The Whitcomb townhouse glittered as though it wished to outshine the stars themselves. Every chandelier blazed, every gilt mirror caught and multiplied the warm glow of candlelight, and every guest in my mother's drawing room seemed determined to laugh louder than the last.
To the other ladies, it was an evening of delight and reprieve.
To me, it was little more than a performance staged to win my mother's favor.
Lady Whitcomb - my mother - who had married her eldest son to a duchess, no less. This night's gathering swirled around that triumph, every respectable young debutante and ambitious mother crowding to hear her tale of how she had strong-armed the duke into believing my brother a worthy match for his daughter.
I slouched at the back of the room, my eyes glazed in the dull haze of boredom, when a stray thought wandered in and made me smirk.
"Lady Amara," a grotesque voice boomed, shattering the fragile quiet of my imagination, "is there something you would like to share with us?"
The robust woman clearly had no idea what she had just done. Had my mother not been nose-deep in gossip, she might have taken her aside, offered a discreet warning. But no such mercy was given. And without that warning, the woman now stood defenseless - squarely on the front line against the full force of my quick, unforgiving tongue.
My lips parted, but not for the answer she expected. Words lined up in my mind like soldiers awaiting orders, each sharper than the last. The polite route flickered briefly in my thoughts… then burned away.
Silence swelled between us. I watched her shift, the weight of her own question pressing onto her shoulders. The room leaned in, waiting.
Finally, I tilted my head, smiled faintly, and said, "I was deciding if answering you would make this class more interesting… or just you more upset."
A ripple of faint snickers and quiet gasps swept the room, making my dark little heart swell with satisfaction.
"Lady Amara, it is time you went to lie down. The heat from earlier has gotten the better of you," my mother interjected, shattering the tension.
"Very well - I was thinking the same thing," I replied, my farewell punctuated with a snide smirk to the robust lady.
Without another word, I swept from the room, excitement quickening my step. At last, I could return to my chambers - and my notes from Dr. Samuel Ashford, our family physician.
My chambers were blessedly quiet; the muffled hum of the party reduced to a faint vibration through the floorboards. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, letting the air cool the heat still buzzing in my cheeks.
On my desk, beneath a paperweight shaped like a fox mid-pounce, waited a slim stack of parchment bound with twine - Dr. Samuel Ashford's latest notes. I had received them under the pretense of "furthering my education in the sciences," but even I could see the good doctor's handwriting was not meant for public reading.
I slipped the twine free. The scent of old ink and something faintly medicinal drifted up. My eyes skimmed the first page, catching on phrases that set my pulse racing - unexplained symptoms… irregular patterns… effects not yet recorded in medical literature.
There, in the careful script, was the reason I had endured my mother's endless soirées, the reason I smiled when I wanted to scream.
I was looking for answers.
And if Dr. Ashford was correct… I might just find them. I settled into the chair by my desk, the silk skirts pooling at my feet like a captive tide. The fox-shaped paperweight slid away with a soft clink as I untied the twine.
Dr. Samuel Ashford's handwriting sprawled across the page - precise, elegant, and utterly forbidden to a young lady of my station. To the rest of London society, I was simply Lady Amara Whitcomb, daughter of a West African baron, ornament of my mother's drawing room. But within these pages, I was something far more dangerous.
The ink bled with words meant for physicians' eyes alone: hematologic irregularities… episodic fever… correlation between lunar cycles and symptom onset. My pulse quickened.
I traced a finger over the margin where Dr. Ashford had left a small note for me in code, the one he had taught me to decipher:
Would value your observations on the matter we discussed. The patient is stable, but her eyes--remarkable.
He trusted me to see what others could not.
To learn what I was never meant to know.
I leaned back, listening for footsteps in the corridor. My mother believed I was resting. In truth, I was preparing for tomorrow's visit to Dr. Ashford's surgery… where the patient in question awaited.
