of Cressida’s carefully constructed life. She shook her head, smiling despite herself as she typed her reply. 

Slowly, she began to type. 

It’s not weird.

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip before she sent the message and continued. 

Dinner sounds lovely.

She hit send again before she could overthink it, and she stared at the screen, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Almost immediately, Eloise’s response came through. Was she just staring at her screen, waiting for a reply? 

Great! Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up. Promise I’ll be on my best behavior.

I’ll believe it when I see it.

Cressida smiled to herself, shaking her head as she sent her response before setting the phone down, a smile lingering on her lips while she curled deeper into her chair. The fire crackled on, and her thoughts seemed to have settled down a bit.

She wished Ophelia were here to see this—to guide her through the unfamiliar emotions that tangled inside her chest.

But even without her, Cressida could feel a small ember of hope beginning to glow. After all, she did make a promise that she would find happiness one day. And she can’t shake the feeling that this was finally her chance. 

Tomorrow, she had something to look forward to. 

She can’t wait. 

Chapter Text

The knock on her door came promptly at seven.

Cressida paused, fingers still hovering over her earring as she glanced at the clock on the mantle. Honestly, she didn’t think Eloise would be perfectly on time. She strikes Cressida as the kind of person who’s just chaotic enough to leave things until the last minute. But here she was apparently, showing up exactly when she said she will.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she rose from her seat and made her way to the door. As she opened it, the sight before her gave her an unexpected pause.

Eloise stood on the other side, hands shoved casually into the pockets of her dark coat. Her usual energy—something Cressida had quietly categorized as a whirlwind —was noticeably tempered, though her grin was as bright as ever. She wore a sweater over a crisp button-down, the sleeves rolled up just enough to make her look effortlessly put together. Somehow, the simplicity suited her.

Cressida tilted her head. “You’re on time.”

“Is that so surprising? Of course I’m on time,” Eloise replied with mock offense. “Do I look like someone who keeps people waiting?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Eloise chuckled, her grin widening. “But I’m determined to prove you wrong.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Eloise’s gaze flickered over Cressida quickly—too quickly, if she was being honest—before she looked up again with a deliberately casual air.

Except Cressida had caught it.

The glance. The subtle widening of Eloise’s eyes before she masked it with a breezy smile.

She knew exactly what Eloise was looking at: her blonde hair carefully swept back and pinned into place, a soft emerald green dress that hugged her frame just enough to be flattering without being fussy. She’d chosen it because it was simple, something that made her feel comfortable. But the way Eloise looked at her—even for that fleeting second—made her second-guess how casual the evening really was.

“I—uh—” Eloise cleared her throat, dragging her eyes back up to Cressida’s face with the kind of effort that almost made Cressida smirk. “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” Cressida replied evenly, watching her with amusement she didn’t let show. “You don’t look terrible yourself.”

Eloise let out a soft laugh, clearly relieved at the return of their usual banter. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I’ll take it.”

Stepping aside, Cressida held up a finger. “Give me a moment to grab my coat.”

As she turned, she could feel Eloise’s gaze lingering on her again. There was something quietly flustered about her—something unguarded that made Cressida’s heart give a strange, unsteady flutter. 

She smiled when she returned to the door. “All ready. Let’s go.”

The air in Eloise’s car was warmer than expected, the faint hum of music playing from the radio as they settled in.

Cressida smoothed her coat over her lap, her hands carefully folded to keep herself occupied. It wasn’t often that she found herself in the company of others. At least, not in this sense. “You know, I don’t think you told me where we’re going.”

Eloise shot her a sideways glance, her smile easy. “That’s because it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes, a surprise. You’ve heard of those, haven’t you?”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, though there was no real bite behind it. “I hope you’re aware that surprises are rarely as charming as people intend them to be.”

Eloise grinned as she turned her attention back to the road. “Just trust me on this. I promise it’s nothing elaborate. A 40-piece orchestra isn’t going to serenade us under the stars as we ride on a yacht. It’s just dinner. I figured I’d just keep the mystery alive so you wouldn’t back out last minute.”

“I don’t back out of plans,” Cressida replied primly, though she cast Eloise a sidelong glance. “Even when the plans are dubious.”

“Dubious?” Eloise feigned offense, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest as they stopped at a red light. “This is a highly respectable plan. You’ll see.”

Cressida shook her head, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at her lips.

The light turned green, and Eloise focused on the road again. But in the quiet moments that followed, Cressida caught her sneaking another glance out of the corner of her eye—subtle, but noticeable.

She’s doing it again.

Eloise wasn’t exactly staring , but there was no mistaking the way her gaze lingered longer than it should. Like she was trying to figure something out, or perhaps marvel at something she hadn’t quite expected.

It was as though Eloise couldn’t help herself.

Cressida looked out the window to hide her smirk, though her heart gave another odd little twist. What is this?

The evening had barely started, and already her carefully constructed understanding of the night was beginning to crack.

Was this really just dinner between friends? Or was it—

No. Cressida stopped that thought before it could take root. She didn’t know what to make of Eloise—what to make of this . And for now, she wasn’t going to let herself overthink it. 

This is not a date. This is dinner. She was invited for dinner, not a date. 

Eloise suddenly cleared her throat again, her voice breaking the silence. “You’re awfully quiet over there. I’m starting to think you’re plotting my demise.”

Cressida turned to look at her, perfectly composed. “What makes you think I haven’t been doing that since the moment I met you?”

Eloise barked out a laugh, clearly pleased by the response. “See, now I know you’re warming up to me. You’re finally letting your real thoughts slip.”

Cressida allowed herself a small, secret smile, shaking her head as the city lights blurred past the window.

Whatever this evening turned out to be, she found herself looking forward to it far more than she ever would have imagined.

They continued to make idle conversation throughout the ride over to wherever they were going, and eventually, Eloise set the car to park. She gets out and walks over to the other side, opening Cressida’s door for her before motioning for her to follow. 

Now, Cressida wasn’t entirely sure what she was expecting when Eloise had asked her to dinner, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The restaurant was small, tucked between two unassuming buildings on a quiet street. Warm light glowed from its windows, casting soft shadows on the pavement. And inside, the air was rich with the scent of freshly baked bread and simmering herbs. It wasn’t overly fancy—no glittering chandeliers or waiters in tuxedos—but it was charming, with mismatched chairs and tables arranged like they’d grown into the space naturally over time.

It was comfortable and warm and pleasant. 

Much like Eloise herself.

“See?” Eloise said as she held the door open for Cressida, her voice laced with triumph. “I told you it wasn’t some pretentious nightmare. It’s practically a hole-in-the-wall.”

Cressida stepped inside, her eyes scanning the space. She had to admit it had a certain allure, though she wasn’t going to give Eloise the satisfaction of hearing her say so. “And here I thought you had no taste.”

Eloise grinned, clearly unbothered by the jab. “I do occasionally surprise people in a good way.”

The host appeared and led them to a small table near the window. Cressida slid into her seat, her hands folding neatly in her lap as Eloise took the spot across from her.

“So,” Eloise began, leaning against the table with that ever-present gleam of mischief in her eye, “what’s the verdict so far? Are you thoroughly unimpressed and planning your escape, or do I get a point for effort?”

Cressida tilted her head slightly, giving Eloise an unimpressed look she had long since perfected just to mess with her. “You’ll get a point when the food arrives and not a moment sooner.”

Eloise gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “Must you play hardball? I bring you to this charming establishment, and you withhold judgment until you’ve eaten? How finicky you are.”

Cressida smirked, hiding her amusement behind her menu. “A girl has to have some standards.”

Eloise let out a dramatic sigh and picked up her menu. “Fine. But when you’re raving about the bread later, I expect a full apology.”

Sure enough, by the time the breadbasket arrived, Eloise had somehow turned it into the most important culinary event of the evening.

“I’m telling you,” she said as she tore off a piece of the warm, crusty loaf, “bread is the superior food. It’s versatile, dependable, and it’s the one thing that everyone loves. And yes, that includes gluten-free people.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, buttering her own piece delicately. “I wasn’t aware you had such strong opinions about carbohydrates.”

“I have strong opinions about everything,” Eloise replied with a shrug. “It’s one of my many charming qualities, as you’ll learn.”

Cressida let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. Now that sounded very much like Eloise from the past. “I’m starting to think that you’re just trying to distract me from the fact that you can’t decide what to order.”

Eloise paused mid-chew, her expression exaggeratedly guilty. “I can decide. I’m just... considering all my options carefully.”

“You’ve been staring at the menu for ten minutes. Have you ever even been here before?”

“Good food requires thoughtful contemplation, regardless of whether one has been in the establishment before or not,” Eloise said sagely. “You, on the other hand, probably decided the moment you sat down.”

“I did,” Cressida admitted, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s called efficiency.”

Eloise pointed at her with a piece of bread. “Efficiency is overrated. You need to learn to embrace indecision. It’s freeing.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had to run a business.”

Eloise grinned. “Touché.”

They continued to talk and joke around, Cressida eventually taking pity on Eloise and helping her decide on what to eat. She can’t remember a time when she went out to dinner with someone who wasn’t a client or some business associate. And no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t stop her laugh every now and again. Eloise brought out that side of her easily enough and she should be worried, but she’s not. It felt too good. 

When the food finally arrived, Eloise wasted no time diving in, though her focus never strayed far from Cressida.

“So,” Eloise said between bites, “do you always spend your evenings hidden away in that building of yours, or do you occasionally go out and have fun as well?”

Cressida glanced up, one eyebrow arching. “I happen to enjoy my solitude, thank you very much.”

Eloise hummed thoughtfully, as if turning the words over in her mind. “Solitude is all well and good, but you strike me as someone who needs to be reminded what fun looks like.”

“And you think you’re the person to remind me?”

“Clearly,” Eloise replied with a smug grin. “I’ve already gotten you out of that shop, haven’t I? That’s step one.”

Cressida shook her head, though she couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer the term persistent ,” Eloise corrected, taking a sip of her wine. “Impossible makes me sound unreasonable.”

“You are unreasonable.”

“And yet here you are, having dinner with me.”

Cressida opened her mouth to respond, but Eloise’s grin was too triumphant, and she found herself shaking her head again instead. “Fine. You got me there.”

She badly wanted to ask Eloise what this night actually was but she just couldn’t find the right words or timing. If Eloise answers that it’s just dinner between friends, Cressida would likely feel disappointed now that they’re having such a good time. And if she answered that it was a date, well, Cressida wasn’t sure if she was ready for the reality of that just yet. 

In a way, maybe it was good that Eloise hadn’t clarified it. She was content to just be in the moment with their quips and light teasing.

But as the evening stretched on, the teasing gave way to quieter moments.

At one point, Eloise set down her fork and studied Cressida carefully, her expression softening. “You know, you’re different when you smile.”

Cressida stilled, the words catching her off guard. “Am I?”

Eloise nodded. “You are. It suits you.”

Cressida looked away, her cheeks warming. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good. It was.”

There was something in the way Eloise said it—earnest and gentle—that left Cressida momentarily lost for words. Luckily, Eloise didn’t wait for Cressida to respond. Instead, she went back into another one of her tangents, and Cressida was all too happy to listen. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud. 

The rest of the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation, the sort of background noise that allowed space for comfortable silences in between. The warmth from the soft hanging lights cast a golden glow over their table, making everything feel softer, more intimate.

Cressida still wasn’t certain what to make of the evening. The conversation was light, the teasing easy, and Eloise was... Eloise . Bold, charming, and utterly unrelenting in the way she could get Cressida to lower her guard without even trying.

“I’m convinced you must have been a great interrogator in another life,” Cressida said as she picked at her dessert, her fork cutting through the delicate slice of chocolate torte. “I still think you’re impossible, but I’ll admit to you being persistent as well.”

Eloise smirked over her half-empty glass. “You know what, I’ll take that as a compliment. Persistence gets results, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Eloise said, leaning forward slightly as though to share a great secret. “You’d be amazed by what you can uncover when you ask the right questions.”

“And what questions would those be?” Cressida asked, narrowing her eyes, though her lips curved into a faint smile. She should have been nervous, given that there was still the unspoken question of why they looked like someone from their past, but she had a feeling that Eloise had let it go. At least for now. 

Eloise considered her for a moment, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the edge of the table. “Let’s start with something simple.”

Cressida arched an eyebrow. “This ought to be good.”

Eloise grinned. “What’s your favorite book?”

“That’s your big interrogation question?” Cressida said, incredulous. “I expected something far more intrusive.”

“I’m just easing you into it,” Eloise replied, entirely unbothered. “So? You’re stalling.”

Cressida sighed, shaking her head as she set down her fork. “Fine. I don’t have a favorite book.”

Eloise looked scandalized. “Impossible. Everyone has a favorite book.”

“I don’t,” Cressida said simply, though her tone was amused. “There are too many to choose from. I’ve read countless of them, and I find something to appreciate in each one. How could I possibly narrow it down to just one?”

Eloise stared at her, mock horror written across her face. “That’s the most infuriatingly logical answer I’ve ever heard. How dare you.”

“You did ask the question,” Cressida pointed out smugly.

“Yes, and now I regret it.”

Cressida let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “What about you, then? What’s your favorite book?”

Eloise’s smug demeanor faltered as she sat back in her chair. “That’s not fair. I asked you first, you can’t just recycle the question.”

“You said persistence gets results, did you not?”

Eloise groaned, though she was clearly just trying not to smile. “Fine. If I had to choose, I’d say Frankenstein.”

Cressida blinked. She did not expect that. “Really?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

“I suppose I just didn’t peg you for the gothic type.”

“I’m usually not, but Mary Shelley was ahead of her time,” Eloise replied, suddenly earnest. “It’s not just about monsters and science. It’s about humanity—what we create, what we’re responsible for. It’s... tragic, really.”

Cressida tilted her head, watching Eloise curiously. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of something deeper—something raw. It passed quickly, hidden behind Eloise’s usual grin, but it lingered with Cressida in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“You’re not what I expected,” she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Eloise raised an eyebrow. “And what did you expect?”

Cressida looked down at her plate, feeling warmth creep up her neck. “Someone less... thoughtful.”

“Careful,” Eloise said with a teasing smirk, though her gaze was gentler than her words. “Say more things like that and I might think you’re starting to like me.”

Cressida didn’t respond immediately, but the comfortable silence between them was something neither of them rushed to fill. 

It was half an hour later when they finally finished up and stepped back out into the night, the air still crisp and cool. 

Eloise walked a step ahead, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “So?” she asked as they started toward the car. “Did I earn my point?”

Cressida glanced at her, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. “Fine. I suppose you get your point.”

Eloise shot her a triumphant look. “Just one? I think I deserve at least three for charm, taste, and excellent conversation.”

“I’ll give you two,” Cressida replied, shaking her head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Two? Fine, I’ll take it.”

They reached the car, but instead of immediately unlocking it, Eloise turned to face her. For a brief moment, they simply stood there—close enough that Cressida could see the faint flush on Eloise’s cheeks, either from the cold or something else entirely.

“Thank you,” Eloise said quietly, her tone losing its usual teasing edge. “For coming out with me tonight despite not being a fan of surprises.”

Cressida hesitated, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. “It was... nice,” she admitted softly. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Eloise’s smile widened, but there was something softer about it now—something that made Cressida’s chest feel tight.

“Well, I really shouldn’t push my luck,” Eloise said finally, unlocking the car with a small grin. “But the night isn’t over. Maybe I’ll earn that third point yet.”

Now that actually caught her by surprise. She wasn’t expecting anything other than dinner. But before she could ask, Eloise unlocked the car and opened the door for her. Cressida shot her a suspicious look but climbed in all the same. 

She had a feeling that Eloise wouldn’t say anything further regarding the rest of the night’s plans, so she didn’t ask. It was only a short drive, and eventually, Eloise parked the car in front of a quiet, tree-lined park. The soft glow of streetlamps spilled across the cobbled pathway, the cool air rustling the tree leaves. Cressida glanced out the window, her brow furrowing slightly as she turned back to Eloise.

“A park? Is this where you plan to abandon me after luring me out with dinner?”

Eloise laughed, cutting the engine and tossing her keys into her coat pocket. “Abandon you? Why would I do that? You’d miss out on all my charm.”

“That’s assuming I’d miss you,” Cressida replied smoothly, though the corners of her lips tugged upward.

Eloise didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped out of the car, walking around to Cressida’s side to open the door for her. It would clearly become something of a habit down the line—a small, thoughtless courtesy—but this time, Eloise offered her hand to help her out.

Cressida hesitated only for a second before taking it, her fingers brushing against Eloise’s palm. Eloise glanced at their hands briefly before dropping hers back into her pocket, looking far too pleased with herself.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Cressida said, smoothing down the hem of her coat as they started walking.

“About abandoning you?” Eloise tilted her head, feigning deep thought. “Well, the night’s young. Give me a reason, and we’ll see.”

Cressida huffed out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Persistent,” Eloise corrected, her grin wide. “We’ve been over this.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds were the soft crunch of gravel beneath their shoes and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. The park was quieter than Cressida expected, almost serene. The trees stood tall and dark against the night sky, their branches casting long, dappled shadows across the path. The air was crisp but not cold, the kind of autumn evening that felt just right. In a way, it almost reminded her of Blackwood. Of the first home she had after meeting Ophelia. 

“I used to go on walks like this back home,” Cressida said suddenly, her voice soft as her gaze flickered toward the trees. “There were fewer lights, of course, and the streets were hardly as clean. But the quiet was the same.”

Eloise looked over at her, her expression curious but gentle. It was the first time Cressida had ever mentioned having a home aside from the shop. “Back home?”

Cressida hesitated before offering a small nod. “A long time ago,” she said simply.

Eloise didn’t press, though her sharp gaze lingered on Cressida a little longer before turning back to the path. “Well, I’d say we’re in luck tonight. This place is practically empty. I can’t imagine it’s always like this.”

“Are you trying to convince me you planned this?”

“Obviously,” Eloise said with mock pride. “Dinner, a charming walk through the park—this is peak romcom material, Lia. I expect a glowing review of the evening after.”

Cressida shook her head, though she couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “You really do think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Someone has to.”

They walked on, the silence between them less about the absence of words and more about the ease of their company. Cressida found herself stealing sidelong glances at Eloise—at the way the streetlamps cast soft shadows across her face, at the faint flush of her cheeks from the cool air, at the lopsided smile that seemed to linger without effort.

For a moment, Cressida allowed herself to imagine that this was just an ordinary evening between two people. That she wasn’t carrying centuries of secrets, that this woman wasn’t the spitting image of someone she had once known—someone she had never quite been able to let go of.

It was easier, here in the quiet, to pretend.

“You know,” Eloise said, breaking the silence as they reached a small stone bridge overlooking a shallow stream. “You’re not nearly as intimidating as you let on.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, leaning against the bridge’s railing. “I wasn’t aware I was trying to intimidate anyone.”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Eloise replied, mirroring her stance as she glanced at her. “But you do have this air about you—like you’re always holding something back. It’s very mysterious. Does that come with the job?”

Cressida looked away, if only to hide her face in case her expression gave something away. “Is that a compliment?”

“Depends. Do you like being mysterious?”

Cressida considered that for a moment before shaking her head. “Not particularly.”

Eloise’s smile softened. “Well, for what it’s worth, I like it when you let your guard down. You’re much more fun that way.”

Cressida glanced at her, her lips parting as though to respond, but the words didn’t come. There was something about the way Eloise was looking at her—open and honest and far too perceptive—that made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

“Well... I think I prefer when you’re quiet,” she said in an attempt to break the tension with a bit of teasing and humor, though her tone lacked its usual bite. She silently cursed herself for being caught off guard. 

Eloise smirked, not falling for her bait. She didn’t say anything, but Cressida knew she was taking it as a win. 

And for a while they just stood there, the silence stretching comfortably between them as the water below murmured softly. The sky above was clear, the stars just faint enough to be visible beyond the city lights.

Eventually, Eloise broke the quiet again. “You’re staring.”

Cressida blinked, startled. “What?”

Eloise turned to face her, her grin playful but her eyes warm. “You’re staring at me.”

“I am not.”

“You definitely are,” Eloise said, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “It’s okay. It’s just the two of us here, you can admit it. I’m very nice to look at, it’s fine.”

Cressida snorted, turning her gaze away sharply as her cheeks warmed. Had she actually been staring? “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” Eloise teased, echoing her earlier words.

Cressida rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the smile that crept across her lips anymore. “I really should have stayed home.”

“And missed all of this?” Eloise gestured dramatically to the empty park, the dark sky, and herself. “Banish the thought.”

Cressida shook her head, laughing softly despite herself.

They continued their walk, and the night had grown quieter as they wandered further along the park’s winding paths. The faint hum of distant traffic felt miles away now, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their shoes.

Eloise had fallen into step beside Cressida, hands shoved into her coat pockets as she rambled—something about London’s historical parks, their layout, and the audacity of city planners centuries ago. She spoke with the same confidence she did everything else, as though her every observation was a great revelation to the world.

Cressida wasn’t listening closely. Not because she found Eloise dull—far from it. She’d just rather listen while having her eyes wander. She didn’t know why she kept stealing glances at the woman beside her—at the way the lamplight caught the brightness in her eyes, or how her grin seemed permanently edged with mischief. But there was something about this part of the night—the quiet, the lingering stillness—that made everything feel more... fragile.

Cressida didn’t like fragile.

She liked control. And right now, the growing warmth in her chest was anything but controlled.

Cressida wasn’t sure how long they had been walking when it happened. It happened so quickly she didn’t have time to brace for it.

One moment, she was trying to focus on Eloise’s rambling tangent about city planners. The next, she slipped on a patch of loose gravel hidden in the dark. It wasn’t even a dramatic stumble—barely more than a slight lurch—but it was enough to make her breath catch.

Her body pitched forward, the startled breath escaping her lips, but before she could stumble further, Eloise’s hand shot out and caught her wrist, steadying her with surprising ease.

“Whoa there,” Eloise said, her voice tinged with laughter as she pulled Cressida upright. “Careful. I didn’t think I’d need to install railings for our walk.”

Cressida let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her free hand pressing instinctively against Eloise’s forearm to regain her balance. “That wasn’t my fault,” she muttered, glancing down at the offending patch of gravel as though it had conspired against her.

“Sure,” Eloise replied, grinning. “The ground betrayed you. I understand.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, straightening fully. She expected Eloise to let go after that. It was the logical next step—release her wrist, add one last teasing remark, and continue walking.

But Eloise didn’t let go.

Her grip was gentle now—steady but careful—fingers wrapped around her wrist like she was afraid Cressida might slip again if she let go too soon. Her thumb then brushed absently across the back of Cressida’s hand—a small, unconscious motion that made Cressida’s pulse skip.

And then her hand shifted—fingers sliding down to tangle gently with Cressida’s own.

She froze. 

Her first instinct was to pull away, to say something sharp that would break the tension curling like a knot in her chest. But she didn’t for some reason.

Eloise’s grip was light, tentative almost, as though she half-expected Cressida to pull away, to refuse the quiet, unspoken gesture.

She still didn’t. 

She glanced down at their joined hands, her breath catching for a split second. It wasn’t much. Fingers intertwined, palms pressed together. Something small and simple. And yet it felt monumental—like a line being crossed, even if neither of them would acknowledge it out loud.

Cressida forced herself to look up, expecting Eloise to meet her with another grin, some throwaway joke to make light of what she’d done.

But Eloise wasn’t grinning.

Her expression had softened—eyes warm and searching as she looked at Cressida, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as though she were trying to work through something she didn’t have the words for.

“Better?” Eloise asked, her voice quiet.

Cressida blinked, trying to ignore the fluttering in her chest. “Better?” she repeated, confused and still half-expecting Eloise to laugh and tease her for her clumsiness.

Eloise’s lips quirked into a small, crooked smile. “You looked like you might fall again. I’m just being thorough.”

Cressida let out a soft breath—a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh—and shook her head. “Really? That’s your excuse for holding my hand?”

“I don’t think I need an excuse,” Eloise replied, her tone light but her gaze steady. “But if you prefer, I’ll claim it’s a safety precaution. You’re far too dangerous around gravel, apparently.”

Cressida opened her mouth to retort, but no words came. Her brain was too focused on the fact that Eloise hadn’t let go. That they were still side by side, fingers twined as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And what surprised her most was how right it felt.

She had spent centuries keeping people at arm’s length—never allowing anyone to get close enough to see the truth, to unravel the carefully constructed walls she’d built around herself. But with Eloise—this new Eloise who claimed herself to be Emma—those walls seemed to crumble without effort.

She is not Eloise Bridgerton, she kept reminding herself firmly. She wasn’t the girl Cressida had known back in Mayfair, the girl whose friendship still meant the world to her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.

And yet…

Cressida glanced sideways at Eloise, at the way her thumb kept brushing lightly against the back of her hand as they continued to walk.

It was maddening, how natural it felt to be here, in this moment, with her.

“You’re being quiet again,” Eloise said after a moment, breaking the silence. “Am I making you nervous?”

Cressida shot her a look, though she doubted it had the sharpness she intended. “You give yourself far too much credit.”

“Maybe.” Eloise’s smile widened, though there was a softness to it now, something less performative. “But I don’t hear you complaining.”

Cressida didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because, for the first time in years, she didn’t mind the silence. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel alone. She didn’t feel like an observer, watching the world go by while she stayed the same.

She felt... present.

She certainly didn’t mind the warmth of Eloise’s hand in hers, or the way the night air carried the faint scent of the city—lavender, rain-soaked stone, and something inexplicably like home.

And she didn’t mind that part of her wanted to stay in this moment for as long as it would last.

Chapter Text

St. Ives, 1835

The shop felt empty without Ophelia.

Cressida stood at the counter, her hands braced against its smooth, polished surface, her eyes fixed on the trunk she had packed earlier that morning. It was a small, practical thing—just enough for a short trip. She wasn’t leaving St. Ives permanently, but the weight of what she was doing made it feel as though she was packing up her life.

Ophelia had been gone for only a few days, but already the emptiness was suffocating.

She was starting to hate the quiet. It wasn’t the quiet she welcomed. It wasn’t the peaceful stillness of mornings spent arranging shelves, cataloging wares, or simply polishing the glass of a display case. No, this quiet seemed to bear down on her, threatening to swallow her whole. 

She glanced toward the far corner of the shop where Ophelia had often sat, sorting through new finds or jotting notes into one of her journals. Cressida could still picture her there, her dark eyes bright with curiosity, her hands deft and steady as she worked.

But the corner was empty now. Like the seat at the breakfast table, like the sound of the stairs that no longer creaked beneath Ophelia’s steps.

Her gaze fell to the dagger resting on the counter, its steel blade carefully wrapped in soft cloth to protect its sheen. She reached for it instinctively, her fingers brushing against the fabric. She hadn’t gone on a journey without it in years. It was habit now, to take it whenever she traveled. A talisman of sorts, though she still wasn’t sure what it protected her from aside from the cold hands of time. 

Maybe she should consider learning how to actually use it for self-defense now that she’s all on her own. 

Her hand hovered over it for a moment before she picked it up, slipping it carefully into her bag.

She let out a slow breath before looking around the shop one last time. The shelves were still untouched, the wares neatly arranged as though waiting for Ophelia to return and bring them to life again. Cressida knew she’d come back to this place—she had to. But for now, it felt like leaving a piece of herself behind.

“You always said I needed to move on,” she murmured into the empty room. “I suppose this is your way of making sure I do.”

The quiet didn’t answer her. It never did.

With a heavy sigh, she adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder and stepped toward the door. The bell above it jingled faintly as it swung open, its familiar sound carrying a hollow weight.

Cressida paused on the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder at the shop she had called home for so long. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, as much a promise to herself as to Ophelia.

And then she stepped out into the fading light of day, the door closing softly behind her.

–

The road to London stretched endlessly before her, the soft rumble of the carriage wheels over dirt and stone filling the air. Cressida sat back against the seat, her gaze fixed out the window as the countryside rolled past, the occasional village breaking up the monotony.

Cressida sat alone in the carriage, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Behind her, she could hear the creak of the cart following the carriage, the weight of Ophelia’s casket a constant reminder of the purpose of her journey. She had glanced back more times than she could count now and the sight of Ophelia’s casket made her chest tighten every time, a knot of grief that refused to unravel no matter how much she tried to breathe through it.

The cart was simple, unadorned, just like the box it carried. Ophelia had never been one for pomp or excess, she even refused an actual hearse, and Cressida just had to respect that decision. But the sight of it, so stark and final, was more than she could bear.

The seat across from her was empty, as it had been for the past three days.

But she couldn’t stop seeing Ophelia there, her sharp gaze softening as they talked, reading a book or fiddling with a trinket as she offered some bit of wisdom or a wry remark.

It felt wrong to be there without her.

She looked down at her hands, trying to steady her breathing. The silence in the carriage was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the wheels and the distant murmur of the cart behind them. She had known loneliness before—had lived with it for years before Ophelia found her. But this... this was different.

