Beatrice was woken by the clatter of curtains being thrown open.
"Up," came her mother's clipped voice. "You have less than two hours. The estate is hosting a tea gathering. Try not to look like you've been dead for a week."
Beatrice blinked against the light, still tangled in bedsheets, heart pounding from dreams she couldn't remember. Ethel stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, already dressed in a deep burgundy gown with stiff lace along the collar.
"You're lucky I told them you'd been ill. They think you're recovering. Use it. Look delicate and fragile. Not haunted."
She didn't argue.
The bath was cold. The gown chosen for her was pink; the one Ethel insisted made her look "softer". Lily wasn't here. The maids in this house didn't linger or speak so she dressed in silence.
By noon, Beatrice was seated in the rose salon, a porcelain teacup balanced on her palm, surrounded by a half-moon of women wearing pastels and thin smiles. Ethel sat beside her, glowing.