Her mind drifted to another carriage ride, so many years ago.

She had been freshly disgraced and exiled then, the carriage rattling over uneven roads as it carried her far from Mayfair. Her father’s last words to her still rang in her ears sometimes, cold and cutting as he saw her off. “You’ve brought enough shame upon this family.”

The loneliness had been unbearable then, too—a crushing weight that made the air feel too thin, the world too large. The ride to Wales had been bleak and quiet, the countryside passing in a blur as she sat alone, her thoughts filled with humiliation and despair. She had sat rigid in her seat, staring out at the rolling countryside with eyes that burned from holding back tears.

She hadn’t cried then, just as she wouldn’t cry now. But back then, there had been Ophelia.

Ophelia had saved her from that loneliness once, plucking her out of the darkness and giving her a purpose, a home. 

She hadn’t known what to make of the older woman at first—the sharp-tongued, no-nonsense woman who had taken her in without a second thought. But Ophelia had seen something in her, something worth saving, and slowly, Cressida had begun to see it too.

The memory brought a faint, bittersweet smile to her lips. Ophelia had saved her in every way that mattered.

But now, Cressida was back where she had started.

Her gaze flickered to the cart again, her chest tightening as she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. The sight of the casket sent a fresh wave of grief crashing over her, and she clenched her jaw, blinking back the sting of tears.

She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready.

Cressida pressed her fingers to her temples, forcing herself to focus on the rhythm of the wheels, the sound of the horse’s hooves against the road. Anything to keep her mind distracted. She let out a slow, unsteady breath, her fingers brushing against the strap of her bag. The dagger was there, its weight familiar and reassuring, even if it offered no real comfort.

But her feelings only grew heavier the closer they drew to the city. 

The countryside gave way to small towns, then larger villages, and finally to the outskirts of London itself. The air seemed to change, carrying with it the faint tang of coal smoke and damp stone that Cressida hadn’t realized she still remembered so clearly. Had she really preferred that over the countryside before? 

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers gripping the edge of the window frame as she stared out at the bustling streets beginning to emerge on the horizon. The familiar sights should have been comforting, but instead, they only brought a dull ache to her chest.

“Keep clear of Mayfair,” she had instructed the driver firmly before they departed. “There’s no need to pass through that part of the city.”

The driver had nodded, his expression neutral. But despite his compliance, Cressida couldn’t shake the lingering fear that somehow, some way, she might still be recognized.

It was absurd. Decades had passed. Surely, the scandal of her disgrace had long since faded into obscurity, buried beneath the endless churn of the Ton’s gossip and the unrelenting passage of time. Her parents, at the very least her father, were probably gone by now, as were many of the faces she had once known. The thought never really bothered her. 

And yet, the thought of setting foot anywhere near her old life made her chest tighten with unease.

She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about it—of the life she had left behind.

If she had played her cards differently, if she had secured a match good enough to satisfy her parents, what would her life have been?

She tried to imagine it: herself in a grand townhouse, married to some titled gentleman with a respectable fortune. Children running through the halls, a husband hosting dinner parties for his peers while she played the role of a dutiful wife. Maybe she’d have ended up like her mother, trussing up her daughter for the season as if she were to be auctioned off like a prized calf. 

Sadly, it wasn’t a difficult image to conjure. It was the life her mother had dreamed of for her, the life she had once been groomed for so meticulously.

But would she have been happy?

Sure, it would have gotten her away from her parents and that oppressive mausoleum of a household but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture joy in that life.

Perhaps she would have found contentment in the stability, in the ease of belonging to a world that she had been born into. But she would have lost something too—something she hadn’t even realized she valued until much later.

Freedom.

The freedom to live as she pleased, to pursue her interests, to define herself outside the rigid expectations of the Ton. Ophelia had given her that, and it had been a gift more precious than anything she could have imagined. 

Her thoughts drifted back to her parents. Her father, with his cold disapproval and impossible expectations. Her mother, whose love had always felt conditional, measured against Cressida’s ability to reflect well on the family.

Would they even recognize her now if they saw her?

She wasn’t even sure she’d recognize herself. Her looking exactly the same as she had left aside. 

That’s enough , she thought bitterly, gripping the edge of the seat tighter. Dwelling on her family—on what could have been—did nothing but stir old wounds that should have been left to scar long ago.

She couldn’t go back. Wouldn’t go back. Not in her heart, not in her mind.

Instead, she tried to focus on something else—on memories that didn’t carry the same sharp edges. Memories of Ophelia came unbidden, soft and bittersweet, wrapping around her like a comfortable blanket.

One particular memory surfaced, and despite the ache in her chest, it brought a faint smile to her lips. 

It had been a quiet evening at home, years ago, the two of them sitting by the fireplace. The shop had already closed for the day, the streets outside quiet save for the distant sound of the ocean.

“Do you ever think about the life you left behind?” Ophelia had asked suddenly, her gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth.

Cressida, seated across from her with a book in her lap, had tilted her head, startled by the question. “Not often,” she had replied carefully. “Someone once told me that it doesn’t do much good to think about things that can’t be changed.”

Ophelia had hummed softly, her lips curving into a cheeky little smile. “That someone sounds very wise. Maybe you should listen to her more often.”

Cressida had rolled her eyes, earning a soft laugh from Ophelia. “Alright, stop fishing for compliments. I already admitted to you being a good teacher.”

Ophelia’s smile had lingered, but her gaze had grown distant before letting out a sigh. “Call me a hypocrite, but I think about mine sometimes,” she had said after a moment. “The life I left behind, I mean. Or, rather, the life I might have had.”

“Thinking about her again?” Cressida looked at her, tilting her head curiously. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me her name.”

“Madeline,” Ophelia smiles at the name alone, her voice softer than usual. 

Cressida had closed her book, setting it aside since she’d much rather listen to whatever Ophelia had to say. 

“I wonder if she ever thinks of me, too,” Ophelia continued, almost to herself. “It’s been so long now. I can barely remember the sound of her voice.”

Cressida had studied her for a moment, unsure of how to respond. She had never heard Ophelia speak of her past love without a certain bittersweetness in her tone.

“Do you regret it?” she had asked finally.

“Regret?” Ophelia had turned to her, one eyebrow arched.

“Loving her,” Cressida clarified, her voice quiet. “Even though it didn’t end the way you wanted.”

For a long moment, Ophelia hadn’t answered. Then, with a soft exhale, she had said, “No. Never.” She had leaned back in her chair, her gaze returning to the fire. “Loving her was... it was worth every moment. Even the painful ones. It shaped me, you know? Taught me things about myself I never would have discovered otherwise.”

Cressida had nodded slowly, her hands resting in her lap. “I think I understand that.”

Ophelia had glanced at her then, her sharp gaze softening. “You’ve thought about her again, haven’t you?”

Cressida had stiffened slightly, but she didn’t deny it. “Eloise,” she had admitted after a moment.

Ophelia’s smile had returned, faint but knowing. “You always get that look when you speak of her. Like you’re still trying to make sense of something.”

“I’m not,” Cressida had said quickly, almost defensively, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. “She was my friend. That’s all.”

Ophelia had tilted her head, watching her with the kind of patience that always made Cressida feel like she was being seen far too clearly. “Friends leave marks on us too, my love,” she had said gently. “And sometimes, those marks run deeper than we expect.”

Cressida had looked down at her hands, tracing the faint lines on her palms as though they held some answer she couldn’t find. “I’ll never get the chance to tell her how much she meant to me,” she had murmured, almost to herself.

“Maybe not,” she had said softly. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Or that it didn’t matter.”

“It’s foolish of me to still be thinking about her. We weren’t even friends for very long,” Cressida shook her head. “Sometimes I don’t even think that part of my life was real.”

“Tell me more about her,” Ophelia nods, never discouraging Cressida from speaking her feelings. She encouraged those emotions more often than not, made sure they weren’t all bottled up. 

“She was… infuriating,” Cressida had said with a faint smile. “Always questioning things, challenging everything and everyone around her. Some things happened one year and she tried her best to fit in, to give in to what society expected of her, and lord knows I tried to help her along but her true self always shone through. Ruffled more than a few feathers, let me tell you.” Cressida laughed softly, thinking back to those times. 

“But she was also kind and thoughtful. You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t close, but it was there. And she was honest. Sometimes a little too honest. I think… I think she was the first person who ever made me feel like I could be more than what I was expected to be.” she smiled, though it never really reached her eyes. “I hope that spark in her never dulled. I only regret that our friendship ended the way it did.”

Ophelia had reached across the space between them, her hand warm and steady as it covered Cressida’s. “You never know,” she had said softly, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “The world has a way of surprising us. Maybe one day, you’ll find her again. Right some wrongs, bring closure to what once was.”

Cressida nodded despite knowing it would never happen because there was no reason to deny it or argue with Ophelia. "Yeah. Maybe one day."

The memory lingered now, intertwining with the ache of loss that filled the carriage.

Cressida had always thought of herself as someone who lived in the present, someone who didn’t dwell on the past. But now, as the road to London stretched before her, she found herself longing for the past more than ever.

She glanced out the window again, the sight of Ophelia’s casket bringing a fresh wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her. She clenched her fists tightly, drawing in a shaky breath as she forced herself to look away.

“Friends leave marks on us too,” Ophelia had said. “And sometimes, those marks run deeper than we expect.”

And now, Cressida carried those marks alone.

The thoughts of Ophelia’s wisdom and her encouragement to find peace with the past eventually led Cressida to the one person who had always lingered at the edges of her memory, no matter how much time had passed: Eloise Bridgerton.

She leaned her head against the carriage window, her eyes fixed on the blur of the passing houses and buildings, though her mind was far from the present. 

Eloise. 

Always Eloise.

How was she doing? Had she managed to carve out the life she had wanted for herself—a life free from the expectations and restrictions that society so tightly bound around women like her? Had she found peace in defying them all and embracing her independence?

Cressida liked to think so. She liked to imagine Eloise living in some quaint cottage or even traveling the world, surrounded by books and ideas, her sharp mind still cutting through everything like a blade. If anyone could find a way, it would be her. That had been Eloise’s dream, hadn’t it? To live a life that belonged solely to her, unshackled by the chains of duty and propriety.

But another, less comforting possibility clawed its way into her thoughts.

What if Eloise hadn’t escaped?

What if the weight of it all—her family’s expectations, society’s unrelenting pressure—had worn her down over time? What if she had succumbed to the life she had always rallied against, becoming a wife, a mother, a hostess? Cressida could almost see it, Eloise’s spark dulled by years of conformity, her laughter quieter, her words less sharp. The image didn’t sit right with her. It felt wrong in a way she couldn’t describe.

The thought made her chest tighten.

But then, another, far darker thought crept in.

What if Eloise was dead?

It wasn’t an unreasonable fear. After all, it had been over two decades since they had last seen each other. Time had a way of erasing people, of stealing them away when you weren’t looking. Cressida herself hadn’t aged that much since she left Mayfair, but Eloise... Eloise was mortal. She had always been vibrant and full of life, but life had its limits.

What if Eloise had succumbed to an illness? What if an accident had taken her? What if, right now, Eloise was lying on her deathbed, her once-bright eyes dimmed with the weight of years and sorrow and Cressida wasn’t there to make amends and see her off?

The thought hit her like a physical blow, her breath catching in her throat.

She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady the frantic beating of her heart. It wasn’t something she could control. Eloise couldn’t live forever. That was reality. But knowing it didn’t make the thought any less unbearable.

Why did she still think about her? Why did Eloise linger in her mind after all these years, after everything that had happened between them? It had been over two decades since they last spoke, and they hadn’t parted on good terms. If anything, their friendship had ended in bitterness, in misunderstandings that neither of them had been willing to bridge at the time.

Cressida clenched her jaw, her nails digging into her palms. It was foolish to let herself dwell on these thoughts, on these feelings that had no place in her life now. Eloise was a part of her past—a part she had left behind along with Mayfair and everything it represented.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the image of Eloise from her mind.

The memory of her laugh, her cutting words, her unyielding defiance—it was all still there, as vivid as the last time they had spoken. And it terrified her.

But there was nothing she could do. She didn’t know where Eloise was, or if she was still alive. And even if she did, what could she say? What could she possibly say to mend a friendship that had been broken for so long?

She closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the windowpane.

Eloise was gone. Whether she was alive or not, she was gone from Cressida’s life, and it was foolish to think otherwise.

But the ache in her heart refused to let her forget. The memories wouldn’t fade. 

The clatter of the carriage wheels slowed as they entered the city proper, the cobblestones of London streets bringing a strange weight to Cressida’s chest. She hadn’t been back here in decades, and yet the city still carried the same familiar feeling.

The driver followed her instructions to the letter, keeping clear of Mayfair and instead weaving through quieter streets until they reached a modest funeral parlor tucked between an apothecary and a baker’s shop.

The carriage came to a halt, the horses snorting softly as the driver climbed down. Cressida hesitated for a moment, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she steeled herself before stepping out into the cool evening air, the noise of the city muffled on this quieter street. She turned to watch as the driver carefully assisted the funeral attendants in unloading the casket.

“Everything will be arranged from here, miss. We’ll take good care of her,” the director assured her, his tone respectful but efficient. She hoped desperately that he meant his words because she didn’t think she could handle any problems right now. 

Cressida nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice steadier than she felt.

She lingered for a moment as they carried the casket inside, her gaze following until the door swung shut behind them. Ophelia deserved more than this—more than a simple parlor and a handful of strangers handling her final arrangements. But this was what she wanted, and Cressida had to trust that it would be enough.

With a heavy sigh, she turned back to the driver once everything was settled. “Take me to the inn,” she said quietly.

The following days passed in a blur, each one marked by the kind of quiet efficiency that felt both necessary and unbearable.

True to the funeral director’s word, Ophelia’s body was prepared with care, the parlor staff showing a level of respect that Cressida silently appreciated. She visited the small room where Ophelia lay in state, its somber decor softened by the warm glow of candlelight. The casket had been adorned with a simple arrangement of white lilies and sprigs of lavender, their delicate scent filling the space.

Cressida stood by the casket for hours each day, greeting the handful of visitors who came to pay their respects. Many were colleagues and acquaintances—shopkeepers, collectors, scholars, and even some regular customers throughout Ophelia’s time running the shop. Their words were kind, their condolences genuine as they treated Cressida like Ophelia’s daughter. Most of their faces were familiar from her last journey with Opehlia, and their presence only emphasized that Ophelia’s passing was a true loss in the world. 

The priest, a soft-spoken man with a calm demeanor, visited briefly to discuss the graveside service. He spoke of peace and eternity, his words well-meaning but hollow in a way that made Cressida tense.

When the day of the burial finally arrived, the air was damp and gray, a fine mist clinging to the streets as the small procession made its way to the cemetery. Cressida rode alone in the carriage, her gaze fixed on the casket as it was carried on the cart ahead. The weight of the past days pressed heavily on her, and for a moment, she wondered if the ache in her chest would ever ease.

The cemetery itself was quiet, the grounds dotted with headstones weathered by time. A small gathering had assembled by the open grave—just a few familiar faces from the parlor and a handful of workers who would see to the burial.

Cressida stepped out of the carriage, drawing her cloak tightly around her against the chill in the air. She moved toward the grave, her steps measured and steady, though her heart felt anything but.

The service was brief, the priest’s voice a low murmur that blended with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Cressida barely heard the words, her gaze fixed on the casket as it was lowered into the earth instead of the final rites. 

When the service ended and the small crowd began to disperse, she remained where she was, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“I’ll stay a while,” she said quietly to the priest, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest.

He gave a solemn nod, offering her a kind smile before stepping aside. One by one, the attendees murmured their final condolences to Cressida before dispersing, their footsteps fading into the distance. A few lingered longer than others—an older woman with kind eyes who had once worked alongside Ophelia when they were younger, a gruff man who had supplied them with rare finds over the years. They spoke of Ophelia with warmth, their words carrying memories that Cressida hadn’t known but cherished all the same.

When the last of them departed, Cressida finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She was alone, yes, but at least it was quiet now. 

She stepped forward slowly, her steps sinking slightly into the soft earth. The grave was simple, marked by a stone that bore Ophelia’s name and the dates of her life. No grand epitaph, no flowery inscription—just her name, her time on Earth, and the quiet dignity she had carried in life.

Cressida knelt by the grave, her fingers brushing against the cool stone as she swallowed against the lump rising in her throat.

“I don’t know where to begin,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “You’d probably tease me for being so sentimental. Or tell me to stop wallowing and get on with things.”

She let out a shaky breath, her gaze falling to the fresh mound of earth. “But I don’t know how to do that without you.”

The silence pressed in around her, the cemetery empty save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a bird overhead.

“You gave me a life when I thought mine was over. You gave me a home, a purpose... a family.” Her voice broke slightly on the last word, and she closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. “You were my family, Ophelia. The only one I ever chose.”

The wind shifted slightly, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender from the wreaths that had adorned the gravesite.

“You always said I was strong,” she continued, her words slower now, more deliberate. “That I could face anything. But I don’t feel strong right now. I feel... lost. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Her fingers curled into the earth, as though she could anchor herself to the ground, to this moment, to Ophelia.

Her breath hitched, and she forced herself to look up, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “But I will. I’ll find a way. And I’ll keep my promise. I’ll keep living, keep moving forward. And I’ll try to make you proud, no matter where life takes me.”

The silence that followed felt both heavy and light, as though the weight of her grief had been shared, even if only in spirit.

After a moment, she pushed herself to her feet, her knees stiff from the damp ground. She looked down at the grave, her gaze lingering on the simple headstone.

“I’ll carry you with me,” she said quietly. “Always.”

With one last touch to the stone, she stepped back, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She turned to leave but hesitated, her gaze drifting across the cemetery.

It didn’t take long to find the grave she was looking for. It was a little further down the path, tucked beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree.

Madeline.

Cressida approached the grave slowly, her steps hesitant. She had never met the woman who had held Ophelia’s heart, but she felt as though she knew her—through Ophelia’s stories, her wistful smiles, her quiet moments of remembrance.

“I thought you might like to know,” Cressida began softly, her voice carrying only as far as the grave itself. “She never forgot you. Not for a moment. You were always with her, even when she tried not to show it.”

She knelt once more, her fingers brushing against the headstone before placing down the same flowers that Ophelia’s grave was surrounded with.

“She loved you,” she said, the words simple but heavy with truth. “She loved you so much. And I think... I know she’s happy that you’re together now, in some way. Just… take care of her. Like she took care of me. Please.”

For a long moment, she stayed there, her gaze fixed on the stone as the wind whispered through the branches above. Then, with a deep breath, she rose to her feet, brushing the damp earth from her skirt.

“Goodbye, Ophelia,” she murmured, her gaze drifting back toward the other grave. “And nice to meet you, Madeline.”

She turned and walked back toward the cemetery gates, her steps slow since she had a feeling she wouldn’t be back for a while. The ache in her chest remained, but it was accompanied by a faint, fragile sense of peace.

She had done what she came to do.

And now, it was time to go home. 

—

The weeks after her return to St. Ives were a blur of quiet days and restless nights.

Cressida did her best to carry on as if nothing had changed. She opened the shop each morning, adjusted the displays, and tended to the customers who came through the door, even going down to the beach on the weekends so she wasn’t just holed up in her bedroom. The townsfolk were kind, offering her condolences and sharing fond memories of Ophelia when they stopped by. For a time, their words were comforting, a reminder that though they weren’t exactly family, there were still some who cared for her. 

But the emptiness lingered.

Every corner of the shop was steeped in memory—of Ophelia hunched over the counter, examining a new find with her meticulous eye; of the evenings spent cataloging inventory together, sharing quiet laughter over a pot of tea. Even the faint scent of lavender that clung to the air felt like a ghost of the life they had built together.

Cressida tried to convince herself that she could make it work, that she could carry on in the shop as they had always planned. But each day felt heavier than the last, the familiar rhythm of her life now hollow in the absence of Ophelia’s presence.

It was a crisp Monday morning when the realization finally hit her.

She had been arranging a new display near the window, her fingers lingering over a set of jewelry boxes when she froze. The sunlight streaming through the glass caught the edges of the display, illuminating it in a way that reminded her of the first day she had arrived in St. Ives with Ophelia.

The memory hit her like a wave, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She sank into the chair behind the counter, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists.

It just wasn’t working.

It wasn’t home without Ophelia. The shop wasn’t the same.

And no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew it never would be again.

Cressida sat there for what felt like hours, the sunlight shifting across the room as the morning stretched on. By the time she rose from her seat, her decision was made.

That evening, she began to pack.

The work was methodical, almost soothing in its repetition. She wrapped delicate glassware in soft cloth, stacked books in neat piles, and carefully labeled crates with their contents. The process was slow, but she welcomed the weight of it, the sense of purpose that came with preparing for something new.

The dagger, as always, was the first thing she packed. She slipped it into its usual place among her personal belongings, comforted by the fact that it was close by. 

As the days passed, the shop slowly transformed from a place of business into a collection of crates and boxes. It felt bittersweet, like saying goodbye to an old friend.

On her final evening in St. Ives, she stood in the center of the empty shop, her gaze sweeping over the bare walls and empty shelves.

“This isn’t goodbye,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “It’s just... time to move on.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around her. Then, with a deep breath, she turned and stepped outside, locking the door behind her for the last time.

She would find a new place, build a new shop, and continue the work Ophelia had started. A fresh start, unburdened by the weight of memory, but always carrying the lessons Ophelia had left her.

She set off into the evening, the faint cry of gulls echoed in the distance, a reminder that the world was still vast and full of possibilities.

And Cressida was ready to face it.

Chapter Text

The ferry ride across the Irish Sea was uneventful, the cold salt air biting at Cressida’s cheeks as she stood on deck, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Ireland rose up in the distance, its green hills shrouded in mist, promising the kind of quiet she hoped to find.

England was behind her now, and with it, the life she had known since she was born.

She couldn’t help but think back to her younger self, the one who claimed to be Lady Whistledown in order to escape the life she had in Mayfair. This was what she essentially wanted, right? She wanted the reward money from the Queen so she could leave and live life on her own abroad. She just went about it the wrong way. A terrible way, really, given the immediate consequences. But it got her where she was, even if it was a couple of decades later. 

Some days, she still thought herself a horrible person for who she was during that time. She did many regrettable actions, actions that she cannot fathom doing now. But there was no way to take it back, she just had to repent for it, no matter how much the feeling still weighed her down. She kept telling herself that she did them because it was the only way to survive, to keep the life she was born into, but was it really? She’d never know, and there were days that those thoughts consumed her whole. Especially when she took into account that she lived a better life after she was disgraced and exiled. 

But then Ophelia’s voice would echo in her mind, her parting words urging Cressida to keep living, to keep moving forward. That there was no reason to dwell in the past that she cannot change. 

And so she moved forward. But as the ship drew closer to the harbor, Cressida felt a pang of uncertainty. Would this new place offer her the solace she sought, or would it simply remind her of what she had lost?

The village she chose was a modest one, nestled just outside Galway’s bustling trade routes. It wasn’t completely isolated, but it wasn’t the heart of the city either—just remote enough for her to slip into the background, unnoticed.

Her first steps were cautious when she arrived, shoes clicking softly on the cobblestones as she navigated the streets. The village buzzed with activity—merchants calling out their wares, children darting between carts, the distant toll of church bells marking the hour.

It didn’t hold the same lazy energy of the charming seaside town she had loved and left behind, but that’s exactly what she needed right now. A fresh start. 

She found her new home near the edge of the village, a quaint stone cottage with a shopfront attached. Its wooden sign had long since faded, the glass panes of the windows dusty from disuse. The previous owner, an elderly watchmaker, had passed away some months prior, leaving the property empty but intact.

The place needed work—scrubbing, patching, repairs to the roof—but it had potential. And more importantly, it was hers. Even if she was severely overcharged for it after seeing that she would be running the shop on her own and as a woman. No matter, Ophelia had prepared her for those types of things happening. It was just the way life was. 

Cressida spent the first few weeks settling in, her days filled with the steady rhythm of hard work. She cleaned the shop from top to bottom, scrubbing away years of neglect until the wooden floors gleamed and the shelves stood sturdy once more. The air, once stale and reeked of tobacco smoke, now carried the faint scent of lavender. 

The inventory was another matter entirely.

Much of what she had brought from St. Ives remained in crates and trunks, carefully packed to survive the journey. Unpacking each one felt like a bittersweet ritual, her fingers brushing against items that carried memories of a life she could no longer return to.

The dagger was the last item she unpacked, its steel blade glinting faintly in the sunlight streaming through the window. She held it for a long moment, her thumb tracing the intricate floral patterns etched into the handle.

It was a part of her now, as much as her name or her face. A constant companion on her endless journey.

By the end of the month, the shop was ready.

She hung a new sign above the door— Ophelia’s Oddities —and opened her doors to the village. She wouldn’t dare change the name. Not ever.

The first customers were curious, their accents thick and lilting as they marveled at the strange and varied wares she had on display. She found herself answering the same questions over and over: “Where do you find all these things?” “How old is this?” “Have you been to Galway market yet?”

She answered with practiced ease, her tone polite but distant. The villagers were kind enough, but Cressida kept them at arm’s length. It was safer that way.

The days settled into a rhythm soon enough. The shop’s bell chimed with each new visitor, the shelves slowly emptying as the villagers found treasures interesting enough to take home. She’d track down the ones who needed a little magical push later on, as Ophelia had taught her. 

At night, the village fell quiet, the streets lit only by the faint glow of lanterns. Cressida would sit by the fireplace in her little cottage, a book in her lap and the dagger resting on the mantel above her. The firelight danced across its blade, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

It wasn’t St. Ives, and it wasn’t home. Not yet. But it was a start.

—

The years in Ireland passed in a quiet blur, the life she built punctuated by the unrelenting march of time. Cressida remained cautious, never settling in one village or town for less than three years and a decade at most, a rule she didn’t intend to break any time soon. As the years went on, she became adept at knowing when it was time to move on—when the curious glances of neighbors lingered too long, when curiosity turned into suspicion, and the whispers of how she hadn’t aged began to creep into quiet conversations.

Each move felt like ripping out the roots she had tried to plant.

Her relocations became routine. She’d pack up her wares, close the shop with little fanfare, and vanish into the Irish countryside. Then she’d reappear in another place and eventually in another part of Europe, her shop reborn under the same name but with subtle changes to its character. The storefronts varied—sometimes a snug corner space on a bustling street, other times a quiet cottage at the edge of town.

Each new place required careful adjustments. She took pains to blend in, adopting the local customs and accents where needed, though she always remained slightly apart, maintaining just enough distance to avoid entanglements.

The magical wares that had once been the heart of the shop began to dwindle over the decades, their presence in her inventory growing fainter with each move. With Ophelia’s connections slowly dying out and no one taking their place, tracking down such items became more and more difficult over time, and Cressida began to wonder if they were disappearing from the world entirely.

Or perhaps she just stopped looking hard enough.

At first, she tried to keep the balance—offering a mix of enchanted curiosities and mundane antiques. But Cressida found herself relying more and more on her eye for antiques and curiosities that, while mundane, still held a certain allure.

A silver pocket watch that had belonged to a sea captain, its hands frozen at the hour of his demise.

A set of porcelain tea cups painted with scenes from Irish folklore.

An oil lamp, its brass base inscribed with faint runes that hinted at a forgotten history.

She adapted because she had no choice.

She still came across the occasional magical object—a ring that seemed to hum faintly with warmth, a mirror that reflected the greatest desire of its viewer, even a necklace that refused to let its owner tell a lie—but they were few and far between. She often debated whether to sell them at all, wary of who might come into possession of such things.

Her customers changed with the times as well.

In the early years, they were farmers and traders, housewives and children with coins clutched tightly in their small hands. Later, as the second industrial revolution crept its way into the world, she found herself catering to the growing middle class—bankers, shopkeepers, and schoolteachers who sought unique pieces to decorate their increasingly modern homes.

The shop itself adapted, its inventory shifting to suit the changing tastes of the world. By the late 19th century, she began to stock books and maps alongside her antiques, capitalizing on the rise of literacy and education. She even sold small novelties—pocket-sized puzzles, ink sets, and brass telescopes—that delighted children and adults alike.

Yet no matter how much the shop evolved, it always carried the faint scent of lavender and old wood, a reminder of its origins that only she could ever know. 

But for all her attempts to adapt, there was one thing that never changed: her isolation.

Cressida still kept people at a distance, avoiding friendships and close ties that might unravel her carefully constructed facade. It wasn’t that she didn’t long for companionship—she did, in the quiet moments when the shop was empty, and the weight of loneliness pressed against her chest. But she knew better. She had learned the hard way that no matter how much someone might care for her, they would eventually leave. 

Or she would have to leave them.

The faces blurred together after a while. The kind widow who brought her fresh scones every Sunday morning, the bookish boy who spent hours in her shop, saving his pennies for a leather-bound volume of Gulliver’s Travels . The shy schoolmistress who once invited her out to tea after perusing her shop for months but never came back in again after Cressida gently declined.

They came and went, their lives flickering past like candle flames in the wind. 

They all moved on. They always did.

And Cressida remained.

There were moments when the weight of it all felt unbearable. The endless cycle of starting over, of pretending to be someone new, of saying goodbye before anyone could get too close. She resented her immortality in those moments, resented the fact that she was stuck while the world moved on.

It crept in slowly at first—a quiet whisper at the edges of her mind.

It wasn’t fair.

She hadn’t asked for this life, for this curse of endless days and countless goodbyes. She had done her best to adapt, to survive, but at the end of the day, it felt always like the world was moving on without her.

She envied the people who came into her shop, their lives so fleeting and full of purpose. They had families, friendships, loves that burned brightly even if they didn’t last.

And what did she have? Nothing but time.

The dagger became a symbol of her frustration. It sat in its place of honor, hidden away yet always within reach. She hated it some days—hated the way it tethered her to this unchanging existence. But she couldn’t let it go.

Because what would she be without it?

There were rare moments when she allowed herself to hope. When she imagined a life where she didn’t have to move every few years, where she didn’t have to watch the people around her grow old and fade away.

But those moments were fleeting. Hope was a dangerous thing, and Cressida had learned not to cling to it.

Resentment eventually gave way to resolve, as it always did. She couldn’t change what she was, but she could adapt. She could survive.

And so, she did.

Through revolutions and famines, through wars and technological marvels, Cressida marched on. She adapted to the changing world, her shop a reflection of her resilience, her survival.

Even if it wasn’t the life she had expected to live, it was the one she had.

And Cressida would make the most of it.

—

The world had grown so much larger—and so much smaller at the same time.

As the years pressed on, Cressida found herself marveling at the freedoms the modern age afforded women. Freedoms she had never dared to dream of when she was a young woman in Mayfair, her every step dictated by the rigid expectations of family and society.

Gone were the corsets and the ballroom introductions, the carefully orchestrated marriages and whispered rumors. Now, women could chart their own paths, live their own lives without the shadow of a man to define them.

And Cressida intended to take full advantage of that freedom. She only wished that Ophelia was around to witness it. 

She had gotten very used to traveling by ship. After all, for the longest time, that was the only way to travel long distances. And the first time she boarded a plane, it was more out of necessity than curiosity—a business trip to secure a rare artifact for a personal commission. But as the aircraft soared above the clouds, Cressida felt an exhilarating rush of liberation. The earth stretched below her, vast and unending, and for the first time in years, she felt truly untethered.

From then on, travel became a way of life.

She roamed through bustling cities and quiet villages, each destination offering new wares, new faces, and new stories. She found herself enjoying life again, bit by bit. 

In Istanbul, she wandered the labyrinthine streets of the Grand Bazaar, her fingers trailing over delicate handwoven rugs and gleaming copper trinkets. She haggled in broken Turkish, her laughter blending with the lively chatter of the market.

In Kyoto, she found herself enchanted by the stillness of a Zen garden, the carefully raked gravel lines echoing the quiet rhythm of her own restless thoughts.

In Buenos Aires, she danced a hesitant tango in a dimly lit hall, the music wrapping around her like a lover’s embrace.

She collected more than antiques on these journeys. She collected memories, fragments of lives and places that she carried with her long after she moved on. Each piece in her shop carried its own story—a carved jade figurine from Shanghai, a silver locket from Prague, a leather-bound journal from Johannesburg.

Her wanderlust knew no bounds.

But no matter how far she traveled, or how many places she visited, there was always something missing.

Cressida couldn’t name it, that ache that lingered in the corners of her heart. It wasn’t quite loneliness, though there were moments when the vastness of the world felt unbearably isolating. It wasn’t quite regret, though she often thought of the life she might have had if her circumstances had been different.

Perhaps it was longing—a yearning for something, or someone, she couldn’t quite define.

She tried to ignore it, throwing herself into her work with a kind of single-minded determination. The shop became her anchor, its ever-changing inventory a reflection of the world she continued to explore. But even as she busied herself with the tasks at hand—arranging displays, setting up an online front for when she traveled, corresponding with clients, researching the provenance of rare finds—her thoughts would wander.

To her past. To Ophelia. To a girl she had once known in Mayfair, whose laughter and bright eyes she could never quite forget. 

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between one adventure and the next, Cressida allowed herself to wonder: Was it truly freedom she sought, or was it something else?

The modern world had given Cressida so much—freedom, opportunity, the chance to carve out a life on her own terms.

And yet, she felt unmoored.

She had seen so much, and still, it never felt like enough. Each new place, each new face, only served to remind her of how much she had lost, and how much more she had yet to find.

But she kept moving.

She boarded planes and trains, rode ships and cars, walked cobblestone streets and forest trails. She immersed herself in the stories of the world, hoping that somewhere, in the endless expanse of time and space, she might find her own.

And so, Cressida continued her journey, carrying with her the weight of the past and the unrelenting hope for something more.

Because even after all these years, she wasn’t ready to stop searching.

London, 2019

The city buzzed with life outside the large glass windows of her new shop.

The hum of traffic and murmured conversations filtered faintly through the double-paned glass. The space was modern—a far cry from the rustic charm of her early shops—but still carried echoes of its past lives.

The polished shelves were lined with curated antiques and artifacts, their stories neatly tagged and cataloged. A century-old typewriter sat in one corner, its keys gleaming under soft lighting. A porcelain figurine of a dancing woman, chipped but no less graceful for its imperfections, held a place of honor near the register.

Above the counter, an antique clock ticked softly, its hands moving forward with a steady resolve.

The sign above the door was new, its clean lettering still reading: Ophelia’s Oddities .

Cressida stood in the center of the shop, her hands resting on her hips as she surveyed the space. It was a good shop—a strong one, full of character and life. It wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, but it felt... right, somehow. It felt different.

She had thought long and hard before returning to London, before daring to actually set roots in the city that held so many memories despite them being so far in the past. But in the end, it had felt right. The world had grown so vast, so interconnected, that it was easy to lose oneself in the crowd. London was no longer the same city she had left behind. And she was no longer the same woman who had fled it all those years ago.

There was pride in the way she had crafted this space—a reflection of all the lives she had lived, all the lessons she had learned. Cressida’s gaze wandered to the counter, where a small frame rested against the wall. She moved toward it, her steps slow and deliberate, her hand brushing the polished wood of the counter as she passed.

The frame held a portrait—a small but beautifully rendered painting of two women seated side by side along with a beautiful black cat. 

Ophelia was unmistakable, her dark eyes glinting with that sharp wit Cressida had loved so dearly, her posture poised but relaxed as she held onto the cat that had wandered into the shop one day and just refused to leave. The same cat that had jumped up on Cressida’s lap and made her cut herself on the dagger in the first place. Beside Ophelia sat a younger version of Cressida, her blonde hair neatly pinned, her expression more guarded but softened by the faintest of smiles. She was younger then, yes, but she still looked the same as she did in the present. 

The portrait had been painted in the early years in St. Ives, a memento of their two-person family. Over time, it had grown worn and faded, but Cressida had taken pains to have it restored, ensuring the vibrancy of their likenesses endured.

She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame as a bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. “I’m still here, Ophelia,” she murmured, her voice soft. “I’m still living life, I'm still marching on. Just like I promised.”

Her thumb traced the delicate brushstrokes of Ophelia’s figure, the memories of the life she’d shown Cressida, her voice, the unconditional love she gave as only a mother could. The portrait was more than just an image—it was a reminder of everything they had built together, everything she lost, everything she endured.

And everything she carried after.

The shop was still for a moment, the hum of the world outside fading as she let herself linger in the past.

But only for a moment.

The bell above the door jingled faintly as a passerby paused to peer through the window before deciding to step in to have a look around. 

Cressida drew in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders as she gave a practiced, polite greeting.

The shop was ready, and so was she.

For years, she had kept moving, kept adapting, kept living. Now, here she was, in the heart of London, standing at the threshold of a new chapter.

She glanced back at the portrait one last time, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll keep going. For both of us.”

And with that, she stepped forward, ready to face whatever came next—unaware that in just a few short days, a familiar face would come barreling back into her life, bringing with it the kind of disruption she had never thought possible. 

Chapter Text

Cressida awoke to the faint gray light of morning filtering through the curtains, her head nestled against the soft fabric of her pillow. For a moment, she lay still, caught in that fragile liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, where the weight of the world hadn’t yet settled on her shoulders.

And then, like the tide rushing in, the memory of the previous night washed over her.

Dinner with Eloise. 

The sound of her laughter, warm and unrestrained, played like a melody in her mind. The way her eyes sparkled when Cressida would play along with her teasing. The lingering warmth of her hand, fingers intertwined as they walked through the park under the soft glow of the streetlamps.

Cressida closed her eyes against the rush of emotion, her fingers curling against the sheets as if to ground herself. She could still feel it—the gentle pressure of Eloise’s hand in hers, the surprising steadiness of it, the way her thumb had brushed lightly against her knuckles.

How long had it been since she let someone hold her hand like that? Not out of necessity or formality, but out of a simple, unspoken desire to stay close?

Her lips curved into a faint smile before she caught herself, her eyes snapping open to stop herself from thinking about it again.

No.

That was a trap. She couldn’t let herself fall in. 

With a soft groan, she sat up, brushing her hair away from her face as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cool floorboards beneath her feet helped her to wake up more, and she drew in a steadying breath.

Even now, that Bridgerton girl was a whirlwind, a force of nature that had barreled into her carefully constructed life and left it completely askew.

And though it had been exhilarating, it was also dangerous.

Cressida’s gaze flickered to the chair by the window where her coat still hung, knowing the faintest scent of the park was still lingering in the fabric. The memory of their parting came unbidden—the way Eloise had hesitated at her door, her smile soft and sincere as she said goodnight.

She had wanted to invite her in. The thought had been fleeting, and reckless, but it was there all the same.

The knock of the shop’s sign against the window broke her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Ophelia’s name swaying gently in the breeze outside, as if reminding her to stop pining and get out of bed already. But the world beyond the glass was still waking up, the faint hum of early morning traffic mingling with the occasional chirp of birds.

With a sigh, she rose and moved to the window, her fingers brushing against the curtain as she stared out at the street below.

It wasn’t just Eloise she was trying to protect herself from—it was the inevitability of loss. The kind that cut so deeply it left scars that even centuries couldn’t fade.

And this version of Eloise had already begun to chip away at the walls she’d spent so long building.

She let the curtain fall back into place, her hand lingering against the fabric for a moment before she turned away. She needed to get out of her head. So she set off, ready to start her day. 

—

Meanwhile, across town, Eloise woke with a grin plastered across her face, sunlight streaming into her room as she stretched lazily.

Her phone sat on the bedside table, buzzing faintly with a notification from one of her siblings that she ignored in favor of reveling in the memory of the night before. She hadn’t felt that alive in years.

The soft hum of conversation, the easy banter, the way Cressida smiled when she thought no one was looking. Eloise found herself replaying every moment, every glance, every laugh.

And then there was the walk.

Her hand still tingled faintly, as if it remembered the feel of Cressida’s fingers intertwined with hers. She had held on longer than she should have, longer than was strictly necessary, and Cressida hadn’t pulled away.

That was something, wasn’t it?

With a small laugh, she picked up her phone, opening their last conversation.

Had a great time last night. Definitely think I earned another point or two though, don’t you?

She typed and deleted the message several times, chewing her lip as she considered her words. Too casual? Too forward? Too eager? Yeah, a bit. 

So, she settled with something safer.

Good morning. You haven’t changed your mind about last night being fun, have you?

Satisfied, she hit send and flopped back onto the bed, her heart pounding as she stared at the ceiling.

What was it about the gorgeous blonde woman that had her feeling like a schoolgirl with her first crush? Like every glance, every word, carried some unnamable weight?

She didn’t know. And for now, she didn’t care.

—

The bell above the shop door jingled, its cheerful chime cutting through the quiet hum of the afternoon. Cressida looked up from the counter where she had been carefully cataloging a set of antique candlesticks and against her will, her heart skipped a beat as a familiar figure stepped through the doorway, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the afternoon sun.

“Well hello there,” Eloise said, her voice carrying that playful lilt that always seemed to accompany her visits. She held up a small bouquet of wildflowers, the blooms slightly askew as if they’d been hastily arranged. “Not to be too forward, but I thought these might suit the shop.”

Cressida blinked, caught off guard by both the gesture and the unexpected sight of Eloise standing there, her hair faintly windswept, her cheeks a bit flushed. “Flowers,” she said finally, her tone light but edged with suspicion. “I wasn’t aware my shop was lacking in charm.”

Eloise grinned, unbothered by the teasing. “Oh, it’s plenty charming. But I figured these would brighten your day as well. And besides, I owed you for letting me monopolize so much of your time last night.”

Cressida’s lips quirked into a faint smile despite herself. “Hardly a debt, I assure you.”

Eloise’s grin faltered for just a moment as shyness overtook her, her gaze flickering to the shelves as if searching for a distraction. “Well, I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Consider this my way of showing gratitude.”

Cressida allowed herself to smile at that, though her guard never fully dropped. “Gratitude,” she repeated, her voice dipping into a teasing lilt. “For a single evening?”

“Well,” Eloise said, stepping closer to set the bouquet on the counter, “it wasn’t just any evening, was it?”

Cressida’s heart skipped a beat again, and she made a mental note to scold it for betraying her later on. Her gaze flickered briefly to the flowers before settling back on Eloise. She thought of last night—the warmth of Eloise’s hand in hers, the way her fingers had intertwined with Cressida’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The memory stirred something in her chest, something she couldn’t quite name.

But she said nothing of it, unwilling to broach a subject she wasn’t ready to face.

“Okay, you’ve got me there. Thank you for these,” she said instead, her tone light as she reached for the bouquet. “Though I have to say, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

Eloise leaned against the counter, her grin softening into something more mischievous. “Ah, well. I’ve always been the impulsive type.”

Cressida busied herself with arranging the flowers in a small ceramic vase, her fingers deftly plucking and adjusting the stems. “Impulsive, perhaps. But I suspect there’s more to it than that.”

Eloise tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with something that bordered on curiosity and amusement. “Have you considered that maybe I just like your company?”

Cressida stilled for a fraction of a second, her hand hovering over the flowers as she thought of a response. “Or maybe you’re just an errand girl for your siblings and their need for unusual wares,” she countered, wanting to steer clear of any talks that required vulnerability. 

Eloise laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained as she straightened and gestured to the candlesticks on the counter. “Alright, you’ve caught me. They send me here against my will.” 

Cressida rolled her eyes, laughing softly, though she didn’t say anything else. For a moment, they fell into a companionable silence, the soft rustle of paper and the faint creak of the floorboards filling the space between them.

“So,” Eloise began, breaking the quiet as she gestured to the candlesticks on the counter, “what’s the story behind these?”

Cressida glanced at the polished brass candlesticks, her fingers brushing against the intricate detailing on their base. “Late 18th century,” she said, her voice softening as she slipped into her usual rhythm. “They belonged to a merchant family in Bath, passed down through three generations before they were sold off to settle a debt.”

Eloise tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something as simple as a candlestick can carry so much history with it.”

“Not strange,” Cressida replied, her gaze flickering to Eloise for a brief moment before returning to the candlesticks. “Everything carries history. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look, or if someone even cares enough to try.”

Eloise’s smile widened, and for a moment, she seemed content to simply watch Cressida work. “You know,” she said after a beat, her tone light but earnest. “You’re full of surprises. I think that’s why I keep coming back. What else are you hiding?”

Cressida stiffened slightly at the words, her guard creeping back up despite knowing that she was only joking. “Careful, Miss Emma,” she said lightly, trying to match the teasing teasing tone. “Too much curiosity can be a dangerous thing.”

“Good thing I thrive on danger,” Eloise winked, straightening with a grin.

Cressida allowed herself a soft laugh, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the edge of the counter. Eloise had a way of disarming her, of breaking down walls that she had spent decades constructing. And she did it so effortlessly that Cressida couldn’t help but feel powerless in the face of it.

But it was only a matter of time before curiosity turned into questions she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t let herself get too close. She knew how this story would end—knew the pain of watching someone leave, whether by choice or by inevitability.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said after a moment. “Now, are you going to browse, or are you just here to torment me?”

Eloise laughed, the sound bright and unguarded as ever as she stepped away from the counter to inspect the shelves. “A little bit of both, if we’re being honest.”

Cressida watched her for a moment, her lips curving into a faint smile as Eloise held one of the figurines on display with an almost childlike wonder. She found that she couldn’t bring herself to push her away.

Not yet.

—

The bell above the shop door jingled once again, the sound pulling Cressida’s attention away from the delicate glassware she was inspecting. She had a fleeting moment of déjà vu before she looked up to see the all-too-familiar figure standing in the doorway.

Cressida bit back a smile, wanting to seem indifferent. “Back so soon? Trying to keep me company, are you?”

Eloise turned a bit sheepish, though her grin didn’t falter. “What can I say? You’ve got me hooked. This place is far more interesting than half the museums I’ve been dragged to over the years.”

“Maybe you’ve just been visiting the wrong museums,” Cressida replied, her tone light. 

Eloise leaned her elbows on the counter, her eyes flickering over the neatly arranged shelves of antiques before landing on Cressida again. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t have you as a guide.”

Cressida felt a faint heat rise to her cheeks at the casual charm of the remark. She busied herself with rearranging the glassware, refusing to meet Eloise’s gaze. “Flattery won’t get you any discounts.”

“Noted.” Eloise chuckled, straightening. Her tone became more casual, but the curiosity in her eyes was hard to miss. “I was actually hoping you could help me with something today.”

Cressida glanced at her curiously, one brow arching. “Help you? That’s new. You’ve never been shy about browsing without assistance before.”

“Well, this is a special case,” Eloise said, pulling a book from her bag. Its cover was worn, the title barely legible, but the faint glint of gilded lettering hinted at its age.

Cressida’s heart skipped a beat as Eloise set it down on the counter. She recognized it immediately—a genealogy reference book, the kind that listed names and family histories in meticulous detail.

“I found this at a secondhand bookshop,” Eloise explained. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? It’s a chronicle of old London families. There must be so many stories tucked away in here. I thought it might help me track down my lineage or something.”

Cressida’s fingers itched to touch the book, to flip through its pages and see if there were any mentions of a last name she hadn’t used in quite some time. But she didn’t dare. Not in front of Eloise. 

“And why exactly do you need my help?” she asked, her voice carefully even.

Eloise shrugged, her expression guileless. “You’re the expert on all things old and obscure. I figured you might know a thing or two about the names listed here. Maybe you’d have some stories that are connected to some of the items here.”

Cressida allowed herself to think for a moment, to find a way to exit this conversation since she didn’t know if she could flat-out turn down Eloise. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in those books. They’re often riddled with errors, especially when it comes to less prominent families.”

Eloise leaned in slightly, her curiosity undeterred. “Still, it must be fascinating to think about. Family lines stretching back centuries, the stories hidden in all those connections.”

Cressida busied herself by picking up a cloth and polishing the glass display case between them. “Fascinating, perhaps, but hardly relevant these days. The present is enough to keep me occupied.”

Eloise tilted her head, her sharp gaze lingering on Cressida’s face as though searching for cracks in her composure. “I find that hard to believe. Someone with a shop like this, filled with all things history?”

Cressida’s grip on the cloth tightened a bit, but her smile remained steady. “My interest in history lies in objects, not people. People are more… complicated.”

“Fair enough. I won’t press.” Eloise leaned back, holding up her hands in mock surrender before smiling and tapping the cover lightly. “But if you ever get curious, feel free to look. I can even leave it to you for a while.”

Cressida just held Eloise’s gaze, knowing that giving in would be such a bad idea. But the way Eloise looked at her, the way she smiled…

“You really are relentless,” she said lightly, her tone carrying just a hint of exasperation before picking up the book, flipping it open with deliberate ease. Her eyes skimmed over the pages, careful not to linger too long on any particular name or detail.

“Thanks. It’s one of my better qualities,” Eloise grinned, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” she stuck her tongue out before her eyes caught on a familiar name nestled among the text. 

Cowper.

She froze for the briefest of moments before forcing herself to relax, not wanting Eloise to catch on. She knew this was a bad idea. She quickly flipped to a different page, hoping that the name would fade away from her mind. It was a name she had tried to leave behind, a name that felt more like a ghost than a piece of her identity. 

Cressida gives it a few more moments of pretending to be interested before snapping the book shut and sliding it over to Eloise again. “In my honest opinion, I don’t think that book is authenticated. So I’m not sure if anything in it is actually accounts from the past. Were you looking for something specific?”

“Not particularly,” Eloise looked at the cover of the book before sighing and putting it away. “Just wanted some interesting stories, I guess. I’m meant to be meeting my sister sister in law nearby and thought swinging by to hear from you would be a perfect way to pass the time since I’m a bit early.”

Cressida narrowed her eyes before clicking her tongue. “Ah, so you’re just looking for me to entertain you. This isn’t that kind of establishment, you know.”

Eloise chuckled, shrugging. “I know that. But I meant it when I said that I just enjoy your company.” She said earnestly, not taking her eyes off of Cressida. “It’s not every day you meet someone as intriguing as you.”

The casual way she said it made Cressida’s chest tighten, and for a moment, she found herself at a loss for words.

“Well,” she said finally, her voice softer than she intended since she still didn’t know how to exactly answer that. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Eloise’s look softened, and for a moment, there was something unspoken in the way she looked at Cressida—something that made the air between them feel heavier, charged.

“I think I already have,” she said quietly before stepping back from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your work, though. Don’t want to annoy you too much or you won’t let me come back.”

Cressida stood frozen as Eloise made her way toward the door, her stride confident yet unhurried. The bell jingled softly as she stepped out into the street before disappearing from Cressida’s view. 

She exhaled slowly, her hand brushing against the edge of the counter as she stared at the spot where the book had been. 

Cowper.

What stories did the book have on that name? Would she know about them, or would they be stories about her descendants, people she hardly knew? Were there mentions of her parents, of her? 

Cressida shook her head sharply, banishing the thought. Whatever stories were in that book were better left unread. It didn’t matter what it said about her family or her former life. That chapter had been closed for centuries, and reopening it now wouldn’t serve her or anyone else.

Still, the name lingered in her mind like a whisper, a ghost she couldn’t quite exorcise. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of running after Eloise, asking to see the book again. But she dismissed it just as quickly.

Eloise had a way of doing this—stirring up parts of her that she had buried long ago. Parts she didn’t want to examine too closely, because she knew where they would lead.

Some doors were better left closed.

She huffed out a breath before turning back to her work. Yet even as she busied herself, setting out a new tray of jewelry for display, the memory of Eloise’s parting words echoed in her mind.

“I think I already have.”

Cressida’s hands stilled, her chest tightening at the thought. Eloise wasn’t just a reminder of the past. She was something far more dangerous—someone who made her want to hope again.

And hope, Cressida knew, was a treacherous thing.

She shook her head again, this time with more force. Eloise was kind and charming and far too perceptive for her own good. But Cressida couldn’t afford to let herself be drawn in—not when the risks were so high, and the ending so inevitable.

She had to find a way to cut things off before she got in too deep. 

—

The shop had long since closed for the day, and Cressida sat curled up on her small sofa with a book, and a cup of tea cooling on the table in front of her. The faint glow of the streetlights outside filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. She had always made sure that there was an apartment for her above the shop each time she opened in a new location, and it was one of the best decisions she’s ever made since she didn’t have to worry about commuting once she was done with work.  

The soft hum of the city outside seeped through the walls, a backdrop to the quiet of her space that she’s slowly coming to appreciate. 

Her phone then buzzed on the table. She ignored it at first, too engrossed in the book on her lap. But when it buzzed again, her curiosity got the better of her. Reaching over, she picked it up, her heart giving a strange little flutter when she saw the name on the screen.

Thanks for letting me crash your day yet again

I’m starting to think I might need a loyalty card for all my visits

Cressida’s lips twitched into a smile as she picked up the phone. Eloise’s persistence was both endearing and infuriating in equal measure.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed back a response.

If I made you a loyalty card, I’d probably regret it.

You’d never leave.

The reply came almost instantly.

Exactly.

So, when do I get my card?

Cressida chuckled softly, the sound startling in the otherwise silent room. She shouldn’t be encouraging this. It was a terrible idea. And yet...

I’ll think about it.

The three little dots appeared, and she could almost picture Eloise, lying in bed with that playful grin of hers, typing out her next message.

Thinking about it isn’t good enough, Lia.

I need concrete answers

Preferably over dinner or something equal to it

Cressida froze, her heart skipping a beat as she read the words.

Dinner.

A second date?

Her first instinct was to say no. She should keep her distance, draw a line before things spiraled any further. But the memory of Eloise’s hand in hers, the warmth of her laughter, and the way she seemed to bring light into every corner of Cressida’s carefully guarded world—it all made her pause.

Is that your way of asking me out again?

The reply was quick and teasing.

I thought that was pretty obvious from the start

So, how about it?

Cressida hesitated, her chest tight with equal parts apprehension and anticipation. This was reckless. But wasn’t it the good kind of reckless? Against her better judgment, she let herself give in, just this once.

Fine. But you better bring the loyalty card next time, this is your last free trial.

Done. Tomorrow?

Cressida couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips.

Tomorrow.

She set the phone down, her heart still fluttering in a way she wasn’t sure how to name. What was she doing? What is she getting herself into?

She leaned back against the sofa, her gaze drifting to the soft shadows dancing on the walls. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the book still in her lap, though the words on the pages were forgotten now. The warmth from her earlier smile lingered, but it was tempered by an ache she couldn’t quite shake.

She glanced at the small shelf by the corner of the room, where another framed portrait of her and Ophelia rested against the edge of the books. 

Her gaze softened as she rose from her seat, crossing the room with quiet steps. She picked up the frame, her fingers lightly tracing the edge. Ophelia’s face stared back at her, captured in the same calm, knowing expression Cressida remembered so well.

She brought it back to her seat, drawing her legs up on the sofa as she looked down at the portrait. 

“I really wish you were here to talk. I don’t know how to keep her away,” she whispered to the frame, the admission pulling at something deep inside her. “But I’m not sure I want to. I just don’t know what that means.”

Eloise had a way of making her feel… alive again. Like there was something in her world worth risking the ache of loss for.

And across the city, Eloise lay sprawled on her bed, her grin as wide as it had been since she hit send on her last message. She tucked her phone under her pillow, letting out a contented sigh as she stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Text

Eloise pulled up to the curb outside Cressida’s building, the engine of her car humming softly as she parked. She glanced up at the tall windows above the shopfront and a faint smile tugged at her lips when she caught sight of movement—a shadow passing by the curtains in one of the upper windows.

The side entrance to the building opened a moment later, and there she was.

Cressida stepped out into the mild afternoon air, locking the door behind her with practiced ease. She wore a simple yet elegant outfit—a soft cardigan draped over a patterned dress that fell just above her knees, and Eloise tried her best to not stare at her model legs like a creep. Her hair was pinned back loosely, a style that looked effortlessly put together, though Eloise suspected it had taken time.

Eloise hopped out of the car with her usual energy, striding around to meet her on the sidewalk.

“Good afternoon, madam,” Eloise greeted with a theatrical bow. “Your chariot awaits.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly. “I see your penchant for dramatics is alive and well today.”

“It keeps life interesting,” Eloise quipped, straightening. She moved to open the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish. “Shall we?”

Cressida hesitated for the briefest moment, her gaze flickering toward Eloise with a mix of amusement and suspicion. “You do realize I can open my own door, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Eloise replied, her grin widening. “But where’s the fun in that?”

With a small sigh, Cressida allowed herself to be charmed. “Fine. But don’t make this a habit.”

“I will make no such promises,” Eloise said, opening the door with a flourish and stepping aside so Cressida could settle into the seat. 

As Eloise returned to the driver’s side and started the car, Cressida folded her hands neatly in her lap and cast her a sidelong glance. “Are you planning to tell me where we’re going, or is this another one of your infamous surprises?”

“Infamous?”  Eloise replied, feigning offense. “Come now, don’t deny that you had fun last time. Why ruin the magic of spontaneity with pesky details?”

Cressida huffed softly, shaking her head. “I’m starting to see a pattern here. You’re developing a habit of whisking me off to places without so much as a hint.”

“And yet, you keep agreeing to come along,” Eloise pointed out with a cheeky grin.

“Consider it morbid curiosity,” Cressida deadpanned, though the faint amusement in her tone betrayed her.

A few minutes into their drive, Eloise glanced at the passenger side. “So! On a scale of one to ten, how much are you already regretting agreeing to today?”

Cressida turned her head slightly, arching a brow. “The day hasn’t even started. Or are you just fishing for compliments?”

“Fishing?” Eloise feigned shock, her hand over her heart. “I’d never. I’m simply gauging your enthusiasm for what promises to be a perfectly delightful afternoon.”

Cressida’s lips twitched, though she kept her expression neutral. “Let’s hope you can live up to your own hype, then.”

“Oh, I plan to exceed it,” Eloise replied with a wink, shifting the car into gear.

Their conversation continued in a lighthearted rhythm as Eloise maneuvered the car through the bustling city streets. Cressida pressed a little harder, trying to get Eloise to reveal their destination, but Eloise remained steadfastly tight-lipped.

“You know, if you’re taking me somewhere for a hike or to collect firewood, you could have warned me. I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion,” Cressida said dryly as they turned onto a quieter road leading toward the outskirts of town.

“You’ll thank me when we get there,” Eloise replied confidently, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

When the colorful tents of the antique fair finally came into view, Eloise couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at Cressida’s reaction.

Cressida raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a bemused smile. “An antiques fair?” she said, her tone light but teasing. “You do realize that just because I run an antique store doesn’t mean I spend all my free time at places like these, don’t you?”

Eloise pulled the car into a parking spot and turned to Cressida with a grin. “Oh, I know. But I figured this was more your speed than, say, a roller-skating rink.”

Cressida chuckled softly as she undid her seatbelt. “Can’t deny that. I’ll give you points for creativity.”

“Racking them up,” Eloise smirked before hopping out of the car and rounding to Cressida’s side, opening her door with her usual flair. “Now, come on. There’s treasure to be found.”

Cressida shook her head but allowed Eloise to help her out of the car, her curiosity piqued despite herself. As they stepped onto the gravel path leading into the fairgrounds, she found herself thinking that perhaps surprises weren’t so bad after all.

The fair sprawled across the open field like a patchwork quilt, each tent bursting with curiosities and treasures that gleamed under the mild afternoon sun. The air was alive with the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the distant melodies of a busker’s violin.

Eloise was already pulling Cressida toward the first row of stalls, her energy as boundless as ever. “This is it,” she said, gesturing grandly to the sea of tents. “A treasure trove of history just waiting to be unearthed.”

“Or a graveyard of questionable taste,” Cressida replied, though her lips twitched in amusement as she took in the colorful array of wares on display.

Eloise stopped abruptly at the first stall, her eyes lighting up as she spotted a rack of vintage hats. Without hesitation, she grabbed the most outlandish one—a wide-brimmed monstrosity adorned with artificial fruit and fabric flowers—and perched it right on her head with a dramatic flourish.

“Well?” Eloise asked, striking a ridiculous pose. “Do I look ready to storm the high society balls of yore?”

Cressida couldn’t suppress her laughter. “You look like you’re about to be chased out of town for stealing someone’s picnic,” she teased. “Or like a fruit bowl in denial.”

“Harsh,” Eloise said, clutching the hat dramatically as if wounded. “Clearly, you lack my vision of fashion.”

She turned and grabbed another hat—a towering creation covered in garish pink feathers—and held it out to Cressida. “Your turn. Let’s see if you can do better.”

Cressida hesitated, eyeing the hat warily. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious about hats,” Eloise said, wagging the feathery accessory enticingly. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.”

Reluctantly, Cressida took the hat and placed it on her head, the feathers bobbing precariously with every slight movement. Eloise stepped back, her eyes wide with mock reverence.

“Incredible,” Eloise declared, taking her phone out and snapping a quick picture before Cressida could protest. “This should be framed. You look like you’ve just walked out of a Regency portrait.”

Cressida’s smile faltered slightly as the words hit closer to home than Eloise realized. She reached up to adjust the hat, her fingers brushing against the soft feathers as a flicker of memory passed through her mind—a memory of elaborate hairstyles and ornate dresses, of a time when such ridiculous adornments were the height of fashion.

“Maybe I should suspend your loyalty card after this,” Cressida said lightly, brushing the thought aside as she removed the hat and set it back on the rack. “You’re insane.”

Eloise grinned, leaning closer to Cressida. “I think you like that I am. A queen like yourself needs a jester, yeah?”

“Flattery,” Cressida said, reaching up to gently push Eloise’s forehead so she takes a step back, “will only get you so far.”

Eloise chuckled, looping her arm through Cressida’s as they moved on to the next stall. “Lucky for you, I’m incredibly persistent.”

Their path wound through the maze of stalls, each one offering its own peculiar treasures. Eloise dove into the experience with the enthusiasm of someone on a great quest, pausing to inspect gaudy paintings and hold up bizarre ornaments with exaggerated reverence.

“This,” Eloise declared, holding up a particularly ugly ceramic cat, “is definitely haunted. What do you think?”

Cressida played along, tilting her head as she pretended to scrutinize it. “I don’t know. It looks more like it might curse you with perpetual bad taste.”

“Jeez,” Eloise laughed, setting the cat back on the table. “Remind me never to make art for you.”

“A wise decision,” Cressida replied, her eyes glinting with amusement.

It was at the next stall that Eloise paused, her attention snagged by something small and unassuming—a delicate silver charm, its surface etched with an intricate compass. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands before glancing at Cressida, who was admiring a set of porcelain tea cups nearby.

She walks over, tapping Cressida’s shoulder to show her the charm. “This feels very you, don’t you think?” She glances up at Cressida, her expression unusually serious. 

Cressida tilts her head, a faint frown forming as if to question what Eloise meant by that. 

“Something about always knowing your way.” Eloise shrugs, not waiting for a response. Instead, she turns to the vendor. “We’ll take it.”

The vendor, a cheerful older woman with a sharp eye for her wares, wrapped the charm carefully in soft paper as Eloise handed over the money. “You’ve got a good eye,” the vendor said, her smile warm as she passed the small package to Eloise.

“I like to think so,” Eloise replied, turning to look at Cressida with a grin before handing her the charm. 

Cressida had been watching her, an unreadable expression flitting across her features before she quickly schooled it into her usual composed demeanor. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said, though her tone was softer than she intended.

“I wanted to,” Eloise replied simply, her eyes meeting Cressida’s with an openness that made her chest tighten. “Think of it as a keepsake for today. May it always help you find your way home.”

The moment stretched between them, the noise of the fair fading into the background. Eloise tilted her head slightly, her gaze flickering briefly to Cressida’s lips before returning to her eyes. There was a pause, a shift in the air between them, as if the world itself had stopped to watch what might happen next.

But then a loud clatter from the vendor’s table broke the spell. Both women startled slightly, turning to see the vendor fussing over a precariously stacked pile of boxes that had toppled over.

“Well,” Eloise said with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “That was unfortunate.”

Cressida chuckled softly, though her cheeks felt uncomfortably warm. She looked away, her gaze landing on the charm still in her hand before tucking it carefully into her purse. “We should keep moving,” she said lightly, her voice steady despite the faint hitch in her chest.

“Agreed,” Eloise replied, falling into step beside her as they left the stall behind. Without thinking, she reached out and took Cressida’s hand, her fingers curling around hers with an easy confidence.

Cressida stiffened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into the gesture, her thumb brushing lightly against Eloise’s knuckles as they continued through the fair. The moment from before lingered between them, unspoken but not forgotten, as they wandered on together.

They passed through the rows of stalls, the vibrant atmosphere buzzing with life. The laughter of children, the hum of friendly bargaining, and the occasional bark of a vendor’s pitch filled the air, creating a symphony of lively chaos that Eloise seemed to thrive in. 

Cressida allowed herself a moment to simply absorb it all—the warmth of Eloise’s hand in hers, the way Eloise tugged her gently from stall to stall with a mixture of eagerness and curiosity, as if the fair were a treasure map and every stop a potential X.

It was strange, being here with someone. Her visits to places like this had always been solitary endeavors, made out of necessity rather than enjoyment. There were the occasional clients, of course—wealthy collectors seeking her expertise in acquiring rare finds—but those outings had been strictly transactional.

This, however, felt entirely different.

Eloise’s enthusiasm was infectious and Cressida couldn’t help but smile. It felt nice to have someone take such an interest in something she loved. And for reasons she didn’t care to analyze too closely, it felt right.

They stopped at another stall, this one offering a hodgepodge of old books, trinkets, and various odds and ends. Eloise picked up a small music box, winding it carefully and grinning as it played a tinny but cheerful melody. She turned to Cressida, holding it out like it was the most precious little thing. 

“Imagine this on your counter, greeting every customer walking by,” Eloise said with a dramatic flourish. “Just wind it up every time someone comes in.”

“I’d imagine they’d walk right back out if I did that,” Cressida replied, her tone dry but her eyes sparkling with humor.

Eloise laughed, setting the music box down as she tugged Cressida toward the next stall. “You’re a fun one to shop with, aren’t you?” she teased, not at all bothered by Cressida's tone. Something that Cressida greatly appreciates. 

“You’d be surprised,” Cressida murmured, though her voice carried no real edge.

They meandered further into the fair, the late afternoon sun casting dappled patterns through the overhanging canopies of the stalls. Cressida found herself growing more comfortable with each passing moment, her earlier hesitations fading into the background.

At another stall, Eloise stopped abruptly, her eyes lighting up with glee as she let go of Cressida’s hand to pick up a gaudy painting propped against the vendor’s table. It was a poorly rendered landscape, the colors so glaringly bright they almost hurt to look at.

“This,” Eloise announced dramatically, holding the painting aloft like a prize, “is the pinnacle of artistic genius. We’re buying it.”

Cressida tilted her head, folding her arms to ignore the lost feeling of warmth as she surveyed the painting with an expression of exaggerated disdain. “We’re definitely not.”

“But think of the statement it’ll make in your shop!” Eloise argued, clutching the painting to her chest as though it were a priceless masterpiece.

Cressida raised an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly. “The statement being that I’ve lost my mind?”

Eloise gasped in mock offense, her free hand flying to her chest. “Are you saying I don’t have good taste? You wound me, Lia. You truly do.”

“Good,” Cressida replied smoothly, though the glint of amusement in her eyes gave her away.

With an exaggerated sigh, Eloise set the painting back on the table, giving it one last wistful glance. “Fine. But when it sells for millions one day, you’ll regret this moment.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Cressida said dryly, though she couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle. “You can tell you told me so if that ever happens.”

Eloise turned to her with a grin, clearly pleased at having coaxed a laugh out of her. She reached for Cressida’s hand again, the motion so natural it didn’t even take Cressida by surprise this time around.  

“Deal. Now, shall we continue our journey through this hallowed ground of treasure?” Eloise asked, her tone playfully grandiose as her fingers intertwined with Cressida’s once more.

Cressida glanced down at their joined hands, the warmth of Eloise’s touch sending an unbidden flutter through her chest. “You’re relentless,” she said, shaking her head, though there was no real bite to her words.

“And yet, here you are,” Eloise countered, her grin widening.

Cressida rolled her eyes, but her faint smile lingered as they walked on together, the tension from earlier easing into a comfortable rhythm.

The fair continued to bustle around them, the hum of conversation and the clatter of goods creating a lively symphony. Yet, for Cressida, the noise seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the steady cadence of their footsteps and the gentle weight of Eloise’s hand in hers.

After various stops and eating likely very unhealthy fair food, they strolled through the final row of stalls, their earlier playful energy softening into something quieter. The sun hung low in the sky now, its warm glow casting long shadows across the fairgrounds.

“I think we’ve seen just about everything,” Eloise said, glancing around with a satisfied smile. “Unless there’s some hidden stall with the world’s most perfect teacup that we somehow missed.”

Cressida smirked. “I think even you would struggle to make that sound exciting.”

Eloise gasped, feigning offense. “You need to have more faith in me. Clearly, you underestimate my ability to make teacups thrilling.”

Cressida’s laugh came easily, the sound surprising even herself. “Sure, I’ll keep that in mind for next time. But I think we’re better off calling this a success and heading to wherever it is you’ve planned next.”

Eloise’s grin widened, and she gave Cressida’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Ah, so you’re finally trusting me with surprises now?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Cressida replied, shaking her head a bit. “I’m just curious to see how much further your theatrics will go.”

Eloise chuckled as she steered them toward the car. “You’ll see soon enough. I promise, no theatrics. Just a quiet spot to end the day properly.”

Cressida allowed herself to be pulled along, the flicker of anticipation actually exciting her for a change. Eloise leads them back to the car, their steps slowing as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of lavender and gold. The faint hum of the fair lingered behind them, mingling with the distant chirp of crickets as the day began to settle into the evening.

As they reached the car, Eloise moved ahead to open the passenger door, her smile playful but without the earlier theatrics. “Your chariot awaits again, miss.”

Cressida gave her a bemused look but allowed herself to be charmed once more. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“I don’t hear you complaining,” Eloise grinned, letting go of Cressida’s hand so she could get into her seat before making her way over to the driver’s side. 

The drive began in companionable silence, Cressida’s gaze flickering toward Eloise as she navigated the winding streets. There was a certain ease to her, an unhurried confidence that made it impossible not to relax in her presence.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” Cressida asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

Eloise glanced at her, her grin illuminated by the faint glow of the dashboard lights. “And here I thought that you were finally trusting me with surprises.”

“I feel like you just enjoy keeping me on my toes.”

“Only because you’re so good at pretending not to like it,” Eloise teased, her grin widening. 

Cressida huffed softly but didn’t press further, her attention turning to the scenery outside. The buildings slowly started to reappear as they near the city again, the glow of streetlights putting Cressida in some sort of trance. 

The sight of Eloise’s profile, calm and focused in the dim light, drew an unexpected warmth to Cressida’s chest. She wasn’t used to this—to being driven somewhere without a specific purpose, without the weight of her usual guardedness pressing down on her. It was a strange and almost unsettling feeling, one she wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate.

After a few more turns and a climb up a narrow street, Eloise finally slowed the car, pulling into a small, tucked-away parking lot. She cut the engine and turned to Cressida with another smile. 

“We’re here.”

Cressida furrowed her eyebrows, glancing out the window. Like the restaurant from their previous outing, the building before them was unassuming and its façade illuminated by soft, warm lights. But as she stepped out of the car and followed Eloise to the entrance, the subtle charm of the place began to reveal itself.

Eloise hit the button for the elevator with a flourish, her grin widening. “Trust me, the best part’s upstairs.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a cozy rooftop café bathed in the gentle glow of fairy lights. The open-air space was modest but inviting, with a scattering of small tables surrounded by lush greenery that created an intimate, almost magical atmosphere. Above them, the stars were beginning to emerge, pinpricks of silver in the dark sky.

Cressida stepped out of the elevator, her gaze sweeping over the scene with quiet appreciation. In the distance, the city skyline twinkled, a blend of glass and stone reaching toward the sky. “I’ll admit, this looks lovely. You have a knack for choosing memorable spots.”

Eloise grinned triumphantly. “I like to think it’s a gift. Though,” she added, her grin turning sly, “it might also be an elaborate ruse to keep you impressed.”

Cressida chuckled softly, the sound warm in the cool evening air. “You don’t need to try so hard. I’m already impressed enough to keep agreeing to these outings, aren’t I?”

“True,” Eloise conceded, her grin widening. “But I like to keep raising the bar.”

She then gestured toward a table near the edge of the rooftop, where the view stretched out over the city’s twinkling lights. “Shall we?”

They settled into their seats, the faint murmur of other patrons creating a pleasant backdrop as they perused the menu. A server appeared promptly, taking their orders with an easy warmth before retreating into the shadows.

They talked as they waited for their order, the conversation weaving between lighthearted recollections of the day and musings on the beauty of the night. Eloise recounted her antics at the fair with exaggerated dramatics, drawing laughter from Cressida that felt as unguarded as the open sky above them.

“You have to admit,” Eloise said, pointing her finger at Cressida like an accusation, “that hat you tried on was spectacular. You looked like you were ready to host the most extravagant ball of the century.”

“If by ‘extravagant ball,’ you mean a costume party for Halloween, then yes, I’d be the bell of the ball.”

Eloise laughed, the sound warm and bright as the stars began to make themselves known above. “Alright, fair point. But I stand by my painting. We really should have bought it. It could’ve been an investment!”

“Or a very expensive mistake,” Cressida countered, her lips curving in amusement.

Eloise sighed dramatically. “Well we’ll never know now, will we?”

Their drinks eventually arrived—something simple but fitting, warm teas and small desserts that mirrored the café’s understated charm.

As the evening deepened, Eloise turned her gaze upward, her eyes scanning the smattering of stars scattered across the indigo sky. She moves over to Cressida’s side so they can view the clusters together. “Alright, let’s see if I can still remember some constellations,” she said, pointing toward a cluster of stars with her fork. “That one’s… uh… that’s definitely Orion.”

Cressida followed the direction of the fork, her lips twitching in amusement. “That’s Ursa Major,” she corrected, her tone gentle but teasing.

“Ursa Major, Orion—same general idea. Stars, shapes, history,” Eloise said with a wave of her hand, undeterred by her mistake. She pointed again, this time to another cluster. “And that one is… the Big Dipper.”

“That’s actually part of Ursa Major,” Cressida said, the faintest laugh escaping as she shook her head.

Eloise turned to her with a mock look of offense. “Alright, Miss Constellation Expert. You tell me, then—what’s that one?” She gestured to another section of the sky, her tone playful but curious.

Cressida tilted her head, studying the stars for a moment before tracing them out for Eloise. “That’s Cassiopeia. Known for its distinctive W shape.”

“Cassiopeia,” Eloise repeated, testing the word with a small, thoughtful smile. “Pretty name. Kind of like yours—elegant, with a hint of mystery.”

Cressida blinked, her cheeks warming at the unexpected compliment. She glanced away, her gaze returning to the sky as she fought to steady the flutter in her chest.

The conversation waned for a moment, the quiet filled with the soft rustle of the evening breeze and the faint murmur of other patrons in the café. Cressida eventually glanced at Eloise before taking a deep breath and turning her gaze again, focusing on the skyline instead. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” She broke the silence, her voice softer than usual. “I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”

Eloise turned her head slightly, studying Cressida’s profile in the gentle glow of the café lights. “I’m glad,” she said simply, though her grin softened into something more earnest. “I meant for today to be special for you. For us.”

“And it was,” Cressida admitted, finally meeting Eloise’s gaze. 

She opened her mouth to say something else, but the words caught in her throat as Eloise leaned in slightly, her gaze intent and searching.

Cressida felt herself leaning in too, her heart beating faster as the space between them grew smaller. 

“Excuse me, ladies,” a polite voice cut through the moment, startling them both. They turned to see a waiter standing nearby, his expression apologetic. “We’ll be closing shortly, just so you’re aware.”

The interruption left an almost comical stillness in its wake. Eloise leaned back quickly, clearing her throat as a faint flush crept up her neck. “Of course. Thank you,” she said, her voice steady despite the awkward tension now crackling between them.

Cressida nodded, her expression carefully composed even as her cheeks warmed. “Yes, thank you,” she added softly, glancing briefly at the waiter before turning her attention back to the skyline.

The waiter offered a polite smile before retreating, leaving the two women alone again.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Eloise shifted slightly in her chair, running a hand through her hair as if to shake off the moment. “Well,” she began, her tone overly casual, “it seems we’ve been politely evicted.”

Cressida let out a small breath of amusement, her lips curving faintly. “It appears so.” She reached for her purse, fingers brushing unnecessarily against the strap as she gathered herself.

Eloise stood first, extending a hand to help Cressida to her feet. “Ready to brave the world again?” she asked, her smile just a touch too wide, as if trying to mask the awkwardness still lingering between them.

Cressida accepted the gesture, rising gracefully. “I suppose we have no choice.”

They walked to the elevator in near silence, a faint tension hanging in the air. Yet Eloise’s hand found its way back to Cressida’s as they descended, the touch grounding them both.

By the time they stepped out onto the city streets, the cool evening air seemed to wash away some of the lingering discomfort.

Eloise gestured toward her car, parked a short distance away under the soft glow of a street lamp. “So this is where I say something gallant like ‘shall we?’ and whisk you off into the night, right?” she teased, her grin returning to its usual playful lilt.

Cressida arched an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly. “Only if you plan on actually taking me home this time and not to another surprise location.”

Eloise held up her hands in mock surrender. “Cross my heart. No more detours.”

They made their way to the car, Eloise once again getting the door for Cressida. They let the quiet linger for a while, not really minding the silence since it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind. It wasn’t until they stopped at a red light that Cressida picked up the conversation again. 

“I meant what I said earlier,” Cressida said, breaking the silence. Her voice was quiet but certain, cutting through the soft hum of the car. “I really don’t think I’ve had this much fun in years.”

Eloise glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it softened into a warm smile. “I’m just glad you let me drag you along.”

Cressida allowed herself a small smile, her gaze drifting back to the lights outside the window. “Well, you’ve certainly set the bar high for any future outings.”

“Future outings?” Eloise grinned, clearly delighted. “Does that mean I’ve officially secured another date?”

And there it was.

Beautiful confirmation of what Cressida had been torturing herself over. She can no longer tell herself that this was a friendly outing, all the handholding and near kisses aside. These were dates. 

Her grip on her purse tightened slightly, the weight of Eloise’s words settling over her. “I suppose that depends,” she replied after a moment, her tone measured but her lips curving faintly. “Do you always assume one successful outing guarantees another?”

Eloise glanced at her, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Not always. But I like to think I’m particularly charming when the stakes are high.”

“Charming,” Cressida repeated, her voice light but edged with teasing skepticism. “Is that what you call dragging me to an antiques fair and putting a curse on me with that ugly haunted cat?”

“Absolutely,” Eloise said with a confident nod, her grin widening.

Cressida shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her. She couldn’t deny that Eloise had a way of making her feel... lighter, as though the weight she carried wasn’t quite so heavy when she was around.

“Well,” she said finally, her gaze turning toward the city lights outside the window, “I’ll concede that it was... very enjoyable. I’ve never had someone take such an interest in the things I love before.”

Eloise’s grin softened into something more sincere. “Another win to me.”

The drive continued, the conversation weaving in and out of teasing remarks and quieter moments of reflection. The closer they drew to Cressida’s apartment, the more she found herself wishing the journey would stretch on just a little longer.

The car rolled to a stop a bit further down from Cressida’s building, the limited parking forcing them to settle for a spot several blocks away. Eloise turned off the engine, casting a glance at Cressida with a soft smile.

“Looks like you’ll have to endure my company a little longer,” she said, gesturing toward the distance.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual firmness. “It’s getting late. I’m sure you’d like to head home sooner rather than later.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Eloise said with a crooked grin before getting out of the car and rushing over to Cressida’s side to get the door. “But I want to.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, though she didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Do you always insist on playing the gentleman?”

“Only when the company deserves it,” Eloise replied with a wink.

They fell into an easy rhythm as they walked, the quiet streets bathed in the warm glow of streetlights. The air was crisp but not unpleasant, carrying the faint scent of damp earth from a garden nearby.

Neither of them spoke much as they strolled, the silence between them feeling less like a void and more like a comfortable pause in their day. Eloise kept glancing toward Cressida out of the corner of her eye, the way the light caught her hair or the way her lips curved faintly as if in thought.

The moment shifted abruptly when a black cat leaped from a low window ledge just ahead, landing with a soft thud on the sidewalk before scurrying past their legs.

“Bloody hell!” Eloise exclaimed, instinctively stepping back—right into Cressida.

The unexpected movement sent Cressida stumbling slightly, her hands darting up to steady Eloise just as Eloise reached out to do the same. Their arms tangled briefly before finding a balance, leaving them standing close, faces mere inches apart.

Cressida’s breath hitched, her hands still lightly resting against Eloise’s shoulders. Eloise froze, her wide eyes meeting Cressida’s for a long, charged moment.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

It wasn’t planned—it wasn’t even something either of them consciously decided. But as if pulled by an invisible thread, they leaned in at the same time, their lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and tentative, but no less meaningful.

Eloise’s hand slid down to Cressida’s waist, her touch gentle but grounding, while Cressida’s fingers brushed against Eloise’s collar, anchoring herself in the unexpected intensity of the moment.

The kiss deepened slightly, the world around them fading into the background. It wasn’t rushed, nor was it hesitant—it was simply theirs, unfolding naturally in the quiet of the night.

When they finally pulled back, neither moved far, their foreheads nearly touching. Eloise let out a soft laugh, her voice barely above a whisper. “Well… I certainly wasn’t expecting that.” 

Whether she meant the cat jumping out or the kiss, neither one could tell. 

Cressida couldn’t stop the smile from forming, the fluttering in her stomach refusing to stop. “It’s okay. Neither was I.”

The cat, now perched on a nearby step, let out a quiet meow, breaking the spell.

Eloise chuckled softly, her hand lingering at Cressida’s waist for a moment longer before stepping back. “Remind me to thank our feline friend for the assist.”

Cressida huffed a quiet laugh, the warmth in her cheeks mirrored in the soft glow of the streetlights. “I’ll make sure to send a note.”

They continued their walk in companionable silence, though the air between them felt different now. Whatever it was, neither of them spoke of it for fear of breaking the spell and making things awkward. 

When they reached Cressida’s door, Eloise hesitated, looking like she wanted to do something before stepping back with a crooked grin. “I guess this is where I leave you. Have a good night, Lia.”

“Right. Text me when you get home?” Cressida replied, her voice steady but her heart anything but. “Goodnight, Emma.”

As she slipped inside, Cressida leaned against the door, her fingers brushing lightly over her lips as if to confirm the moment had been real.

On the street, Eloise stood for a beat longer, her grin softening into something gentler before she turned to make her way back to the car. The night felt a little warmer now, the city lights a little brighter.

Chapter Text

The pale morning light filtered through the curtains of Cressida’s bedroom, casting soft shadows against the walls. She stirred beneath the covers, her mind slowly pulling itself from the hazy remnants of sleep as the warmth of the sunlight brushed against her skin like an unspoken invitation to greet the day. There was a moment of blissful stillness before her thoughts settled on a specific event from last night.

The kiss.

Cressida’s eyes fluttered open, and a faint, unbidden smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She didn’t immediately push the memory aside. She let it linger, the warmth of Eloise’s presence still vivid in her mind—the feel of her lips, the soft curve of her smile, the way their laughter had mingled under the streetlights.

With a deep breath, she pushed herself upright, the sheets pooling around her waist as she stretched. The quiet hum of the city seeped through the window, a gentle reminder that the world outside was awake as well. Sliding her legs over the edge of the bed, she padded across the room to her dresser, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

Her gaze dropped to the small jewelry box on the surface. She hesitated only briefly before lifting the lid and retrieving the charm Eloise had given her at the fair. The delicate silver compass glinted faintly in the morning light, its etched surface worn smooth in places. She held it in her palm for a moment, her thumb brushing over the intricate design.

With a small smile, she found a silver chain to match and clasped it around her neck. The charm rested just below her collarbone, its weight surprisingly comforting.

By the time she descended to the shop, the city had fully awakened. The faint clatter of distant traffic and the chatter of passersby created a soothing backdrop as she unlocked the door and prepared for the day. She moved through her routine with ease, but there was an unusual lightness to her step, a quiet contentment she hadn’t felt in years.

Her thoughts inevitably drifted back to Eloise. There was a time when such thoughts would have filled her with apprehension, but today, they brought on a lightness she hadn’t felt in a while. The kiss hadn’t been just a fleeting moment; it had been something more—a possibility she hadn’t allowed herself to consider. Ever.

As the first customers of the day entered the shop, Cressida greeted them with a warmth that surprised even her. Today felt different. Perhaps it was the charm around her neck, or perhaps it was the memory of Eloise’s smile. Whatever the reason, she was determined to hold onto this feeling for as long as she could.

—

The low rumble of a car engine echoed through the quiet morning streets as Eloise stood on the curb outside her apartment building, waiting. The cool air nipped at her cheeks, though it did little to dampen the warmth she still felt from the previous evening.

She glanced down at her phone, her fingers twitching with the urge to open her texts. She’d already scrolled through her conversation with Cressida twice since waking up, grinning like an absolute idiot the entire time.

Before she could succumb to the temptation of texting Cressida, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Morning, dear sister!”

She looked up to see Francesca waving from the passenger seat of a sleek black car, her smile bright and teasing. In the driver’s seat, Michaela leaned over to honk the horn playfully, while Benedict leaned his head out from the back window with a shit-eating grin that Eloise suddenly had the urge to smack off.

“My my, don’t you look radiant this morning,” Benedict called, his tone dripping with mock admiration. “Get laid last night?”

Eloise rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the faint blush that crept up her neck. “Good morning to you too, shithead,” she replied, crossing her arms as she approached the car. “And just because I know you’re not going to let it go until I answer, no. I did not get laid. Stop asking me that every time we see each other.”

Francesca laughed, motioning for her older sister to get in. “Come on, let’s go. Michaela’s starving, and you know how she gets when she’s hungry.”

Michaela grinned, her dark eyes twinkling as she met Eloise’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Don’t listen to her. I’m perfectly pleasant when I’m hungry. It’s when I’m hangry that you should worry.”

Eloise climbed into the backseat, Benedict scooting over to make room. “Right. Let’s get this over with, then.”

“Well don’t sound so thrilled,” Benedict teased, twisting slightly in his seat to face Eloise. “We’re doing you a favor, dragging you out of your flat before you spiral into overthinking about your date.”

“I wasn’t overthinking,” Eloise protested as she slapped his arm through his laughter, though her tone lacked conviction.

Francesca raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Please. You’ve been grinning like a lovesick puppy since our video chat last night. So, tell us—how was Lia?”

“She’s wonderful,” Eloise said simply, her voice softening as she spoke the words.

“Oh, wonderful, is she?” Benedict echoed, his grin turning sly. “So wonderful that you’ve been agonizing over whether to text her or not this morning?”

Eloise froze, her jaw tightening as she shot Benedict a sharp look. “I am not agonizing.” she huffed.

She really should have expected to be teased like this. In fact, it was the only logical reason as to why they insisted they go out today. 

Michaela snorted, her laughter blending with Benedict’s. Francesca at least had the decency to try and hold back. “You so are. It’s written all over your face.”

“Fine,” Eloise relented, throwing up her hands and choosing her words carefully. “I’m not agonizing but I might be... debating what time it would be best to text her. But only because I don’t want to come off too strong.”

The other three fell silent for a while, glancing at each other before dissolving into laughter. Whoever this Lia girl is must be something because that was the first time they’ve ever heard Eloise feel that way.

“Eloise, you’re you,” Benedict said with a chuckle. “Coming off too strong is practically your brand.”

“Well that’s not helpful,” Eloise muttered, though the corner of her lips twitched slightly upward.

Francesca leaned her chin on the back of her seat, her gaze softening. “Teasing aside, she must be really special for you to be this smitten already.”

“She is,” Eloise admitted, her voice quieter now. “But it’s complicated.”

“How complicated can it be?” Michaela asked, glancing at her in the mirror. “She likes you, you like her—it’s not rocket science.”

“It’s not that simple,” Eloise said, her brow furrowing as she glanced out the window. “And you know that. Which is exactly why you three aren’t telling anyone about her. Not until we’re ready. Not even Penelope knows, but only because I know she’ll want to tell Colin and Colin can’t keep his mouth shut.”

The other three begrudgingly agreed, though that's only because they know how nosey the other members of their family can be. They can also be relentless, especially when the subject is Eloise’s love life. 

The conversation shifted after that, Benedict and Michaela launching into a playful debate about the best brunch spots in the city. Eloise chimed in occasionally, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Cressida. 

By the time they arrived at the café, Eloise had resolved not to text Cressida until later. She didn’t want to seem overeager, even if her siblings’ teasing had only intensified her longing to hear from her.

—

The morning rush had come and gone, leaving Cressida’s shop in a comfortable lull. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air as she carefully rearranged a shelf of porcelain figurines, something that really should be calming her. 

But her thoughts were anything but focused.

She found herself touching the charm around her neck absentmindedly, her fingers brushing over the smooth surface as her mind replayed the events of the previous evening. The way Eloise had smiled at her, the warmth in her gaze, the kiss that still sent a flutter through her chest when she let herself think about it.

The chime of the shop bell pulled her from her reverie. She straightened, her expression slipping effortlessly into her practiced composure as a familiar face entered the shop.

“Good morning,” her customer greeted warmly, her stout frame bundled in a cozy shawl despite the mild weather. She was a regular—an older woman with a fondness for delicate tea sets and an even greater fondness for conversation.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Cressida replied with a polite smile. “Looking for anything specific today?”

“Not today, dear. Just browsing,” the woman said, her gaze sweeping over the shelves before landing on Cressida herself. Her warm eyes narrowed slightly, and a sly smile tugged at her lips when she found what she was looking for. “That’s a lovely necklace you’re wearing. New, isn’t it?”

Cressida’s fingers instinctively brushed against the charm again, her composure faltering for a fraction of a second. “It is, yes,” she admitted, her voice softer than usual.

Mrs. Hawthorne tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes. What is it with old ladies and their knowing looks? “It suits you. Get it yourself?”

Cressida hesitated, her gaze dropping to the charm as a faint smile touched her lips. “It was a gift,” she said simply, the words feeling heavier than she expected.

Mrs. Hawthorne’s smile widened, her tone taking on a teasing edge. Cressida is sure that Ophelia would appreciate it if she were there to hear it. “From someone special, I’d wager.”

Cressida’s lips quirked, though she didn’t confirm or deny the assumption. “It’s a thoughtful piece,” she said instead, gently deflecting the question.

The older woman gave a knowing hum, her attention shifting to a display of teacups. “Thoughtful gifts often mean the most. They remind us of the people who gave them.”

As Mrs. Hawthorne moved on, Cressida found herself standing still, her fingers brushing the charm as if trying to decipher the weight of the words. She knew what the gift represented—knew that it was more than just a trinket. It was a gesture, a small but deliberate reminder that someone saw her, thought of her, and cared enough to act on it.

The thought was both comforting and unsettling in equal measure.

Throughout the day, she caught herself glancing at the charm’s reflection in the glass of the display cases, her mind drifting back to Eloise. She couldn’t deny that something had shifted within her—something she hadn’t felt in years, if ever.

Companionship had always been a distant, almost abstract concept to her. It was something other people had, something she watched from the periphery but never allowed herself to fully consider. And yet, here she was, holding onto the idea with a warmth that surprised her.

Perhaps, she thought, it isn’t such a terrible thing to let someone in.

—

The faint hum of the city filtered through the windows as Cressida sat at her small kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. The day had passed in a quiet blur, the usual rhythm of the shop making her feel entirely at home, though her thoughts had drifted far too often to one person.

Eloise.

Her gaze flickered down to the charm resting against her collarbone, the delicate compass catching the soft glow of the lamp. She reached up, brushing her fingers over its surface as she thought back to the fair, the café, and the way Eloise had looked at her during those moments when the rest of the world seemed to fall away.

The memory of their kiss lingered, unbidden but not unwelcome.

Cressida set her tea down, her focus shifting to her phone sitting on the table beside her. She picked it up, her thumb hovering over the screen as a flurry of questions raced through her mind. Would Eloise be waiting for her to make the first move? Or had she already dismissed last night as nothing more than a fleeting moment?

No, that wasn’t Eloise.

She opened their conversation, the familiar thread of texts waiting for her. For a moment, she hesitated, her heart beating just a little faster than she cared to admit.

Finally, she typed:

I feel like I’ve been cursed to keep thinking about last night.

You’re right, that cat was surely haunted. And I blame you entirely.

I still want to thank you for your time though. 

She stared at the words after hitting send on the last text, debating whether she should unsend them before Eloise could read them.

But it was quickly marked as read and replies came quicker than she expected. No chance to unsend them now.

You’re thanking me?

That’s a first

Should I be scared?

Usually, you’d be calling me insufferable

Cressida let out a soft laugh, knowing that Eloise was only joking.

Don’t let it go to your head.

Too late! I’m framing this moment for posterity

So, when are you free next?

Cressida blinked, not expecting Eloise to ask her out again so soon. But the thought of seeing Eloise again brought a warmth to her chest, one she was no longer inclined to push away.

I’ll check my schedule tomorrow. 

But soon, I think.

Eloise’s next reply was simple but carried all the weight of her charm. 

Soon works for me.

Cressida set her phone down, her fingers brushing the charm at her collarbone once more.

“Soon,” she murmured to herself, a small smile tugging at her lips as she rose from her seat.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun streamed through the shop’s windows as Cressida stood behind the counter, meticulously polishing a small silver tray and enjoying the peace.

The soft jingle of the shop bell pulled her from her task, and she glanced up just in time to see Eloise stride in, her presence filling the quiet space like a sudden burst of energy.

“Afternoon,” Eloise greeted, her tone casual but warm as she approached the counter with two cups of coffee. Without hesitation, she leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Cressida’s cheek, the gesture so effortless it might have seemed routine to anyone watching.

Cressida froze, her hand stilling mid-polish as her mind scrambled to process the unexpected touch that was so effortless it nearly felt like second nature. Her breath hitched slightly, her eyes widening as she turned to Eloise, who stood there with an easy grin, entirely unbothered.

“Hello,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

Eloise grinned, clearly pleased with herself as she set Cressida’s coffee down on the counter. “You’re looking lovely. Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” Cressida repeated, blinking as she recovered her composure. “I don’t believe it’s been more than two days since your last visit.”

“Exactly,” Eloise nodded, as if that explained everything. She tilted her head, her gaze drifting to the silver charm resting against Cressida’s collarbone. Her expression softened almost immediately, the usual playfulness in her eyes giving way to something more genuine.

“You’re wearing it,” she said quietly, her fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch the charm herself.

Cressida followed her gaze, her fingers brushing instinctively against the compass. “Of course. It’s a lovely piece,” she said simply, though her tone carried a warmth that wasn’t lost on Eloise.

“It suits you,” Eloise said, her grin returning as she straightened with renewed mischief. “Though I think it suits you even better because I picked it.”

Cressida sighed heavily and shook her head. “And here I thought we were having such a nice moment.”

“We still are! I’m just saying, my eye is unrivaled,” Eloise shrugged, elbows leaning against the counter.

She tilted her head slightly, studying Eloise with a faint smile. “You’re quite confident in your taste, aren’t you?”

“When it comes to you? Absolutely,” Eloise replied, her grin turning cheeky.

Cressida chuckled softly, shaking her head as she returned to polishing the tray. “So are you here to browse or flatter me?”

“Who says I can’t do both?” Eloise countered, turning around to start her loitering. 

Cressida really should consider kicking her out, but she’s come to enjoy the company. Even if she wants to wring Eloise's neck at times while simultaneously wanting to kiss her. Still remembering the one from earlier, Cressida busied herself with the trays and let her thoughts linger on the moment instead, hoping Eloise wouldn’t notice the faint color in her cheeks. 

They hadn’t even talked about the night of their last date, or what they are now that the line had been happily crossed. The progression just felt so natural, so effortless. And perhaps that was what surprised her most.

Cressida had spent so long guarding herself against the world, against moments like this. Yet here was Eloise, breezing into her life with her easy smiles and unapologetic affection, breaking through barriers that Cressida had assumed were impenetrable.

When Eloise returned to the counter, holding up a voodoo idol with exaggerated enthusiasm, Cressida couldn’t help but smile despite herself.

Eloise might be ridiculous at times, but she was also undeniably irresistible. And she would undoubtedly be Cressida’s downfall. 

—

The kettle whistled softly on the stovetop, the steam curling lazily into the air as Cressida moved with practiced ease around her kitchen. It’s been a few weeks since she and Eloise had gone out for their first few dates, and so long as Cressida didn’t think too much about the future, everything would keep going smoothly. 

Eloise had shown up unannounced that morning, grinning like she had every right to be there and holding a bag of pastries she had picked up on her way. She was currently lounging on the sofa in the next room, looking entirely too comfortable. 

“You don’t mind me crashing your morning, do you?” she’d asked, her tone so casual that Cressida hadn’t been able to muster the words to refuse even if she’d wanted to.

Not that she wanted to.

Now, as she poured two cups of tea and carried them to the living room, she found herself wondering when she’d grown so comfortable with Eloise’s presence. It was a strange sort of intimacy to her, the kind that didn’t require grand gestures or careful planning—just the quiet reassurance of being near each other.

Eloise was stretched out on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her as she flipped through a magazine she’d pulled from the coffee table. She looked up when Cressida entered, her face breaking into a grin. “Ah, tea. You really do know how to spoil me.”

Cressida set the cups down on the table between them, smiling. “I’m fairly certain that was my line after you brought pastries to my doorstep.”

“Consider this a mutually beneficial arrangement, then.” Eloise conceded, reaching for her cup. “Don’t you just love symbiosis?”

Cressida settled into the armchair opposite her and for a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the quiet clink of cups and the soft rustle of pages as Eloise returned to her magazine.

“You know,” Eloise began, breaking the silence as she glanced at Cressida, “this is nice. Just... being here. No plans, no rushing around, just...” She gestured vaguely, her expression softening.

Cressida tilted her head, her gaze steady. “Just existing?”

“Exactly.” Eloise leaned back, her grin turning playful. “And it doesn’t hurt that your tea-making skills are exceptional. Almost enough to make me reconsider my aversion to mornings.”

“High praise,” Cressida replied dryly, though her eyes glinted with amusement.

The moment stretched between them, warm and unhurried, before Eloise’s gaze drifted to the television mounted on the wall. The sound was muted, but the rolling banner at the bottom of the screen caught her attention.

“More news about that virus,” she remarked, nodding toward the screen. “What are they calling it? Covid?”

Cressida glanced at the TV, her expression unreadable. “Yeah. It seems to be spreading more quickly now.”

Eloise waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. These things always blow over eventually, don’t they?”

Cressida didn’t respond immediately, her gaze lingering on the screen for a moment longer before she turned back to Eloise. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

Eloise’s grin faltered slightly as she studied Cressida’s face. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m worried. Just... concerned,” Cressida said after a beat, her fingers brushing absently against the edge of her cup. “It’s all over the news, how quickly these things can spiral.”

Eloise leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as her expression softened. “Well, even if it does get bad, you’ve still got me. I’ll bring more pastries and coffee or you can make us tea. We’ll ride it out together, masks and all.”

Cressida’s lips twitched, her gaze flickering to Eloise’s. “You’re very optimistic.”

“Someone has to be,” Eloise replied, her grin returning. “Besides, I’m a great distraction. You can’t be worried when you’re too busy laughing at my jokes.”

Cressida shook her head, though her faint smile betrayed her amusement. “One of these days, you’re going to run out of them. And then what?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” 

—

A few days later, Eloise suggested a quick date to get Cressida’s mind off of the world’s current events. The café they arrived in was a cozy little nook tucked away on a quiet street, its warm interior buzzing with the soft hum of conversation, a heavenly aroma of coffee, and the clinking of various mugs. Eloise led Cressida to a corner table by the window, her excitement palpable as she gestured for her to sit.

“This place has the best cappuccinos in the city,” Eloise said as she sat across from Cressida, her grin wide. “I practically lived here when I was writing my last article. You know, back when I still thought deadlines were just suggestions.”

Cressida chuckled softly, the warm atmosphere already putting her at ease. “You do seem like the type to thrive under pressure.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Eloise quipped, leaning back in her chair. “Nothing gets the creative juices flowing like sheer panic.”

They ordered their drinks, and as the server left, Eloise leaned forward, resting her chin on the palm of her hand as she stared at Cressida, her eyes practically turning into hearts. “Alright, lovely. It’s story time. I feel like I’ve been taking over our conversations so now it’s your turn. Tell me about your life before the shop.”

Cressida hesitated, her fingers tapping gently against the table. She can’t say she hadn’t expected this talk, but she was hoping to avoid it for as long as humanly possible. “Before the shop?”

“Yes, before you became the mysterious and intriguing proprietor of Ophelia’s Oddities,” Eloise said, her tone teasing but her gaze intent.

“Well,” Cressida began slowly, choosing her words with care since she was not quite ready to tell the truth. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready, honestly. “I didn’t always know that this is what I’d be doing with my life. It was sort of... planned for me, you could say. My love for history and unique things came much later. The shop came once I realized I wanted to settle here and put down roots... of a sort.”

“‘Of a sort?’” Eloise repeated, furrowing her eyebrows slightly in question before the server came by with their drinks and cakes. “Is it like a family thing?”

“Not exactly,” Cressida answered, her voice carefully measured. “My family and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things. With the way I was living my life, they made it clear that staying wasn’t an option. Not unless I followed their rules. And it wasn’t like they gave me much of a choice in the first place. So I left. Or more accurately, I was sent away.”

Eloise’s playful expression softened into something more serious, her head tilting slightly as she studied Cressida. “That sounds... difficult,” she said gently, her tone void of its usual teasing. She was getting what she wanted though, which is getting to know the woman she’s dating better. But she did feel like a bit of a hypocrite given that she hasn’t actually told Cressida the truth about herself or her family.

“It was,” Cressida admitted, her gaze dropping to her cappuccino. “But it led me to someone who... changed everything. Honestly, she came into my life when I was at my lowest point. Saved me from a no doubt horrible life. She was like a mother to me, in many ways. A mentor, too. She taught me how to care for myself and others, to find beauty in the unusual, the stories that objects and places could tell. That’s where my love for oddities and traveling began.”

Eloise leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table. “She sounds incredible. What happened to her?”

Cressida’s hand stilled, her fingers pausing against the porcelain cup. She took a moment before answering, her voice softer now. “She passed away some time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Eloise said sincerely, her expression open and kind. “But it sounds like she had an incredible impact on you.”

“She did,” Cressida said with a faint smile, her gaze distant as though she could see the memories flickering before her. “I’ve learned so much from her. I honestly wouldn’t be who I am today without her.”

For a moment, the conversation paused, the soft hum of the café filling the space between them.

“What about you?” Cressida asked, redirecting the topic with an ease born of practice. “Your family seems... lively, to say the least. Just based off of your stories and their various needs.”

Eloise chuckled, the shift in focus easing the weight of the moment. She figured Cressida could use the change in topic. “Oh, you have no idea. It’s a constant whirlwind, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Well, maybe for a moment of quiet now and then. That’s why I chose to have a separate flat from the lot of them. They all live near each other and I’d never know peace.”

“Somehow, I doubt you’d enjoy the peace for long,” Cressida replied with a knowing smile.

Eloise grinned, raising her cup in a mock toast. “Fair point. The chaos does keep things interesting.”

Their conversation wove seamlessly from one topic to the next after that, filled with laughter and playful banter. But as they sipped their coffee, the low murmur of a news report from the TV behind the counter caught Eloise’s attention.

“Cases rising across Europe…” the anchor’s voice said, the words muffled but clear enough to piece together.

“More of that covid business,” Eloise said lightly, glancing at the screen. “Do you think we’ll end up having to wear masks all the time? Could be a good excuse to invest in some truly hideous designs.”

Cressida hummed noncommittally, her gaze thoughtful as she stirred her coffee. “Perhaps. It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Eloise tilted her head, studying Cressida’s face. “You’re taking this more seriously than I expected.”

“It’s always better to err on the side of caution,” Cressida replied smoothly, her tone neutral.

Before Eloise could reply, the sound of footsteps approaching their table drew her attention. She turned her head, her expression shifting to one of surprise as Michaela came into view, a wide smile spreading across her face.

“Well well well, fancy seeing you here,” Michaela said warmly, her gaze flickering between Eloise and Cressida.

“Hey,” Eloise greeted with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, trying to hide her panic a bit. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking up coffee for your sister,” Michaela replied, holding up a to-go bag as evidence. “She’s stuck in meetings all day and swore she wouldn’t survive without caffeine. You know how she gets.”

Eloise nodded slowly. “Sounds about right.”

“But enough about that,” Michaela’s attention shifted to Cressida, her expression curious but friendly. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Michaela.”

Eloise clenched her jaw at the introduction, forcing a casualness she didn’t feel. Her mind raced, grappling with the fact that Michaela had just introduced herself using her real name. Michaela didn’t know Cressida from Mayfair—there was no way she could since Cressida left before Michaela got into town—but the interaction made her heart race nonetheless.

Cressida offered a polite smile, extending her hand. “Lia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, so you’re the Lia we’ve been hearing so much about,” Michaela grinned like the devil that she is, shaking her hand. “You should see how whipped you have our dear old sister here.”

Eloise groaned softly, her cheeks flushing as she shot Michaela a sharp look. “Don’t start,” she warned, her tone a mix of exasperation and embarrassment.

Michaela ignored her, her grin widening as she turned back to Cressida. “You’ll have to excuse her. She’s not the best at giving glowing introductions, but trust me, the family’s curious about you. In a good way,” she added quickly, catching the flicker of uncertainty in Cressida’s eyes. “A very good way. Wait till I tell my wife I met you before she did. She’d be so jealous.”

Cressida’s smile softened, though her fingers brushed absently against the edge of her coffee cup. “Oh, well, I’m not sure I’m that interesting,” she said modestly.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Michaela replied warmly. “Anyone who can keep this one in line deserves a medal, at the very least.”

Cressida chuckled, her posture relaxing slightly. “I wouldn’t say I’m keeping her in line, exactly.”

“Yet,” Michaela quipped, her eyes twinkling as she glanced at Eloise, whose glare was becoming more and more deadly by the second.

“Alright, alright,” Eloise cut in, her voice full of mock exasperation. “Haven’t you got somewhere to be, Michaela? Coffee delivery, wasn’t it?”

Michaela smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, don’t worry. Your sister’s texts haven’t hit all caps yet. I’ve got a little time, I’d say.”

She leaned slightly closer to Cressida, lowering her voice conspiratorially but still loud enough for Eloise to hear. “If she hasn’t told you yet, she’s hopelessly smitten with you. Always waiting by the phone, hoping you’d text or call. It’s endearing, really.”

Cressida’s lips twitched, her gaze flickering to Eloise, who was pinching the bridge of her nose in defeat. “Thank you for the wonderful ammunition,” she said, matching Michaela’s mischievous grin.

“You are so welcome. Truly, it’s my greatest pleasure.” Michaela straightened, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she grabbed her to-go bag. “Well, I should get going before my lovely wife decides I’ve abandoned her and locks me out of the bedroom. We should all get together soon though. It was so lovely meeting you, Lia.”

“You as well,” Cressida replied with a polite nod.

Michaela turned to Eloise, her expression shifting into something more knowing. She didn’t say anything, but the look she gave her sister-in-law—a subtle arch of the brow and a faint smirk—spoke volumes.

Eloise sighed heavily, muttering a few curses before shaking her head, “No, Michaela. We’re not talking about this later. In fact, I’m blocking all of you and moving to a different continent.”

Michaela chuckled, her grin lingering as she started to walk away. “Sure, we’ll see about that. Bye, have fun!” she said over her shoulder before disappearing through the door.

As the café door closed behind her, Eloise let out a long breath. “Well, that was entirely embarrassing,” she said hiding her face in her hands. “If you’re going to dump me, at least be nice about it.”

Cressida leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she regarded Eloise with a teasing glint in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her tone light and playful. “That whole smitten-and-waiting-by-the-phone thing is rather endearing. I might just keep you around for that.”

Eloise peeked at her from between her fingers, her cheeks still flushed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Immensely,” Cressida nodded, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Though I’m starting to wonder how much of Michaela’s story is exaggerated.”

“None of it,” Eloise muttered, dragging her hands down her face dramatically. “Unfortunately for me.”

Cressida’s chuckle was warm and melodic, drawing Eloise’s gaze. “Well, you don’t have to wait by the phone anymore. You could’ve just told me you wanted more attention,” she teased, planning on riding this out for as long as she could. 

Eloise perked up slightly, her grin returning as she straightened in her seat. “Oh, so does this mean I get to text you whenever without fear of judgment now?”

Cressida scoffed, shaking her head. “Since when have you ever feared judgment?”

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” Eloise chuckled. “But that’s not an answer.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll make an exception. For now, at least. Just know that I won’t be entertaining your 3 am rants about the secrets of the universe.”

“That’s perfectly fine, we’ll save that topic for in-person conversations,” Eloise said, leaning forward with a playful smirk. “I’m just grateful meeting one of my family members wasn’t a dealbreaker. I’m not sure I could handle Michaela gloating about getting to meet you first and then being the reason you dumped me.”

Cressida’s laugh was soft but genuine. “You don’t have to worry, your position as my girlfriend is safe. You know, in the meantime.”

Eloise just stared at Cressida after hearing that, blinking a few times and looking entirely in awe. “I’m your girlfriend?” she asked, knowing full well they hadn’t put a label on it yet.

Cressida’s teasing smile faltered as she realized what she had said. Her cheeks warmed, but she quickly regained her composure, lifting her coffee cup to her lips in a bid to look unaffected. “Well, aren’t you?” she replied smoothly, her tone carrying just the right mix of confidence and nonchalance in order for her not to spontaneously burst into flames out of embarrassment for herself.

Eloise’s grin stretched wide, her expression equal parts delighted and smug. “I mean, I didn’t want to assume,” she said, leaning forward with a playful glint in her eye. “But if you’re claiming me, who am I to argue?”

Cressida scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Claiming you? Gross. We’re not in one of those weird fantasy novels.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s kind of sexy. And makes it sound so official,” Eloise shrugged, feeling like she’d be grinning for the days to come. “This does mean we’re official, right? I just want to make sure.”

Cressida hesitated for a brief moment, her gaze dropping to her coffee cup and internally chastising herself for not being more careful with her words. But then she thought, who the hell cares? She adores Eloise, and for some reason, Eloise seems to be smitten with her if Michaela’s words were to go by. So she smiled softly, meeting Eloise’s eyes. “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said softly, the words carrying more weight than she had anticipated.

Eloise’s expression softened as well, her playful demeanor giving way to something more sincere. “Well, in that case, I promise to be the best girlfriend you’ve ever had. Also possibly the most annoying, but definitely the best.”

Cressida chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s quite the lofty promise. I’ll be holding you to it.”

“Good,” Eloise said, her smile warm and earnest. “Because I plan on keeping it.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the playful energy between them giving way to a quieter, more intimate connection.

“Shall we toast to this new development?” Eloise asked suddenly, raising her cup with a grin.

Cressida rolled her eyes again but raised her cup nonetheless. “To you being the best girlfriend—and the most annoying,” she said dryly, though her eyes glinted with humor.

“I’ll drink to that,” Eloise said cheerfully, clinking her cup against Cressida’s before taking a sip.

As the conversation flowed into easier territory again, Cressida felt an unfamiliar but welcome sense of comfort settle over her. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the walls she had so carefully constructed didn’t feel quite so necessary.

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the windows of Cressida’s apartment, painting the walls in muted hues of gold and cream. The city outside was alive with its usual hum, but within the cozy cocoon of Cressida’s apartment, time seemed to slow.

Cressida lay reclined against the pillows, one hand resting on her stomach while the other toyed absently with Eloise’s hair. She stretched lazily, head resting against Cressida’s shoulder as she let out a contented sigh. 

“I could get used to this,” she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“What, taking over my bed and stealing my mornings?” Cressida teased, her fingers idly brushing through Eloise’s hair.

“Exactly,” Eloise grinned, shifting closer until their legs tangled beneath the sheets. “It’s not my fault that your bed is way more comfortable than mine. You should really take pride in your hospitality.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, though her lips curved into a smile. “Is that what this is now? Hospitality?”

“Mhm,” Eloise hummed in agreement, burying her face in the crook of Cressida’s neck. “I mean, it’s also about the company. You happen to make an excellent pillow.”

Cressida chuckled softly as she started scratching up and down Eloise’s back, the sound vibrating against her cheek. “I’ll add that to my list of strengths.”

“You should. It’s also the perfect payment for my quality companionship, witty conversation, and unparalleled charm,” Eloise smiled, wrapping her arm around Cressida’s waist to snuggle in closer. “You’re welcome.”

Cressida rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Your humility is truly unmatched.”

They lay there in comfortable silence for a moment, the world outside fading into the background. Cressida’s fingers continued their gentle path through Eloise’s hair, the soothing motion lulling them both into a state of peaceful contentment.

Eloise broke the quiet first, her tone turning more curious. “Can I ask you something?”

Cressida glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose that depends on the question.”

“Have you ever...” Eloise hesitated for a beat before continuing, knowing she had to tread carefully when it came to asking about the past. “Have you ever dated anyone before me? Or am I your first foray into romantic entanglements?”

Cressida stilled her fingers against Eloise’s scalp as she considered her words. “I wouldn’t say I’ve been entirely without experience,” she eventually responds. “But I suppose... none of it ever felt quite like this.”

“How do you mean?” 

“Honestly,” Cressida started, wanting to open up more but still needing to filter what she could and couldn’t say. “I didn’t really think about being attracted to women. I suppose the feelings have always been there, I just never really considered them. Until you, that is.”

Eloise immediately grinned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “So what you’re saying is that I’m your gay awakening? God, no wonder you’re so smitten with me.”

Cressida groaned, covering her face with one hand as heat rose to her cheeks. “I should’ve known better than to say anything.”

“Oh, don’t be so shy about it,” Eloise said, nudging Cressida’s shoulder lightly. “It’s an honor, really. I feel like I should get a medal or something.”

“You’re insufferable,” Cressida muttered, though the faint amusement in her voice gave her away.

“Insufferable and utterly delightful,” Eloise countered, leaning closer with a playful grin before stealing a quick peck on Cressida’s lips. 

Cressida shook her head, trying and failing to hide her smile. “Fine. I’ll give you delightful. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“You and I both know that it’s too late,” Eloise quipped, her grin turning more mischievous.

Their laughter filled the room, light and unrestrained before the conversation shifted to easier topics—memories of childhood mischief and favorite books, the kind of comfortable chatter that came naturally to them.

It wasn’t until the subject of past relationships surfaced again that Eloise noticed the subtle change in Cressida’s demeanor.

“What was this like for you?” Eloise asked softly. “I mean... before us?”

Cressida sighed softly, her gaze flickering toward the window. “I’m not quite sure how to explain it,” she said after a moment, shaking her head slightly. “I know that it wasn’t like this. I’ve always just... kept people at a distance. It’s easier that way.”

Eloise tilted her head, studying Cressida’s face. “Why?”

Cressida hesitated, her expression unreadable as she weighed her response. “Because when you let people in, you give them the power to leave. And that’s not something I’ve ever been very good at handling.”

Eloise didn’t really know what to say to that, so she hummed but said nothing else.

“Don’t get me wrong though, I do want to let you in. I already have. And I’m still working on it, bit by bit,” Cressida said without hesitation, not wanting Eloise to think that wherever their relationship is headed is just a dead end. “I suppose I hadn’t realized how much I missed this kind of... closeness. Until you came along.”

Eloise smiled, her expression softening as she shifted to prop herself up on one elbow. Deciding that she’s not going to push more on the topic until Cressida is actually ready to tell her more stuff, she starts shifting to a lighter topic. “Well, I’m glad I could remind you. Though I have to say, you’re not half bad at this whole dating thing for someone so out of practice.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?” 

“Absolutely,” Eloise replied with mock seriousness, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Cressida’s cheek. “Consider it high praise from someone with impeccable taste.”

Cressida chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Impeccable, you say? Didn’t you try to buy a horrid painting at the antiques fair?”

“That was visionary,” Eloise corrected, her grin widening. “You just lack the foresight to see its potential.”

“Potential for what? Cursed nights and bad decor?”

Eloise gasped dramatically, clutching at her chest. “You wound me. But fine, I’ll concede. I agree that you’re the expert when it comes to good taste.”

“Glad we’re finally in agreement,” Cressida replied, her voice still laced with teasing.

“After all, you are dating me. Amazing taste, darling. Truly.”

Cressida then kicked Eloise’s legs underneath the covers, very tempted to kick her off the bed altogether. “Alright, that’s it. Get out of my bed.” she narrowed her eyes at Eloise, though the lack of conviction in her tone made them both dissolve into laughter. 

Their laughter settled into a comfortable silence after a moment, and Eloise let her head rest against Cressida’s shoulder again, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the sheet. The quiet was interrupted only by the faint murmur of the television in the living room, the news running in the background.

The words caught Eloise’s attention first: “Covid-19 cases spike across Europe, prompting new restrictions and growing concerns worldwide...”

She tilted her head toward the sound, her brow furrowing slightly. “There it is again,” she murmured. “That virus. It’s all anyone seems to talk about lately.”

Cressida glanced toward the open bedroom door, her gaze distant. “It’s becoming harder to ignore lately. Have you noticed how people seem... restless? It’s like there’s a tension in the air.”

Eloise nodded, sitting up slightly. “Yeah. My brother mentioned it the other day. His company is already discussing remote options, just in case things get worse. It’s wild.”

Cressida remained quiet for a moment, her hand absently brushing against the compass charm resting on her collarbone. “Do you think it will?”

Eloise shrugged, though her expression was unusually serious. “Hard to say. But it feels... different. Somehow.”

The weight of her words settled over them, a subtle reminder that the world outside their cozy bubble was shifting.

“Well,” Eloise said after a beat, her tone deliberately lighter as she leaned back against the pillows. “If it comes down to it, we’ll figure something out. Maybe stockpile some tea and snacks, ride it out like survivalists—only with better taste.”

Cressida smirked, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Tea and snacks. Your solution to everything.”

“It’s foolproof,” Eloise declared, her grin returning.

The tension eased slightly as their banter continued, though the shadow of uncertainty lingered in the back of their minds. For now, they let it remain there, unspoken, as they chose to focus on the quiet joy of the moment instead.

—

The evening was unusually quiet, the city’s usual energy subdued as if the world itself was holding its breath. Cressida’s apartment was warm and softly lit, the faint aroma of chamomile tea lingering in the air.

Eloise sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees as she continued to scroll through. “Well, it’s official,” she said, her tone edged with mock gravity. “My family’s already planning a bunker-style situation at my mother’s house. Apparently, there’s nothing like a global pandemic to bring everyone together.”

Cressida chuckled softly, setting her teacup down on the table. “And what about you? Are you planning to join them?”

Eloise shrugged, though her grin was lopsided. “It’s tempting. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by endless chaos and hearing all the shouting to get out of the bathroom every morning?”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, her expression amused. “Sounds like paradise.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Eloise quipped, leaning back into the cushions. “But in all seriousness, I’ve been thinking about... other options. You know, just in case I want to keep my sanity.”

Cressida tilted her head slightly, watching Eloise with a mix of curiosity and fondness. “And what would those options be?”

Eloise hesitated for a beat, her gaze flickering toward the window. “Well, I was thinking of staying at my place. But if it comes down to long lockdowns and all that, I’d be open to... adjustments.”

“Adjustments?” Cressida repeated, her tone light but edged with intrigue.

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “I might be able to convince one of my brothers to stay with me instead. Or I could stay with him. I don’t think staying with Michaela and my sister would be good though, I don’t want to be stuck in a house with them going at it all night.” 

Cressida laughed at that, shaking her head. “Yeah, I’d imagine that’d get awkward real quick. But there hasn’t been an official announcement yet so you’ve got some time to think of a plan. Just don’t forget that you’re helping me shop tomorrow.”

Eloise nodded, letting out a small huff since she couldn’t just say what she wanted to say in the first place. And Cressida didn’t seem to be getting the hint, either. Nevertheless, she decides to try one more time. 

“You know, this place is so much cozier than mine,” she remarked, glancing toward the kitchen where Cressida was starting on the dishes from dinner.

“That’s because I don’t live like a feral teenager,” Cressida teased, her voice light as she shot Eloise a smirk over her shoulder. 

Eloise gasped dramatically, closing her laptop and clutching it to her chest. “Feral? I’ll have you know my apartment has a very... lived-in charm.”

“Lived-in. Uh huh. That’s one way to put it,” Cressida replied, shaking her head slightly and chuckling. Eloise decided to give up on trying to drop hints for now. 

“Things might get a bit strange soon,” Eloise said after a lull in the conversation, her tone uncharacteristically serious. “With this whole lockdown business. People are already clearing out stores like it’s the apocalypse.”

Cressida nodded, finishing up with the dishes and wiping her hands on a towel. “It does seem... unprecedented.”

Eloise hummed in agreement as Cressida moved to join her on the couch. “Guess we’ll just have to see how it all plays out.”

They didn’t linger on the topic for long, their conversation drifting back to lighter subjects as the evening wore on. But beneath the surface, an unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them—a quiet acknowledgment that the world might soon feel very different.

—

The evening air was cool and crisp, the streets quieter than usual as Cressida sat in her living room with a book in hand. She’d spent the day preparing for the inevitable—officially closing down the shop, taking stock of the essentials, and mentally bracing herself for the solitude that seemed unavoidable.

The official news came that the lockdown would begin tomorrow, which meant peace and quiet for who knows how long whether she liked it or not. Not that she minded. Plus, she and Eloise have gotten very good at texting and video chatting all night, so she’ll have that to look forward to at random times of the day. Although she did feel down that she wouldn’t get to see her girlfriend for likely quite some time. 

The sudden knock at her door startled her from her thoughts.

Her brow furrowed as she set her book aside and rose from the couch, glancing briefly toward the clock. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone—especially not at this hour.

Crossing the room, she paused briefly to steady herself before unlocking the door and pulling it open.

Eloise stood on the threshold, wearing a leather jacket over her favorite striped jumper, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and a slightly sheepish grin on her face, her blue mask hanging off of one ear. Her hair was windswept, and the faintest flush tinged her cheeks as if she’d been walking briskly.

“Surprise?” Eloise said, her voice laced with a blend of playfulness and uncertainty.

Cressida blinked, her eyes flickering between Eloise’s face and the bag slung over her shoulder. “What on earth are you doing here? Didn’t you already text me goodnight?”

“Well,” Eloise began, shifting her weight as she gave a small shrug, “I figured with this whole lockdown thing starting tomorrow, I’d... you know. Relocate. Temporarily, of course.”

“Relocate,” Cressida repeated, her tone flat, though her lips twitched faintly as if caught between incredulity and amusement. “To my apartment?”

“Exactly,” Eloise said, her grin widening. “It’s brilliant, really. Your place is much nicer than mine, and, if I may be so bold, I’m excellent company.”

Cressida arched an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe as she crossed her arms, refusing to let Eloise in. For now. “You’re unbelievable. Did you even think to ask first?”

“Oh, come on,” Eloise replied, stepping closer, her expression shifting into something more earnest. “Would you have said yes if I had?”

Cressida hesitated, her silence betraying her answer. She never really thought about it, figuring Eloise would go home to her family instead at some point. 

“Exactly,” Eloise continued, clearly emboldened. “So I thought I’d skip the formalities and just show up. It’s a classic romantic gesture, isn’t it? Showing up unannounced with nothing but a bag full of clothes and an irresistible smile?”

“I think you’re confusing ‘romantic’ with ‘audacious,’” Cressida replied, though the faint amusement in her tone was impossible to miss. “And what if I say no?”

Eloise's grin faltered for the briefest moment before she quickly recovered, tilting her head with an exaggerated pout. “You wouldn’t. You’re far too kind-hearted to turn me away. Especially when I’m standing here with my sad little bag and no other options.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow. “No other options? I find that hard to believe. Your own apartment aside, along with your other siblings, don’t you have a family estate to run off to? I’m sure they’d be thrilled to have you.”

Eloise let out a dramatic sigh, clutching her bag like a tragic heroine. “Oh, yes, I could go home. But imagine the chaos. My siblings, their spouses, various youngins running about. I’d have to compete for bathroom time, race to the kitchen for sustenance, endure constant noise, and worst of all”—she lowered her voice for effect—“there’d be absolutely no peace and quiet for reading.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Cressida said dryly, though her lips twitched faintly.

“Exactly,” Eloise said, straightening with renewed determination. “Meanwhile, you have this lovely apartment, the perfect setup for lockdown, and excellent taste in tea. Plus, I happen to know that you have enough essentials for a small army. It’s practically begging for me to stay here. Besides...” Her voice softened as she looked at Cressida with those eyes that always seemed to melt her resolve. “I didn’t want to spend lockdown without you and not know when I’d see you again.”

Cressida narrowed her eyes, though her posture relaxed slightly. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“Meticulously,” Eloise replied, her grin returning. “I even packed an extra toothbrush and a promise to be good.”

“No offense, but I very much doubt your ability to be good.”

“Oh come on!” Eloise's pout deepens. “You were just saying the other day how much you’d miss me. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

Cressida sighed heavily, her gaze flickering between Eloise’s hopeful expression and the duffle bag slung over her shoulder. “You do realize this means you’ll be subject to my rules, don’t you? My space, my terms. So when I say I want a massage, you’ll have to do it no questions asked.”

“Of course,” Eloise said with a solemn nod, though the mischievous glint in her eyes gave her away. “Your wish is my command.”

Cressida hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer to Eloise and tilting her head as if scrutinizing her. “I’m not sure you’re prepared for how particular I can be.”

“Try me,” Eloise challenged, her grin widening since she knows she’s practically won by now.

“Well, for starters, no clutter,” Cressida said, gesturing toward the duffle bag. “I don’t want your things scattered everywhere.”

“Understood,” Eloise said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll keep my mess contained.”

“And I’m not your maid,” Cressida continued, though her tone was more teasing than stern. “You’ll do your share of the cleaning.”

“Done,” Eloise said, her expression earnest. “I’ll even do the dishes.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips twitching. “No interrupting my reading time.”

“Noted,” Eloise said, nodding solemnly. “Unless it’s an emergency. Like emergency cuddle sessions.”

Cressida exhaled sharply, finally letting the smile break through. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Eloise said, stepping closer with that infuriating grin, “here I am.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, but she stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Fine. But if you overstep even once, I reserve the right to kick you out. Quite literally, I will kick you.”

“Deal,” Eloise said, slipping past her and into the apartment with an unmistakable air of victory. “You won’t regret this.”

Cressida closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she watched Eloise set her bag down by the sofa. “I feel like I already do.”

“No, you don’t,” Eloise called over her shoulder, her voice full of playful confidence as she plopped down on the sofa.

“Is it too late to send you away?”

“Far too late,” Eloise nodded, patting the space beside her invitingly. “Besides, you’ll thank me when I cook you a mediocre dinner and beat you at Scrabble later.”

Cressida rolled her eyes but relented, settling down beside her girlfriend who is very much living up to her title as the most annoying. Though she couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through her chest at the thought of not having to face the coming weeks alone.

“Fine,” she said, her tone resigned but affectionate. “But don’t think for a second that you’re winning at Scrabble.”

Eloise grinned, leaning closer. “We’ll see about that.”

And maybe she didn’t regret it after all.

Chapter Text

The first days of quarantine came and went.

It was another day at the apartment, and newly living with someone 24/7 was bound to have some learning curves.

Eloise learned that Cressida liked to get up early still and get ready for the day, a full outfit and makeup included. “For productivity. Now rise and shine!” she said before yanking the covers off of Eloise and leaving her to freeze in the cruel, unforgiving morning air. 

Cressida learned that Eloise would sleep past noon if given the opportunity to do so. “I’ll bite your hand if you wake me up at 7 again,” she grumbled one morning before cocooning herself under the covers. Cressida didn’t see her until after lunch that day. 

Cressida had a tendency to leave her lashes on the nightstand, leaving Eloise to think that they had spiders or fuzzy caterpillars.

And Eloise had a tendency to leave out her contacts near the bathroom sink, letting them dry up instead of throwing them away after use. 

That particular morning, Cressida learned that Eloise murders her pancakes by drowning them in syrup. Eloise learned that Cressida thinks oat milk is superior to regular milk. 

Eloise sat cross-legged on the couch, a plate of pancakes balanced on her lap. She hummed softly to herself as she drowned the stack in an unapologetic amount of syrup, her focus entirely on ensuring not a single corner remained dry.

Cressida emerged from her bedroom, her hair still damp from the shower and her face adorned with the faintest hint of exasperation when she saw the monstrosity that was happening before her. “Do you plan to eat those, or just wait for them to dissolve into goo before slurping it up like a spider with its prey?” she asked, tilting her head as she crossed the room.

Eloise grinned, entirely unbothered as she cut into the soggy stack with enthusiasm. “Whichever one is most effective, my darling.”

Cressida shook her head, heading toward the kitchen where her espresso machine sat gleaming on the counter. Eloise watched her pull open the fridge and retrieve a carton of oat milk, clicking her tongue in mock disappointment.

“You know,” Eloise began, her tone teasing, “you could just get normal milk like a normal person.”

Cressida glanced over her shoulder, scoffing lightly. “Normal is subjective. Besides, oat milk is far superior.”

“Superiorly pretentious,” Eloise muttered under her breath, though her grin gave her away.

Cressida ignored her, focusing on the careful process of steaming her milk. By the time she’d finished preparing her latte—complete with a delicate swirl of foam art for some reason—Eloise had devoured half her pancakes and was eyeing the remaining ones with unabashed glee.

“You eat like a child,” Cressida remarked as she joined her on the couch, sipping her coffee with practiced elegance.

“And yet, I live like a queen,” Eloise replied, waving her fork dramatically before popping another syrup-soaked bite into her mouth.

—

Later that morning, Cressida found Eloise in the living room, still in her mismatched pajamas—an ensemble of striped pants and a faded concert tee—as she stood in front of one of the bookshelves, stacks of books on the floor and other surfaces. 

She made her way towards the section of the couch that wasn’t covered in books, sitting down before speaking. “Dare I even ask?”

“I’m re-organizing the bookshelves,” Eloise announced as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She squinted at the titles on the shelf in front of her, then carefully slid a book into place.

“Excuse me?” Cressida raised her eyebrows. “Organizing it how, exactly?”

“Alphabetically, of course,” Eloise said with a grin, turning slightly to glance at her girlfriend over her shoulder. “This is the only right way to organize books if you aren’t in a library or a bookstore. It’s just utter chaos here. How do you live like this?”

Cressida scoffed, rolling her eyes. “They’re organized by category, thank you very much. It’s a system that works perfectly well.”

“Category systems are subjective.” Eloise waves her off. “Alphabetical is universal. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

“I’d argue you’re doing yourself a favor,” Cressida countered, smiling as she watched Eloise work, not actually minding the impromptu reorganization. But that doesn’t mean she was going to stop herself from teasing Eloise. “If you’re just trying to avoid losing at Scrabble again, you could always just say so.”

Eloise froze mid-motion, a dramatic gasp escaping her lips as she turned to face Cressida. “How dare you. I’ll have you know, that was a fluke. A momentary lapse in concentration.”

“Mhm.” Cressida tilted her head, her smirk soft but victorious. “If you say so.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes playfully, clutching the book in her hands like a shield. “Mark my words, Lia, the next game will be my triumph.”

“Perhaps,” Cressida said lightly, sounding all too casual. “If you can manage to spell a word longer than four letters.”

“Hey! Rude!” Eloise protested, though her voice carried more laughter than indignation. She set the books down on the shelf with a huff before deciding to just join Cressida. She flopped onto the couch, her head falling dramatically into her girlfriend's lap. “You wounded me,” she said, peering up at Cressida with a pout that didn’t quite disguise the laughter in her eyes.

“Somehow, I think you’ll recover,” Cressida replied, her fingers instinctively moving to comb through Eloise’s hair before leaning down and giving her lips a peck. The simple gesture made Eloise hum contentedly, her pout fading into a lazy grin.

“You’re far too smug for someone who’s only been winning because I let her,” Eloise teased, her voice muffled slightly as she buried her face against Cressida’s thigh.

“Oh, is that how you see it?” Cressida asked, arching a brow as she tilted her head down to meet Eloise’s gaze. “I’d be more than happy to give you another opportunity to prove yourself. Though I’ll warn you now, if you lose I’ll never let you forget it.”

“Deal,” Eloise said, sitting up quickly, her eyes gleaming with determination. “But no more Scrabble. Monopoly. Now with that, I’m unbeatable.”

Cressida snorted softly. “Sure, we’ll see about that.”

An hour later, the coffee table was transformed into a battlefield of brightly colored property cards, miniature houses and hotels, and stacks of fake money. Eloise’s expression was intense, her brow furrowed in concentration as she calculated her next move.

Cressida, on the other hand, leaned back against the couch cushions with a serene smile, her fingers lightly drumming against the armrest as she surveyed the board. Her token—the car—rested triumphantly on a hotel-laden Park Place, which Eloise was about to land on.

Eloise groaned as her piece—the battleship—clinked onto the space. “Sorceress!” she declared, counting out the exorbitant rent owed. “You’re evil. Absolutely ruthless.”

“Did you forget that I’m an actual businesswoman?” Cressida said with a faint smirk, holding her hand out for the money that Eloise owed. “You should’ve been more prepared.”

“You can’t blame me for underestimating you,” Eloise replied, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. “You have such a deceptive air of innocence. Who would suspect the killer instincts lurking beneath?”

Cressida tilted her head, her smile widening. “Your mistake. Perhaps you’ll learn not to underestimate me next time.”

“Noted,” Eloise said, her grin softening as she reached across the board to gently brush a strand of hair behind Cressida’s ear. The touch lingered, her thumb grazing the curve of Cressida’s cheek as their eyes met. Eloise started to lean in, hoping Cressida would just forget about the game before a clear winner could be determined. 

Cressida’s breath hitched, the moment stretching out between them before realizing what Eloise was doing and pushing her away by her forehead. “Distraction won’t save you from bankruptcy,” she clicked her tongue. “Pay up, loser.”

“Worth a shot,” Eloise murmured, leaning in to steal a quick kiss before pulling back and begrudgingly handing over the fake money. 

–

Later that evening, they lounged on the couch again, a movie playing softly in the background. Eloise had shifted to drape herself across Cressida’s lap, her head resting against her stomach as Cressida absently ran her fingers through her hair.

Eloise never expected to be the clingy type, and yet here she is. Cressida didn’t seem to mind though. Especially since she keeps indulging Eloise’s need to be close at all times. 

The sound of Eloise’s phone vibrating on the coffee table broke the quiet. She grabbed it with a sigh, glancing at the notification. “Another update about COVID,” she muttered, unlocking the screen.

Cressida tilted her head, her fingers pausing in Eloise’s hair. “What does it say?”

“More closures,” Eloise said, scrolling through the article. “Universities, more nonessential businesses... It’s really starting to shut everything down.”

Cressida’s hand resumed its soothing motion, her gaze thoughtful. “It seems like the world is holding its breath.”

Eloise glanced up at her, her expression softening. “At least we’re not facing it alone,” she said quietly, reaching up to take Cressida’s free hand in hers.

Cressida’s lips curved faintly as she interlaced their fingers. “No,” she agreed, her voice equally soft. “We’re not.”

Eloise squeezed her hand gently, her gaze holding Cressida’s for a moment longer before she returned her attention to the screen. “My family keeps making fun of me for uhauling. It’s likely that as soon as this lockdown is over, they’re going to start hunting us down so they can finally meet you. I’m only slightly terrified of the thought.”

“Terrified?” Cressida repeated, raising her eyebrows. “What for? That they won’t approve?”

Eloise looked up, alarmed. “What? No! God no. I’m terrified they’ll scare you off.”

Cressida tilted her head, her fingers pausing in Eloise’s hair. “Scare me off?” her tone soft but edged with curiosity. “Why would you think that?”

Eloise groaned, covering her face with her free hand. “Because they’re... a lot,” she admitted, her voice muffled. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re wonderful, and they’ll adore you. But they’re also nosy and overwhelming, and once they meet you, they’ll never let you go.”

Cressida chuckled softly, her fingers resuming their gentle motions through Eloise’s hair. “You’re not exactly a picture of restraint yourself, you know.”

“Hey,” Eloise protested, peeking out from behind her hand. “That’s entirely different. My clinginess is charming. Theirs is... well, it’s charming too, but in a way that requires acclimation.”

“Oh, yours did too. But I’ve learned to adore you so it’s okay,” Cressida said, her smile widening. “So, basically, you’re warning me that your family is just as impossible as you are?”

“Exactly,” Eloise said with a grin, though it quickly faded into a more serious expression. “I just... I don’t want them to overwhelm you. I know this—us—might already be a lot for you to navigate, and I don’t want to add to it.”

Cressida’s hand stilled again, her gaze softening as she looked down at Eloise. “Hey, look at me,” she said quietly, her tone steady. “I’ve spent my life running away from people and I don’t want to do that anymore. Not with you or your family. You know, eventually. And even if they are overwhelming, I’m not going anywhere.”

Eloise blinked up at her, her expression softening into something more vulnerable. “You mean that?”

“Of course,” Cressida replied, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Eloise let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders relaxing as a small, relieved smile spread across her face. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“You could stand to tell me more often,” Cressida teased, her smile turning faintly mischievous. “Now, are you going to sulk about your family all night, or are we going to finish this movie?”

Eloise chuckled, shifting to sit up slightly so she could press a quick, affectionate kiss to Cressida’s cheek. “Fine, I’ll save my sulking for another day.”

Cressida shook her head, her smile soft as Eloise settled back against her. The weight of Eloise’s words lingered in the back of her mind, but for now, she allowed herself to savor the quiet closeness between them. Whatever came next—be it family introductions or the uncertainties of the world—they would face it together.

—

After one of their movie nights, Cressida had gone and begun her extensive nighttime ritual while Eloise lingered in the kitchen, making a point to clean up the dinner mess they’d made together earlier. She hummed a tune under her breath as she loaded the dishwasher, occasionally pausing to glance toward the bathroom door.

When Cressida finally emerged, Eloise leaned against the counter with an amused expression. “Do you have a seven-page checklist in there or are you just preparing to meet the Queen in your dreams?”

“It’s important to go to bed feeling refreshed,” Cressida replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’d understand that if you weren’t so... you.”

Eloise barked out a laugh, pushing off the counter to join her girlfriend in the living room. “Fair enough. Though I think I’m starting to rub off on you—there’s an extra cushion out of place on the sofa and you haven’t even fixed it yet.”

Cressida froze, her gaze darting to the offending pillow. She crossed the room swiftly, plumping the cushion and setting it back in its proper place.

Eloise watched with barely concealed amusement. “I stand corrected.”

Cressida rolled her eyes before taking Eloise’s hand and tugging her towards the bedroom so they could retire for the night. 

—

Another morning and the apartment was warm and quiet. Morning light filtered through the windows as Cressida moved about in the kitchen, preparing her usual morning coffee along with her girlfriend's.

She didn’t even notice Eloise leaning against the doorway until she spoke.

“Nice look,” Eloise drawled, a teasing grin spreading across her face as she eyed Cressida up and down.

Cressida glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowing slightly at Eloise’s tone. “What?”

“The sweatshirt,” Eloise said, gesturing vaguely. “Looks familiar.”

Cressida blinked, then looked down at herself. Sure enough, the sweatshirt she was wearing was a deep navy, definitely not her size, and distinctly not hers. Realization dawned as her cheeks flushed faintly.

“It was on the chair,” she said simply, turning her gaze back to her coffee as if that explained everything.

Eloise’s grin widened as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “And here I thought you were all about elegant attire and perfectly tailored outfits. Look at you now, stealing my clothes.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Cressida said in defense, her tone calm but her lips twitching with the hint of a smile. “It’s not my fault you leave your things everywhere. Nor the fact that you flung my shirt somewhere in the dark last night that I’ve yet to find it.”

“Sure, sure,” Eloise said, crossing her arms. “But I don’t want to hear you complaining about my outfits anymore when you’re just as guilty of lounging in old hoodies as the rest of us.”

“This is the only exception,” Cressida said with a small shrug. “It’s comfortable.”

“And adorable,” Eloise added, her voice softening as she leaned in. “You should wear my things more often.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed further. “If you’re done teasing me, I’d like to enjoy my morning in peace.”

“No chance of that when you’re with me,” Eloise laughed, pressing a quick kiss to Cressida’s lips before grabbing a mug and helping herself to the coffee.

—

Later that evening, they were back on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them and the soft glow of the TV casting shadows across the room.

“Alright,” Eloise said, settling deeper into the cushions. “What cinematic masterpiece are we indulging in tonight?”

“A rom-com,” Cressida said firmly, picking up the remote and navigating the streaming options.

Eloise groaned, and yet the corner of her lips twitched upwards. “Do we have to? They’re all so predictable. And cheesy.”

“Too bad you don’t have a choice but to sit here and watch it with me,” Cressida countered with a knowing smile. “Besides, I know you secretly love them.”

“I do not!” Eloise said quickly, though her protest lacked conviction.

Cressida didn’t bother responding, simply pressing play and settling back against the couch. As the movie unfolded, she snuck glances at Eloise, catching the faintest of smiles and the occasional laugh.

By the time the credits rolled, Eloise was fully engrossed, her arms crossed as she tried to hide her satisfaction. “Alright,” she admitted reluctantly. “That one wasn’t too terrible.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, a triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement, coming from you.”

—

Another evening and the room was quiet now, bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights strung along the bookshelf. The movie had ended a while back, and Eloise had shifted to drape herself across her girlfriend's lap, her head resting comfortably as Cressida’s fingers combed gently through her hair.

“You’re awfully cuddly these days,” Cressida remarked, her voice light with amusement.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” Eloise replied, her eyes closed as she nestled closer.

Cressida chuckled softly but didn’t argue, her touch lingering as the silence stretched between them.

“It’s strange,” Eloise murmured after a moment, sounding half-asleep. “How right this feels. Being here with you.”

Cressida paused briefly before continuing her soothing motions. “Strange in a good way, I hope.”

“The best way,” Eloise said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think I’d get used to this so quickly. Living with someone. Sharing everything.”

Cressida hesitated before speaking, her voice equally quiet. “I know. It just feels... natural. I didn’t expect that.”

Eloise smiled faintly, tilting her head to look up at Cressida. “Maybe it’s because we just make sense together.”

Cressida didn’t reply, but the warmth in her gaze spoke volumes as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Eloise’s temple.

—

The news grew grimmer with each passing day. Updates about rising cases and stricter restrictions played in the background as Eloise scrolled through her phone.

“My siblings are driving me insane,” she said suddenly, setting her phone down with a sigh.

Cressida glanced up from her book, raising an eyebrow. “What now?”

“They’ve started a group chat specifically for pandemic updates and complaints,” Eloise said, rolling her eyes. “It’s constant. And now they’re arguing about the best way to sanitize groceries. As if most of them actually do their own shopping.”

Cressida chuckled softly, closing her book. “Sounds... lively.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Eloise muttered. “Some of them have been asking about you. Michaela's fault entirely.”

“Oh?” Cressida said, her tone light but curious since they never really discuss family except in passing. 

“She’s been gloating that she got to meet you before quarantine began,” Eloise continued, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. “Now everyone’s clamoring to know when they’ll get their turn.”

Cressida tilted her head, her lips curving faintly. “And what did you tell them?”

Eloise groaned, leaning back against the couch dramatically. “I told them to fuck off, obviously. This whole virtual introduction thing they’re suggesting? Absolutely not. Can you imagine the chaos?”

Cressida chuckled, setting her book down on the side table. “It sounds like they’re excited for you, at least.”

“They are,” Eloise admitted, her tone softening. “But I’d rather wait until this whole thing is over. I don’t want their first impression of you to be a pixelated version on a screen, with one of them cracking bad jokes in the background and another interrogating you like they’re solving a mystery.”

“Are you worried I won’t survive the interrogation?” Cressida teased, leaning closer.

“Oh, I’m confident you’d crush it,” Eloise replied, a grin tugging at her lips. “But I’d rather keep you all to myself for a little while longer. Is that selfish?”

Cressida’s expression softened, her hand reaching out to brush lightly against Eloise’s. “Not at all.”

Eloise turned her hand palm up, threading their fingers together with ease. “Good. Because between you and the group chat, I know exactly which one I’d choose to spend my time with.”

Cressida raised an eyebrow, her smile turning playful. “Careful, or your siblings might start thinking you’re going soft.”

Eloise let out a mock gasp, clutching her chest with her free hand. “Perish the thought.”

The quiet laughter that followed was enough to lighten the atmosphere. For a moment, the weight of the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them cocooned in the comfort of each other’s presence.

As the news droned on in the background, Eloise glanced at the screen, her expression turning contemplative. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How everything feels like it’s slowing down but speeding up at the same time.”

Cressida nodded, knowing the feeling all too well as her thumb brushed absentmindedly over Eloise’s knuckles. “It is. But maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing. Sometimes, slowing down forces you to focus on what’s most important.”

Eloise looked at her then, her gaze steady and thoughtful. “You’re right,” she said softly, looking right into her girlfriend's eyes. “It does.”

And in that moment, with their fingers intertwined and the world reduced to the quiet hum of their shared space, it felt like the truest thing she’d ever heard.

Chapter Text

Sunlight streamed through the shop windows, golden rays catching on the glass displays and casting soft prisms of light across the rows of shelves. Eloise leaned against the counter, her chin propped on her hand as she idly scrolled through her phone. It was odd being in the shop on her own and not as a customer, but Cressida had banished her downstairs early that morning since she had some important business to take care of that involved several video conferences and Eloise tended to distract her.

She’d been trying to keep herself entertained, but she’d grown used to annoying her girlfriend whenever she was feeling bored. And now Cressida’s knack for serene productivity has left her feeling restless.

With a huff, she set her phone down and glanced around the shop. “Alright, let’s just see what I can find today,” she muttered, pushing herself off the counter.

The shop was still a labyrinth of curiosities—antique jewelry, faded books, ornate furniture, peculiar objects that seemed to hold stories of their own. Eloise wandered through the aisles, running her fingers lightly over the edges of various items as if they might whisper their secrets to her.

She stopped in front of an old phonograph, its brass horn tarnished but beautiful. “This would look ridiculous in Benedict’s studio,” she murmured to herself, snapping a quick photo and sending it to the sibling group chat where she knows he’s currently active before moving on.

Her phone vibrated in her hand a few minutes later, and surprisingly, a message from Colin popped up on the screen.

Bored. Entertain me.

Eloise smirked, a mischievous glint in her eye as she typed back.

Good timing

I’m in a shop full of weird old stuff so prepare to be amazed

She initiated a video call, and Colin’s face appeared on the screen, his expression already skeptical.

“Do you ever do anything productive, or is your life just a series of aimless wandering?” he quipped.

“Stop being rude, I’m the one doing you a favor,” Eloise rolled her eyes before turning the camera to show him the shop. “Behold! Ophelia’s Oddities. A veritable treasure trove of... well, oddities. Lia’s shop is basically a museum where you can buy the exhibits and take them home.”

“Impressive,” Colin said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Do you even know what half those stuff is?”

“Of course not,” Eloise said, laughing as she panned the camera around so he had a good first look at everything. “But it’s fun to make up stories about them. Like this,” she pointed to a small, elaborately carved pewter box, “probably holds the secrets of a lost civilization. Or biscuits for an old woman’s poodle.”

Colin snorted. “Biscuits, definitely.”

Eloise continued her tour, her commentary alternating between genuinely admiring and utterly ridiculous. She stopped in front of a glass display case and aimed the camera at its contents. “And here’s where Lia keeps her more valuable items. I think. There are a lot of nooks and crannies that I haven’t gotten into yet and I wouldn’t be surprised if she somehow has the Queen’s crown jewels lying around somewhere.”

She expected a smartass response from Colin, but none came. She looks down and sees that the screen has gone still, Colin’s face frozen in an expression of shock. 

“Colin?” Eloise prompted, lowering the camera slightly, thinking that the call cut out or the screen froze. 

“Wait, wait! Go back,” Colin said sharply, his voice suddenly serious. “Show me that again.”

Eloise frowned but obliged, turning the camera back to the display case. “What? What’s the big deal, find something you like or—”

“It’s your dagger,” Colin cut off, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. “That’s your dagger, Eloise.”

Mayfair, 1798

The drawing room was quiet save for the soft crackle of the fireplace, casting flickering light across the richly patterned rug. Anthony sat upright in his chair, waiting for his parents as instructed. Beside him, Benedict lounged in a decidedly less formal manner, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. Both boys turned their attention to their parents as they entered, a polished wooden box in their father’s hands.

Edmund set the box down on the table between them before sitting down across from the boys, his usual easygoing demeanor tempered by a hint of seriousness. Violet sat beside him, her hands resting lightly in her lap, her expression gentle but firm.

“We thought it time we spoke about these,” she started, gesturing to the box. The brothers glanced at each other as if half-execting the other to have the slightest clue of what this talk could be. 

“Now, what we’re about to show you aren’t just some family heirloom,” Edmund added. “This is something far more significant. This is our legacy.”

Anthony, already bearing the weight of being the eldest son at fourteen years old, sat straighter, his sharp gaze fixed on the box. Beside him, twelve-year-old Benedict fidgeted slightly, his fingers tapping against his thigh as his curiosity started to get the better of him.

“What is it?” Anthony asked, his voice carrying a note of cautious interest.

Edmund exchanged a glance with Violet before carefully opening the box. Inside, nestled in deep blue velvet, were five finely crafted daggers. Their steel blades gleamed and were etched with their different Latin inscriptions, each intricate handle different from the rest. 

Anthony and Benedict both leaned forward, their eyes widening slightly at the sight.

“Daggers,” Anthony said, his tone skeptical. “How are these not just heirlooms? What’s so special about them?”

“These,” Edmund said, his voice steady, “are part of your legacy. Every Bridgerton child is given one, though you won’t be entrusted with yours until you come of age. The latest one is Eloise’s. Francesca will get hers in a year or two. For now, your mother and I keep all these safe.”

“But what are they for?” Benedict asked, his tone more curious than his brother’s. “They don’t look like they’d be very good at defending ourselves from attackers. Surely, they’ll just see it as an opportunity to steal. Are they just decorative?”

Violet smiled faintly, reaching out to trace the edge of the box with her fingertips. “They’re more than just weapons or decorative pieces, Benedict. These daggers carry a purpose that is tied to our family.”

Edmund nodded, lifting one of the daggers and holding it up so the light caught the etching on the blade. “Fortis et fidelis,” he read aloud. “He who is strong and faithful. This one is yours, Anthony.”

“Appropriate for a future Viscount,” Violet said with a warm smile. “You’ll find that the inscriptions suit you in ways you may not fully understand yet. Each dagger is crafted specifically for you and your siblings, and its inscription reflects something about who you are—or who you may one day become.”

“What about mine?” Benedict asked eagerly, his eyes bright with anticipation.

Edmund picked up the second dagger, turning it so Benedict could see the inscription. “Ars longa, vita brevis,” he said with a small smile. “Art is long, life is short.”

Benedict tilted his head, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch the blade. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Violet said softly, “that the things you create, the beauty you bring into the world, will outlast the fleeting nature of life itself.”

Benedict blinked, his youthful features momentarily thoughtful. “That’s... actually rather nice.”

Anthony frowned, his practical mind already turning. “But what do we do with them? Why do we need daggers at all?”

Edmund set the dagger back in the box with care, his gaze steady as he looked at his sons. “These daggers are bound to you by blood. Bridgerton blood. They have a unique purpose—a gift, of sorts. They can be used to grant you eternal life, should you choose it.”

Anthony’s eyes widened slightly, while Benedict’s jaw dropped.

“Eternal life?” Anthony repeated, his tone cautious. “Do you mean immortality? Like we’re some vampires from the stories?”

“Yes,” Violet confirmed. “To the immortality. Not the vampire bit. And keep in mind that this is not a decision to be taken lightly. These daggers also serve another purpose—they can bind your soul to another, to someone you choose to share eternity with. But it can only do this once, and only with your dagger, so keep in mind how important of a decision it is.”

Benedict sat up straighter, his youthful curiosity turning to awe. “So... we could live forever?”

“Potentially,” Edmund said, his tone measured. “You can still get hurt. You will still get sick, or even pass away in an accident. But you will not die of old age, and it is not a choice you have to make right now—or ever if you do not wish to. These daggers are tools, not obligations.”

“And what if we... don’t find someone we want to share eternity with?” Anthony asked carefully, knowing that it would not be for too long until he was of age to take a wife. Just a few more years, give or take. He’s already dreading the day. 

“Then your dagger remains unused for that purpose,” Violet said simply. “They are tied to this family, to the blood that runs through your veins. Any one of you can use a family member’s dagger, but when it comes to binding your soul to someone else, only your own dagger can do that. It is why you each have your own.”

“It’s the reason why your mother and I will strive for all of you to find your love matches.” Edmund leaned forward, his expression serious. “You will need someone you love and trust to share this life with. These daggers carry great power, but with that power comes responsibility. At times, it may even feel like a burden. These are not toys, and they are not to be used carelessly. Which is why you will not be getting yours until we deem you fit for it.”

Benedict’s mischievous grin returned as he glanced at Anthony. “Bet you’ll use yours first.”

Anthony scowled, elbowing his brother. “Bet you’ll lose yours.”

“Boys,” Violet said firmly, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone. “This is not a competition.”

Edmund chuckled softly, closing the box and lifting it from the table. “Your mother is right. Remember, these daggers are more than just objects. They are a part of who you are—and one day, they may shape the course of your life. And under no circumstance are you to tell your siblings. They are far too young to understand. When the time comes, your mother and I will explain it to them. For now, you are free to go. But behave or I might rethink your fencing lessons tomorrow.”

As the boys exchanged one last look, tongues sticking out in an attempt to annoy the other, Edmund and Violet stood, carrying the box back toward its hidden place.

Mayfair, 1799

The Bridgerton house was unusually quiet that afternoon. Edmund and Violet had gone into town, leaving the children under the watchful eye of the staff. It was a rare moment of freedom for Anthony, Benedict, and Colin, and they had every intention of taking full advantage of it.

“Come on,” Benedict whispered, beckoning Anthony and Colin as they crept down the hallway toward their parents’ private study.

“This is a bad idea. Remind me why I let you talk me into this?” Anthony asked, his voice low as he looked around to ensure that no one else was around.

“Because you know you want to see them again too,” Benedict replied confidently. “And it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. We’re just... exploring. With our dear little brother.”

Colin, eight years old and full of boundless curiosity, trailed behind them with a curious look. “Exploring what?”

Benedict stopped at the study door, turning to his younger brother with a conspiratorial grin. “The daggers. The ones Mother and Father told us about. You don’t believe us, do you?”

Colin crossed his arms, his expression defiant. “Because you’re just making that up. Why would we have magic daggers?”

“Because we’re Bridgertons,” Benedict said matter-of-factly, as though that explained everything.

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Let’s get this over with. And let it be known that I’m only here to make sure you two stay out of trouble.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Benedict waves him off before turning to Colin. “Now do you want to see them or not?”

Colin hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Fine. But if you’re lying, I’m telling Mother.”

Benedict smirked, pushing open the door to the study. The three boys slipped inside, closing the door softly behind them.

“You know where they are, right?” Benedict asked, his voice hushed.

“Of course I do,” Anthony replied, striding to a cabinet tucked into the corner of the room. “I’ve seen Father put them in here when Francesca’s came in.”

Anthony knelt, fumbling with the latch before finally managing to open it. Inside, wrapped in cloth for safekeeping, were six daggers, each one distinct and gleaming even in the dim light.

“Whoa,” Colin breathed, his skepticism melting into awe as Anthony unwrapped one of the blades.

“Told you,” Benedict said smugly, taking a dagger to inspect.

Anthony turned one over in his hands, marveling at the intricate designs etched into the handle. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Benedict examined the dagger in his hands, his fingers tracing the intricate designs etched into the handle. “They’re even better up close,” he said with a grin, motioning for Colin to step closer. “Come on, don’t be a baby.”

Colin scowled, stepping up to them. “I’m not a baby,” he said, his voice carrying the slightest hint of a whine.

“Good,” Benedict said, handing him a dagger with an exaggerated flourish. “Then prove it.”

Colin took the dagger cautiously, its weight unfamiliar in his small hands. The blade was polished to a mirror shine, the Latin inscription catching the light. He tilted it slightly, squinting at the words.

“What does it say?” Colin asked, his voice quieter now.

“It doesn’t matter,” Benedict said, taking a step back. “What matters is that you see they’re real. Not just something we made up.”

“Exactly,” Anthony agreed, though his gaze lingered on the blade in Colin’s hands. “But we shouldn’t linger. If we get caught in here, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Benedict smirked, twirling the dagger in his hand. “Speak for yourself. I’m sure they’ll go easy on me. I’m not the oldest one here.”

“Back in the cabinet,” Anthony instructed, his tone brisk.

Colin hesitated for a moment before handing his dagger to Benedict, watching as his brothers carefully returned the blades to their places.

—

A week later, Colin wandered down the hallway, his eight-year-old curiosity often leading him to places he wasn’t supposed to go whenever he was left alone. As he passed by the study, the faint murmur of voices caught his attention. He stopped, tilting his head as he heard the familiar tones of his older brothers.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough for him to peek through.

Inside, Anthony and Benedict moved with purpose, their hushed conversation punctuated by the occasional soft clink of metal. Colin furrowed his brow, leaning closer until he could see them clearly.

Both of them held a dagger, their movements careful but confident. Benedict turned the blade in his hands, the sunlight catching on the intricate etchings of the hilt. Anthony’s expression was more serious, his grip steady as he tested the weight of his own weapon.

“What are they doing?” Colin whispered to himself with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

Anthony glanced toward the door and Colin quickly ducked out of sight, pressing himself flat against the wall behind a large potted plant. He waited, holding his breath as he heard the muffled sound of footsteps approaching.

The door creaked open wider, and a moment later, Anthony and Benedict emerged, their jackets slightly bulging where they’d hidden the daggers.

“Come on,” Anthony muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time before Mother and Father get back.”

Benedict nodded, his grin wide as he followed his brother down the hallway.

Colin remained frozen until their footsteps faded into the distance. Then, unable to resist, he slipped into the study.

The room smelled faintly of polished wood and ink, the afternoon light casting soft shadows across the furniture. Colin’s eyes darted to the cabinet, the memory of the blades fresh in his mind.

“They’ll never know,” Colin whispered, his small hands carefully opening the latch.

He wasn’t quite tall enough to actually see the daggers since the shelf was high up, but he reached and felt around until his fingers brushed against the cool steel of a dagger, and he pulled it out quickly. 

The handle was intricately designed, the Latin inscription etched deeply into the steel. Colin didn’t know how to read Latin just yet, and he didn’t think it was important to do so. To him, it was just a toy. Something to mimic his brothers with, to feel older, braver.

He tucked the dagger under his shirt and crept out of the study, his heart pounding with excitement.

—

Weeks later the dagger had become Colin’s secret treasure. Hidden beneath his bed, it was purely his to admire, to hold, to brandish in front of the mirror when no one was looking. Anthony and Benedict remained oblivious, their own stolen escapades keeping them too preoccupied to notice Colin’s new habit.

It had been a sunny afternoon, the kind that made the garden feel endless and alive. Colin had darted outside with the dagger clutched tightly in his hand, the now smudge-stained steel barely gleaming under the sunlight. 

In his mind, he was no longer an eight-year-old boy in Mayfair. He was Sir Colin the Brave, protector of the Bridgerton realm, wielding his enchanted blade against invisible foes. He dashed between the hedges, swiping at imaginary dragons and ducking behind bushes to evade unseen archers. The dagger felt heavy in his hand, but the weight only added to its mystique, making him feel older, stronger, invincible.

“Ha! Take that, you vile beast!” he shouted, thrusting the dagger at a particularly stubborn shrub.

He’d been at it for what felt like hours, the sun climbing higher in the sky as he ventured further into the garden. He crouched low near the rose bushes, the dagger poised for another attack when the distant chime of the estate’s clock reminded him of the time.

“Colin!” a voice called from the house. Likely one of the staff summoning him for a meal.

He groaned, glancing toward the direction of the call. His stomach rumbled in agreement, and he decided his daring quest could wait.

“Coming!” he shouted back, pushing himself to his feet.

In his haste, he tucked the dagger beneath his arm, its hilt sticking out awkwardly. But as he sprinted toward the house, the uneven ground caught him off guard. His foot snagged on a root hidden beneath the grass, sending him sprawling forward with a startled yelp.

The dagger flew from his grasp, tumbling end over end before vanishing into the tall grass at the edge of the property.

“Blast it,” Colin muttered, scrambling to his knees. His heart pounded as he scanned the area, knowing full well he wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place, much less lose it. 

He crawled to where he thought it had landed, parting the blades of grass with frantic hands. “Come on, where are you?”

The longer he searched, the faster his heart raced. The dagger was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s just a dagger,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling slightly. “They can make another one. It’s not a big deal.”

But even as he said it, a knot of dread formed in his chest. Deep down, he knew this wasn’t just any dagger. This was one of the daggers, the ones Anthony and Benedict had spoken about with such reverence, the ones that were supposedly tied to their family’s legacy. He might not have known about what the dagger could actually do, but he knew it was important. 

Colin sat back on his heels, his hands stained green from the grass and dirt, his mind racing. Maybe if he just... didn’t say anything, no one would notice. His brothers had been careless with their own daggers, hadn’t they? If Anthony and Benedict didn’t say anything about sneaking into the study, why should he?

“Colin!” the voice called again, closer this time.

He stood quickly, brushing the dirt from his trousers and casting one last glance at the tall grass. “It’s fine,” he muttered, as if saying it aloud would make it true. “They’ll never know.”

And with that, he turned and ran back to the house, leaving the dagger behind, hidden among the overgrown blades of grass.

For the next few days, Colin avoided the garden entirely, his guilt buried beneath a growing pile of distractions. By the time he worked up the nerve to return, the memory of exactly where he’d lost the dagger had grown hazy. He searched half-heartedly, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“It’s just a dagger,” he told himself again, though the words felt hollow now. “No one will notice.”

He kept repeating those words for months on end until one day, the incident slipped his mind completely.

Mayfair, 1801

Violet and Edmund stood in the study, the newly received dagger resting in its cloth wrapping on the desk before them. It was Gregory’s—a delicate blade with intricate engravings and an inscription that read, “Virtus et honor” —virtue and honor.

“It’s beautiful,” Violet murmured, running a finger lightly over the cloth.

Edmund nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “It suits him. Even at two years old, Gregory has a sense of dignity about him. Very much like his father, no?”

Violet chuckled softly, shaking her head. “If you say so. Let us hope he maintains that dignity when he’s older. For now, though, this will stay with the others.”

With care, Edmund took the dagger and moved toward the cabinet where the family’s collection was kept. As he opened the door, Violet joined him, her gaze falling to the lined shelves where the blades rested.

Edmund placed Gregory’s dagger with the others. But as he stepped back, his brow furrowed slightly when he noticed something off, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the lineup.

“Something’s not right,” he said urgently, his tone sharp enough to catch Violet’s attention.

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning closer.

“One is missing,” Edmund said firmly, counting the daggers again. “There are only six. With Gregory’s, there’s meant to be seven in here.”

Violet gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “That can’t be. Are you certain?”

Edmund didn’t respond immediately, instead methodically picking up each dagger and checking their inscriptions to confirm their owners. Anthony’s, Benedict’s, Colin’s, Daphne’s, Francesca’s…

“Eloise’s is gone,” he said grimly, his jaw tightening.

Panic crept into Violet’s voice as she asked, “How could this happen? We’ve always kept them hidden, we haven’t told the staff.”

Edmund closed the cabinet with a sharp motion, turning to face her. “Someone must have taken it. Whether it was one of the boys or someone else not knowing what they are, we need to find out.”

Without hesitation, he stepped toward the door and called for a footman. “Summon Anthony and Benedict to the study immediately,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for delay.

Within minutes, the two eldest boys appeared, their faces etched with confusion as they stepped into the study.

“Is something the matter?” Anthony asked, glancing between his parents.

Edmund wasted no time. “One of the daggers is missing. Eloise’s.”

Both boys stiffened, their eyes widening in unison.

“Missing?” Benedict repeated, his voice laced with shock. “How?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Edmund said firmly. “I need to know if either of you had anything to do with this. Did you take it? Or perhaps show it to someone?”

Anthony and Benedict exchanged a quick glance before shaking their heads vehemently.

“No, Father,” Anthony said. “We haven’t told or shown them to anyone. Not since...” He hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“Not since what?” Violet pressed, her sharp gaze pinning him in place.

“Not since we showed them to Colin about two years ago,” Anthony admitted reluctantly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we returned them all! We didn’t even tell him what they are or what they’re capable of. We only showed him for a few minutes and he never asked or talked about them. He’s probably forgotten already. And we haven’t shown anyone else since. I swear.”

Edmund’s expression darkened. “Are you certain?”

“Yes!” Benedict chimed in. “We promise, we put them back exactly where we found them. All of them.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Violet demanded, her usual warmth replaced with steely determination.

Neither boy could answer, their faces pale as the weight of their parents’ words sank in, knowing very well what it could mean for Eloise.

Edmund turned to call the footman waiting by the door. “Search the grounds immediately and thoroughly. Every inch of this property. If anyone finds so much as a trace of a dagger, they are to report to me immediately.”

“Yes, my lord,” the footman said with a bow before hurrying away.

As the staff scoured the estate, Violet and Edmund began questioning everyone—housekeepers, gardeners, even the cooks—about the missing blade. But no one could provide any answers. The cabinet had remained untouched by anyone save for Edmund and Violet—and apparently Anthony and Benedict, both of whom were as frazzled as their parents were. 

Hours passed, the once-calm estate now buzzing with tension. But despite their best efforts, the dagger remained lost, leaving Edmund and Violet with a growing sense of dread. 

“It’s as if it vanished,” Edmund muttered under his breath as he paced the study late into the evening, having left Anthony and Benedict to continue searching as they insisted. With how panicked they were, Edmund believed that they had nothing to do with the disappearance. 

Violet sat stiffly in her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “We’ll find it,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “We have to.”

But deep down, they both knew that the longer the dagger remained missing, the less likely it was that they would ever see it again.

Mayfair, 1805

The drawing room had an air of somber nostalgia that evening. The weight of Edmund’s passing still lingered heavily within the Bridgerton household, especially for Violet. But life moved forward, and some traditions—some responsibilities—had to carry on, even in his absence.

Violet sat in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, her composure as poised as ever, though her eyes carried a weariness that only her children might notice. On the table before her was the familiar polished wooden box.

Colin, freshly fourteen years of age, sat perched with an air of fidgety discomfort. Daphne sat across from their mother, her posture was remarkably proper, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Are we in trouble?” Colin asked, his brow furrowed as he tried to think if any of his recent mischief was found out. “Why are we here again?”

Violet gave him a small, patient smile. “No, dearest, you are not in trouble. But it is time you both learned something important. Something your father and I shared with Anthony and Benedict when they were your age.”

At the mention of their father, both children sobered slightly. Colin exchanged a quick glance with Daphne, his unease growing.

Violet took a deep breath, her fingers tracing the edge of the box as she gathered her thoughts. “Inside this box are daggers—one for each of you. They are not just heirlooms. They are something far more significant, tied intrinsically to our family and its legacy.”

She opened the lid with care, revealing the finely crafted blades resting on their deep blue velvet lining. Each dagger gleamed in the firelight, their handles carved with intricate designs and Latin inscriptions etched in the steel.

Colin’s breath hitched as his gaze fell upon them, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as memories started to surface in his mind.

“These daggers are special,” Violet continued, her voice steady as she tried to recall what she and Edmund said to their two eldest years back. “They are bound to you by blood. Each of you has your own, crafted to reflect a piece of who you are—or who you may one day become. They hold a power that is both a gift and a responsibility.”

Daphne tilted her head slightly, her curiosity plain. “What kind of power?”

Violet met her daughter’s gaze evenly. “The power to grant you eternal life, should you choose it. And to bind your soul to another—to someone you choose to share eternity with.”

Daphne’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of the table. “Eternal life? Like in the stories?”

Violet’s smile softened. “Something like that. When you are of age, these daggers can be used to grant you a life beyond the bounds of time. You won’t age, though you can still be harmed or fall ill. They can bind you to someone you love, ensuring that you face eternity together. But only your own dagger can bind your soul to another. This is a choice, not a requirement. Should you wish to grow old instead will be your choice to make.”

Colin shifted in his seat, his palms clammy as he struggled to focus on Violet’s words. The weight of her explanation pressed down on him like a leaden cloak, dredging up a memory he’d long tried to suppress.

“So,” Daphne asked hesitantly, “when do we get ours?”

“When you’re of age,” Violet replied gently. “For now, they stay here, under my care.”

Colin’s eyes darted to the daggers again, his heart pounding. His throat felt dry, and he clenched his hands tightly in his lap to keep them from shaking.

“What if...” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “What if one gets lost?”

The room went still.

Violet’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a faint tension in her voice when she replied. “They must not be lost. These daggers are irreplaceable. If one is lost, it cannot fulfill its purpose. And the consequences of that loss...” She trailed off, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Daphne frowned. “Has that ever happened?”

Violet hesitated, the silence stretching uncomfortably. “Not that your father has heard. However, we do have reason to believe one may have been misplaced,” she admitted carefully. “I will not say whose, but we have not given up hope of finding it.”

Colin felt his stomach plummet. The memory came rushing back in vivid detail—the less-than-clean blade barely gleaming in the sunlight, the grass beneath his hands and knees as he tried to find it, the thoughtless dismissal of its importance.

“It’s just a dagger,” his younger self had muttered. “They can make another one.”

But now, sitting in the drawing room with the weight of his mother’s words hanging in the air, Colin realized just how wrong he’d been.

He didn’t dare look up, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the table as guilt clawed at him.

“Do either of you have any questions?” Violet asked, her voice breaking through the heavy silence.

Daphne shook her head slowly, her expression thoughtful. Colin mumbled something unintelligible, still avoiding his mother’s gaze.

“Very well,” Violet said, closing the box with a soft click. “Remember, these daggers are a part of who you are. Treat them with the respect they deserve.”

As Violet dismissed them, Colin stood abruptly, mumbling an excuse about needing air before hurrying from the room.

Violet watched him go, her brow furrowing slightly. But before she could comment, Daphne piped up, her voice tinged with excitement.

“Do you think I’ll get mine soon, Mam á ?”

“Soon enough,” Violet replied, offering her daughter a warm smile. But her thoughts lingered on Colin’s abrupt exit, a flicker of concern taking root in her chest. Perhaps the news was just too much for him. She makes a mental note to check on him later. 

Mayfair, 1810

The drawing room was bathed in the warm hues of the afternoon sun, casting a gentle glow over the polished wood and richly upholstered furniture. Eloise and Francesca sat side by side, their postures contrasting sharply—Eloise slouched with her arms crossed, her expression bordering on impatience, while Francesca sat primly, her hands folded in her lap, her curiosity restrained by her patience.

Violet stood before them, the polished wooden box resting on the table between them. Her hands hovered above it for a moment, her gaze lingering on her daughters with a mix of pride and apprehension. It was time for them to learn about the daggers, to understand their legacy. But it was also time to tell Eloise to truth. 

She offered her usual explanation, recounting the history, the significance of the blades, and the choice that lay before them. Francesca listened intently, her bright eyes wide with intrigue, while Eloise’s expression shifted from faint interest to veiled skepticism.

By the time Violet closed the box and dismissed them, Francesca was alight with curiosity. “Does mine have something poetic on it?” she asked as they rose from their seats.

“Yes, yours is very lovely,” Violet assured her with a soft smile, having chosen not to show Francesca her dagger up close since she wouldn’t be able to do the same with Eloise. “You may go now, darling. But Eloise—stay a moment, please.”

Eloise froze mid-step, her brow furrowing as she glanced back at her mother. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Violet said, though her tone was heavier now, tinged with an unspoken gravity.

Francesca hesitated, casting a curious glance between them before leaving the room with a backward glance. The door clicked softly shut behind her, and Eloise turned to face Violet fully, her arms crossing defensively.

“What is it?” Eloise prompted, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Violet sighed, gesturing for Eloise to sit again. When Eloise complied, albeit reluctantly, Violet lowered herself into the chair opposite her. For a long moment, she simply studied her daughter, as though searching for the right words.

“There is something I need to tell you,” Violet began carefully. “Something about your dagger.”

Eloise’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

Violet took a steadying breath, deciding that there was no easier way of saying this. “To put it simply, your dagger is... missing.”

Eloise blinked, the words seeming to hang in the air as she processed them. “Missing?” she repeated, her tone flat.

“Yes,” Violet admitted, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “We noticed its absence years ago, shortly after Gregory’s dagger arrived. Your father and I searched extensively, questioned the staff, and scoured the grounds. But we have yet to find it.”

Eloise leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. “So, it’s gone,” she said simply.

“We haven’t given up,” Violet said quickly, her voice firm. “We’re still searching, and we remain hopeful that it will turn up. But I wanted you to know, now that you’re of age to understand its significance.”

Eloise was silent for a moment, her gaze flickering to the closed box on the table. “So… does that mean no immortality for me?”

Violet shakes her head quickly. “No, of course not. You can still use one of your siblings’ daggers. They are bound to the family’s bloodline, so you can use another’s if you decide that that is the path you want to take. But for binding your soul to another, we must find your own.”

Eloise scoffed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “I don’t need a dagger for that. I don’t need to bind my soul to anyone, Mamá. And I certainly don’t need a husband.”

“Eloise,” Violet began, her tone soft but imploring. “You’re still young. One day, you may find someone—someone who will change your mind. Someone who will make you want to share eternity with.”

“I won’t,” Eloise said firmly, her gaze meeting her mother’s with unwavering resolve. “I have already decided. I don’t want to marry. I have no want or need for a husband. Losing that dagger? I have to believe that’s fate. It is quite literally confirmation that my decision is right. Think of it as… divine intervention.”

“Eloise—”

“Stop the search, Mother,” Eloise interrupted, rising from her seat. “I don’t need it, nor do I want it.”

Violet rose as well, reaching out as though to stop her. “Eloise, please. You don’t have to make this decision now. There’s still time to—”

“There’s nothing to decide,” Eloise said, her tone final. “Let it stay lost. It doesn’t matter to me.”

With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Violet sank back into her chair, her hands trembling slightly as she clasped them together. For a moment, she stared at the closed door, her heart aching with a mixture of frustration and sorrow.

Eloise’s words echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her daughter truly believed them—or if she was simply trying to protect herself from a pain she didn’t yet understand.

London, 2020

Colin’s voice on the screen was muffled as Eloise stared at the dagger still in the display case, its intricate floral patterns glinting under the shop's dim lighting, the inscription clear as day but she just couldn’t bring herself to read it just yet. 

“...and I didn’t tell anyone because I thought it didn’t matter at the time,” Colin was saying, his tone tinged with guilt. “I was a child, Eloise. I didn’t realize what I’d done until it was too late. It was years later when Mother explained everything and I realized how badly I fucked up.”

Eloise felt lightheaded at that point, her mind still racing as she started connecting the dots.

“And you’re absolutely sure this is it?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

Colin sighed, running a hand through his hair before nodding. “I’d recognize it anywhere. That pattern has haunted me ever since. That’s your dagger. I’m so sorry, Eloise.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of their meaning pressing down on her like a sudden storm.

Her dagger.

The one she had convinced herself didn’t matter. The one she had told her mother to stop looking for because it was fate that it went missing.

And maybe it was.

Maybe it was just fate's long-winded way of getting her exactly where she is today.

In her shop. 

Her mind reeled as the pieces began to fall into place.

Lia.

The way she looked so much like someone she knew from the past. The strange comfort she felt in her presence, the undeniable pull toward her that she couldn’t even begin to explain. Was this why Lia was so secretive from the start? Why she was so guarded?

Is this why it felt like there was a gap in their story, why everything about Lia felt like such a mystery?

“Eloise?” Colin’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, pulling her back to the present. “Are you okay?”

Eloise blinked, her breath catching in her throat. “I need to go,” she said abruptly, the phone in her hand starting to shake as she went to end the call. 

“Wait, Eloise—”

The screen went black before Colin could finish.

Eloise stood frozen for a moment as her heart pounded in her chest. Her gaze flickered to the stairs leading up to the apartment.

She had to know.

Without a second thought, she grabbed the dagger from underneath its display case and headed for the stairs, her movements quick and purposeful. The dagger felt heavy in her hand, its presence a stark reminder of everything she was about to confront.

By the time she reached the apartment door, she could barely contain the storm of emotions roiling inside her—shock, anger, confusion above all. 

She pushed the door open with more force than necessary, stepping into the apartment to find Cressida sitting on the couch, her laptop on her lap and phone in hand. 

Cressida startled a bit at the sudden intrusion, her brow furrowing in concern. “Emma? What’s wrong?”

Eloise didn’t answer right away. She simply held up the dagger, the blade catching the light as she stepped closer. “Don’t call me that. Where did you get this?”

Cressida’s gaze dropped to the dagger in Eloise’s hand, her eyebrows furrowing as she tried to figure out what had gotten Eloise so worked up. She moved the dagger downstairs at the start of the quarantine just so it wasn’t in the way of the apartment and didn’t think it would interest Eloise so much. And there’s no way she’d figure out how valuable it is to Cressida, right?

“Answer me,” Eloise said, her voice trembling. “Where did you get this? And why do you have it?”

“Emma,” Cressida said slowly, unsure of how to really approach this situation given that there’s a knife involved. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

By now, Eloise is practically shaking. But she steeled her gaze, knowing she needed confirmation of the one thing that was running through her mind right now. She needed confirmation on who the woman standing before her was. 

“Don’t lie to me, Cressida.”

Chapter Text

Everything seemed to stop.

The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the muffled sounds of the street below—it all faded into the background. The only sound was the shallow, uneven breaths of the two women standing mere feet apart.

“Cressida,” Eloise repeated, her voice trembling slightly, the name unfamiliar after all this time and yet instinctively right on her tongue.

Cressida stared at Eloise as though she’d been struck. The color drained from her face, leaving her pale and motionless, her mouth slightly open as if to speak, but no words came. 

Her name. 

Her real name. 

A name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in so long that it almost felt like a relic of another life. And in a way, it was. 

Her voice came out a mere whisper. “Why...” She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “Why are you calling me that?”

Eloise didn’t move, her grip tightening on the dagger as if to ground her even as her own resolve started to waver. “Because this—” she gestured sharply toward the blade in her hand, her movements jerky— “this has everything to do with you, Cressida.”

The name fell from her lips with more strength this time, the weight of it reverberating in the air between them.

Cressida’s heart hammered in her chest as her gaze flicked to the dagger and back to Eloise. Her mind raced, fragments of thoughts and memories swirling in a chaotic blur.

Does anyone else even know my real name anymore? The question echoed in her mind like a taunt. How could Emma know?

But the way she said it, the tremor in her voice—it felt like a key turning in a lock, one that had been bolted shut for centuries. Her lips parted, a question on the tip of her tongue, but her thoughts seized before she could form it.

And it hits her that Emma knows because she’s not actually Emma. 

It struck her that the reason why Emma looks the way she does, acts the way she does, is so familiar in a way that makes Cressida's chest ache is because…

“What does this dagger have to do with me?” she demanded, her voice trembling but sharp as her pulse pounded in her ears. But as soon as she said the words, she couldn’t stop putting the pieces together. 

Cressida’s gaze hardened, her voice lowering dangerously. “Or rather,” she said, her words deliberate and pointed, “what does this dagger have to do with you, Eloise?”

The sound of her real name spoken by Cressida was like a physical blow. Eloise staggered back half a step, her knuckles whitening around the hilt of the dagger as an involuntary shiver ran through her. It wasn’t just the way Cressida said it—sharp and accusing—it was the way it resonated, striking a part of Eloise she hadn’t even realized was vulnerable.

Cressida’s chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths as the gravity of her own words began to sink in. But more than that, she saw the way Eloise froze, the subtle flinch in her posture, and it sent another shock of clarity through her.

Her lips curled into a bitter smile, the weight of centuries pressing down on her all at once. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and mounting fury. “All this time, it was you.”

Eloise’s head snapped up, her gaze locking with Cressida’s. “What are you talking about?” she demanded, her voice sharp, though it faltered slightly under the intensity of Cressida’s stare. She hadn’t been on the receiving end of that in quite some time. Especially not when she was with “Lia”.

Cressida took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t play coy with me,” she said, her voice rising. “That dagger didn’t just fall into my lap by chance. And you—you didn’t just come waltzing into my life by accident, did you?”

“I didn’t even know who you were!” Eloise shot back, her grip tightening on the dagger in her hand.

“Didn’t you?” Cressida’s voice cracked, the words laced with years of frustration and bitterness. “Was that your plan all along? To toy with my emotions? Humiliate me, after all this time?”

Eloise’s eyes widened, the accusation hitting her like a slap to the face. “Humiliate you? Toy with your emotions? Are you even listening to yourself right now?”

Cressida took a shaky breath, her voice trembling as she continued. “You just happened to show up in my life, looking the way you do, acting the way you do—and I’m supposed to keep believing that’s a coincidence? That none of this was deliberate?”

“Yes!” Eloise yelled, her frustration boiling over. “Yes, you’re supposed to believe that, because it’s the truth! Do you think I planned this? Do you think I somehow knew who you actually were before I even walked into that damn shop? That’s insane!”

Cressida flinched at the word, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “Is it? Because I’ve been living in this insanity for over two centuries, Eloise!” She spat the name like it burned her tongue, as if she hadn’t been laying beside her every night and caring for her since the day they saw each other again. “I’ve been alone, trying to piece together a life that makes sense, all because of this—” she gestured wildly toward the dagger— “this thing that somehow ties me to you!”

Eloise froze, the weight of Cressida’s words settling heavily on her shoulders. Her grip on the dagger loosened as her gaze flickered to it, then back to Cressida. But before she could say anything, Cressida continued. 

“Is this a curse? Because now I can’t help but feel like this—” she gestured between them, her fingers trembling. “—is punishment.”

Eloise blinked, the accusation catching her off guard. “Punishment? For what?”

“For what I did!” Cressida’s voice broke as she stepped back, her hands running through her hair in a gesture of agitation. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “For Lady Whistledown. For Penelope. For blackmailing her to give me the money so I could escape.”

Eloise’s breath hitched at the mention of Penelope, her stomach twisting as she watched Cressida unravel before her. She hadn’t thought of those events in a long time. And not once did she think that she’d ever relive them again but here she was. 

“You didn’t know what it was like,” Cressida continued, her voice shaking as her gaze burned into Eloise’s. “To be trapped in that house, knowing that your life isn’t your own. To be forced to marry someone who sees you as nothing more than property. I had no choice!”

“You think I’m here to punish you for that?” Eloise asked, her tone incredulous as she took a step forward, her anger bubbling to the surface. “You think I knew any of that? That I planned this? Do you hear how insane that sounds?”

“You should know it because I tried to tell you!” Cressida shouted all of a sudden, remembering the days when she had tried to tell Eloise what was going on in her life but was merely cast aside because Eloise had bigger things to occupy her mind. 

Eloise froze, the words hitting her like a physical blow. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice quieter but still tinged with disbelief.

“I tried, Eloise!” Cressida’s voice cracked, the weight of old wounds rising to the surface. “I tried to talk to you. Do you know how many times I approached you during that time in my life? How many times I have tried to tell you what was happening to me? How trapped I felt?”

Eloise’s brow furrowed as her mind raced, fragments of memories surfacing—Cressida stepping toward her at parties, words half-formed on her lips before someone interrupted, or Eloise herself brushing past, too consumed with her own turmoil to notice. 

“I didn’t know—” Eloise started, but Cressida cut her off.

“Of course you didn’t!” Cressida snapped, her voice breaking with the force of her emotions. “You were too busy pining over your friendship with Penelope and obsessing over Colin’s engagement. You never had time for anyone else—least of all me. I was merely a convenience when you needed the distraction.”

“That’s not—” Eloise’s chest tightened, guilt clawing at her as she tried to form a response. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I begged for help in the only way I knew how,” Cressida continued, her voice trembling as tears pricked her eyes. “I had no one else to turn to, and you—you couldn’t even spare me a second glance.”

“I didn’t know!” Eloise said again, louder this time, her voice cracking as she took another step closer. “I didn’t know, Cressida! How could I have known?”

Cressida’s laughter was bitter, her expression one of anguish. “You didn’t even try to know. All you ever did was talk! You couldn’t see past your own selfishness long enough to realize that I was drowning!”

Eloise’s breath hitched, the weight of Cressida’s words suffocating. She opened her mouth to respond, to say something, anything, but the truth lodged itself in her throat.

Because she hadn’t noticed.

She hadn’t seen the signs, hadn’t given much thought to what Cressida was going through, hadn’t paid much attention to the quiet desperation in Cressida’s eyes back then. She’d been so consumed with the drama that surrounded her that she’d overlooked someone else’s entirely. And not just someone, but Cressida, who had shown her kindness when she most needed it. Who had been her friend when she had no one, even at the cost of Cressida’s reputation. 

Cressida took a shaky breath, her anger giving way to a deep, aching sadness. “You think I’m angry because you didn’t help me back then?” She shook her head, her voice soft but raw. “I’m angry because you didn’t care enough to try.”

“And now… now all this,” Cressida gestured between them and the dagger. “Did you enjoy making a fool of me? Did you think it was funny? Because this is just beyond cruel, Eloise.”

Cressida took a shaky step back, her arms folding tightly across her chest as if to protect herself from the weight of her own words. Her voice softened, but the bitterness within it was unmistakable. “Do you have any idea what it was like?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the floor. “To be alone for over two centuries?”

Eloise blinked, her heart pounding in her chest as the anger in Cressida’s tone gave way to something deeper, rawer.

“At first, it was fine,” Cressida continued, her voice distant, as though she was speaking to herself more than Eloise. “I had Ophelia. She was my family. She took me in when I had no one.” A faint, bittersweet smile flickered across her lips before it faded as quickly as it appeared. “But then she was gone, and suddenly, it was just me again. No one else. Just me, left to walk through life alone, while the world moved on without me.”

Eloise felt a lump form in her throat as she watched the cracks in Cressida’s armor grow wider. She wanted to speak, to say something, to tell her that she understands, but no words came.

“You can’t imagine what it’s like. Everyone has always loved you, was always drawn to you. I had no one.” Cressida said, her voice trembling. “I was alone and had to watch everyone I knew grow and move on while I stayed the same. I had to prepare myself to leave them or for them to leave me. Then I was just... stuck. Watching the world change around me, knowing I’ll never truly belong anywhere because no matter how much I tried, I was always... different.”

She took a breath, her gaze lifting to meet Eloise’s. There was a fire in her eyes now, born of years of pain and bitterness. “And then you show up,” she said, her voice rising. “You, with your easy smiles and your charm, walking into my shop like you belong there, making me feel... alive again. Like I could let someone in after all this time. And for what?”

Eloise opened her mouth, but Cressida pressed on, her words coming faster now, fueled by the flood of emotions she could no longer contain.

“For you to hold a dagger in my face and remind me of everything I’ve lost? For you to tear open wounds I’ve spent centuries trying to heal?” Cressida’s voice cracked, and she looked away, her hands trembling at her sides. “I’ve had to fight for every scrap of peace I’ve ever known, and now—now it feels like you’ve taken even that from me.”

“Okay, that’s not fair,” Eloise’s fists clenched tightly around the dagger, her voice sharp as she broke the silence. “You’ve been holding onto this for centuries. Centuries, Cressida. You want to talk about me being selfish? What do you call keeping something like this to yourself?”

Cressida’s jaw tightened, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “I didn’t even know it was yours or what it does,” she snapped. “I found it in some random shop in some random town far away from Mayfair. And if I had known? Do you honestly think I’d have gone running back just to return it? To you? After everything? Don’t you dare forget that you were the one who turned your back on me.”

“Oh, don’t turn this around on me!” Eloise’s voice suddenly rose, her emotions flaring since she’d be damned if she didn’t defend herself. “Do you have any idea what this dagger means to my family? To me? Some antique dealer you are. You’ve been hiding it all these years for what? Out of spite? A petty attempt at revenge? You probably went and studied witchcraft before it died down.”

Cressida’s eyes narrowed, her voice trembling with fury. “Spite? Revenge? Is that what you think this is? You have no idea what I’ve been through, Eloise.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?” Eloise shot back. “Go on. Tell me why you thought it was perfectly fine to keep something that doesn’t belong to you. Something that could have saved me from feeling like I didn’t fit in my own family for years!”

“I didn’t know it was yours in the first place!”

“Convenient, isn’t it?” Eloise sneered, the bitterness in her tone thick. “All this time, I’ve been searching for answers, and the whole time, you had the missing piece. You had my missing piece!”

Cressida’s temper flared again, her own bitterness rising to the surface. “And how the hell was I supposed to know that? How was I supposed to know that it belonged to you, huh? You were the one who came into my shop. You were the one who kept coming back! How do I know for sure that you weren’t the one who planted that?”

“Don’t act like this is my fault!” Eloise snapped, her voice trembling with both anger and hurt. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose for any of this to happen.”

“And you think I did?” Cressida interrupted, her voice cutting through Eloise’s like a blade. “Do you think this is a life I want? That I was given a choice?”

The question hung heavy in the air, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Eloise’s retort died on her lips, the truth of Cressida’s words settling uneasily in her chest.

Then their voices rose again, sharp and unrelenting.

“You think I kept it out of spite? Do you honestly think that after you ended our friendship that I cared about you enough to hold onto a grudge for centuries?” Cressida’s words were like a slap, her tone dripping with disdain. But deep down she knew. She knew she didn’t mean them. She did care about Eloise, even after all this time. And she did hold on. To the good memories, at least.

Eloise flinched but didn’t back down. “I think you’ve been bitter and angry for so long that you can’t see anything else. And now you’re taking it out on me because it’s easier than admitting you don’t know what to do with yourself! You’ve been alive for centuries and what have you got to show for it?”

“Oh, don’t you dare try to psychoanalyze me,” Cressida hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve been through. You have no idea what it’s like to walk through life alone, you never have.”

“And whose fault is that?” Eloise countered, her voice rising again. “You could’ve done something with your life, with this—” She gestured to the dagger in her hand, her frustration bubbling over. “You didn’t have to be alone. But instead, you just... you wallowed in your bitterness and let it consume you.”

“Because I didn’t want this!” Cressida’s voice cracked, her hands shaking at her sides. “I didn’t want this life, I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to lose everyone I cared about. And I certainly didn’t want for you of all people to show up and hurt me all over again but I didn’t have a choice!”

Eloise froze, her breath catching as the words hit her like a punch to the gut. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the room thick with tension and the echoes of their anger.

“You think I’m here to hurt you,” Eloise said finally, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “You think I planned this. But the truth is, Cressida, I didn’t even know you were still alive.”

“Lucky you,” Cressida spat, her bitterness cutting through her words. “Not having to think about me all this time. Lucky you, not having to think about why I was cursed with this. Why this happened to me in the first place.”

Eloise’s gaze snapped up then, furrowing her eyebrows. “Wait. How did this happen in the first place? Did you know what the dagger could do? Did you use it on yourself?!”

Cressida’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening at Eloise’s accusation. “Of course not,” she snapped. “I told you, I didn’t even know what the dagger was when I found it. It was just a... curiosity. Something about it felt—” She faltered, her voice dropping. “Strange. Like there was this pull, like it was compelling me to get it. But I didn’t know what it was capable of, much less that it was yours.”

Eloise stepped closer, finally lowering the dagger to her side. “Then how?” she demanded. “How are you still here? How are you... like this?”

Cressida flinched, her gaze darting to the dagger in Eloise’s hand. Her shoulders slumped slightly, the fire in her voice dimming as she answered. “It was an accident. Years ago, I...” She hesitated, the memory still clear as day. “It was just an accident. It fell, I tried to catch it, sliced the palm of my hand. But then... the wound healed. It healed like it had never happened. I didn’t know what it meant. Not until decades later, when I noticed that nothing about me was changing. And even then, the answer we found wasn’t concrete.”

Eloise’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “So you did cut yourself with it?” she repeated, her voice tinged with panic.

“Well not on purpose!” she snapped, unsure why Eloise kept repeating the question. “I didn’t know that it would do what it did.”

Eloise’s mind raced, the weight of Cressida’s words settling heavily on her shoulders. If she had been told that she was soul-bound to Lia earlier that morning, Eloise would have been over the moon. But finding out that Lia is actually Cressida Cowper changes things. Significantly.

She badly wished her siblings were around, wished that her mother was, too. They’ve always been better than her with all the mythical stuff. 

“Eloise?” Cressida called, her anger fizzling out when Eloise had gone quiet. “What’s wrong?”

 “You’re soul-bound to me,” Eloise finally said, almost breathless as she said it out loud. 

But that only served to fuel Cressida’s confusion. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Eloise finally said, her voice trembling as she turned the dagger over in her hands. “This isn’t just any blade. It’s not just a curiosity, not just some antique that happened to find its way to you.”

“Well I gathered as much,” Cressida said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Standing here two hundred years later and all. I’m not that dense.”

Eloise ignored her tone though, shaking her head. “This dagger—it’s meant for me and… someone. No one specific. But it’s meant to bind ourselves for eternity if we wanted.”

Cressida’s brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes flicking from Eloise to the dagger, unsure if she liked where this was going. “What are you on about?”

“I’m saying that it grants immortality, Cressida,” she said finally, eyes settling on Cressida again. “And they bind souls. It’s meant for… meant for my significant other. To live out eternity together.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence, the revelation hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. Cressida blinked, her lips parting as though to speak, but no sound came. Her gaze dropped to the dagger in Eloise’s hand, the significance of her accidental cut slowly dawning on her.

“No,” she said, shaking her head as she took a step back. “No, that can’t be right.”

“It is,” Eloise said firmly, her voice rising with emotion. “You’re immortal because of this dagger. Because it chose you for some reason. Because you are soul-bound to me.”

Cressida’s breath hitched, her hands trembling as she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “You’re lying,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “This... this is some kind of mistake. It has to be.”

“It’s not a mistake,” Eloise snapped, her own emotions boiling over. “This is happening. It’s been happening. For hundreds of years.”

Cressida’s head spun, her legs unsteady beneath her as the weight of Eloise’s words crashed over her. But above all the jumble of thoughts and emotions, only one memory is clear in her mind. 

“Wait. When…” Cressida started, her hands starting to shake. “The first time I tried to befriend you, you said you’d rather die. Was it just something you said or did you mean it as if you’d rather give up immortality than to be my friend?”

Eloise blinked, utterly caught off guard by the question. Her mind reeled, dredging up the memory she’d long forgotten if she was being honest. She didn’t think that of all things would be brought up right now.

“I…” Eloise faltered, her grip on the dagger tightening as her voice caught in her throat. “What?”

Cressida’s gaze bore into her, her voice soft but laden with a vulnerability that made Eloise’s heart twist painfully. “Answer me. You would have preferred to be rid of immortality? Than to be my friend?”

Eloise’s chest tightened. The softness of Cressida’s tone, the way her defenses had momentarily dropped—it was devastating. She could feel the weight of her own silence pressing down on her, yet she couldn’t form the words. Why was Cressida asking this now?

“I…” she stammered, her voice weak. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

Cressida’s expression hardened as she took a step forward, her arms still folded tightly across her chest like armor. “Say it,” she pressed, her tone trembling but insistent.

Eloise’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, torn between lingering anger and the gnawing guilt that had been steadily growing. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing coherent came out—just a jumbled mess of half-formed apologies and fractured indignation.

Her mind scrambled for a response, any response, and what came out made her want to stab the dagger into her own foot. “In my defense, you were rather a bitch.”

The room fell deathly quiet, the words echoing in the suffocating silence like a thunderclap.

Cressida stared at her, her lips parting in disbelief as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Do you still believe that?” she repeated, her voice cracking on the final word.

Eloise’s stomach churned, her head shaking automatically. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. Cressida had already stepped back, her expression morphing into something tired, sad, and utterly done. “Don’t bother. I see where you lie,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Cressida,” Eloise started, panic creeping into her voice as she took a tentative step forward. “I didn’t mean—”

But Cressida didn’t wait to hear the rest. She turned abruptly, her shoulders stiff as she marched out of the room, leaving Eloise frozen in place.

“Wait,” Eloise called, her voice cracking as she moved to follow. “Cressida, wait!”

She reached the hallway just in time to see Cressida disappear into the bedroom, the sound of the door slamming shut reverberating through the apartment. Eloise stopped short, staring at the closed door, her hand halfway raised as if to knock. But she didn’t.

Chapter Text

Eloise paced back and forth across the living room, the dagger clutched tightly in her hand. The echoes of their argument still reverberated in her mind, sharp and cutting, like the blade she held. Her chest felt tight, her breaths uneven as she tried to untangle the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

“Does she honestly think I planned all this?” Eloise muttered, her voice breaking the tense silence. “How could she think that I would... would trap her like this? That this is a punishment?”

Her steps faltered, and she sank onto the couch, the weight of the dagger pressing into her palm. She stared at it, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle, the smooth steel cool against her skin.

Her mind replayed Cressida’s words—accusations laced with bitterness, heartbreak, confusion, anger. And then, there was the question that had felt like dunking her head under ice water: “You would have preferred to be rid of immortality? Than to be my friend?”

The vulnerability in Cressida’s voice, the rawness of it, cut deeper than any accusation. Eloise closed her eyes, willing herself to steady her breathing, but the memory lingered, sharp and unrelenting at the sheer stupidity of her response.

She’d been too caught off guard at the moment—too shocked to consider how her words might have landed. But now, with the room quiet and empty around her, that anger ebbed, leaving guilt in its wake.

Eloise pressed her free hand to her forehead, groaning softly. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “God, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Her gaze fell to the dagger in her hand. For the first time, she really looked at it—at the intricate floral patterns on the handle, at the delicate craftsmanship that seemed almost too beautiful for something so dangerous.

And then her eyes caught the inscription. Latin, etched with precision into the steel. It was the first time in her life that she’d seen it, seen her dagger. She traced the words with her fingers, mouthing them silently before speaking aloud:

“Tempus omnia revelat.”

Her breath hitched as she translated the phrase, the weight of its meaning settling heavily in her chest.

“Time reveals all things,” she murmured.

Time. Centuries, in fact. Time for them to live separate lives, to endure their own struggles and heartbreaks, to grow into the people they were now. Time to find each other again, under circumstances neither of them could have predicted.

Eloise leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling as the realization washed over her. It wasn’t just about the dagger, or the past, or even the fight they’d just had. It was about what had brought them to this moment—what had always been drawing them toward this moment. All the questions and emotions just got in the way of that. 

Her mind replayed flashes of their time together in the shop, the way they easily fell into step, the quiet moments, the inexplicable pull she’d felt toward “Lia” right from the start. It all made sense now, even if it was maddeningly late. 

“This never could have happened back then,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. “We never could have...”

The thought trailed off, too painful to finish. Sure, Francesca and Michaela were able to do it, but it wasn’t without troubles and certain circumstances. And even then, it took time for Francesca to move on from John. Even longer for her to discover her feelings for Michaela. If Eloise had been a better friend to Cressida back then, if she had been there when her life imploded, would it have changed anything? Would they be where they are today? 

She swallowed hard, her grip on the dagger loosening slightly as her gaze softened. She was a different person during that time and she needed to accept that. She needed to accept a lot of things to move past this. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen back then,” she realized, the words barely audible. “It couldn’t have.”

Her heart ached with the weight of it. She couldn’t undo the years they’d lost, couldn’t erase the pain she’d caused Cressida, even unknowingly. But as she stared at the dagger resting in her lap, a flicker of determination sparked within her.

Time had brought them here. To this moment. To this fight. And maybe it would take more time to fix what had been broken.

But she wasn’t going to waste it anymore.

Eloise placed the dagger carefully on the coffee table, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before she pulled back. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her head bowed as she let the silence settle around her.

She’d give Cressida the space she needed. Let them both cool off before having a proper talk. 

And deep down, Eloise knew one thing with certainty: This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be.