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“I was saying... the essential thing is that you haven’t sustained any harm, Viscount. You aren’t injured, I hope?”

I straighten up.

“No, George,” I say, sighing, “thank you, I am not injured.”

I run my fingers one last time over the wet coat and head toward the stable exit. The late afternoon light filters through the trees, rippling the damp air. I head toward the Pavilion and, in the distance, I notice two motionless figures, Étienne’s low tail and the white cap atop Emily’s black hair emerge in the gardens.

She, with her shoulders hunched, clutches a slightly trembling cloth in her hands. Her hazel eyes shine with unshed tears, her lower lip quivers; Étienne, beside her, has a tense body and hands clasped behind his back.

I approach.

“Is everything alright, Miss Stone?”

She cannot contain herself. A sob escapes her lips, and her chest rises and falls hurriedly.

“Forgive me, Viscount!”

I raise an eyebrow, observing her trembling, and then turn my gaze toward Étienne.

“Que se passe-t-il, Étienne?”

He takes a step back.

“The Viscountess wishes to see you.”

Tears continue to slide silently down Emily’s cheeks. I set off toward the manor. Without uttering a word, they follow me.

“Should I expect anything in particular?”

No answer comes. I sigh, walking faster. We cross the main corridor and I enter a small parlor where my mother is already seated composedly, her teacup in hand. Beside her, on a chair, sits one of her dolls, perched as upright as she is.

“Mother, you were looking for me,” I say, trying to avert my eyes from that contraption.

She sips her tea slowly, her fingers grazing the rim of the cup with frigid precision. Finally, she looks away from her tea and turns to Étienne.

“Leave us and close the door.”

He catches my eye. I give a nod and he moves, walking toward the door; before he can close it, my mother adds: “You too, Miss Stone. Out.”

A muffled sob is heard from Emily as she leaves.

The door closes behind them, leaving the parlor bathed in a rigid silence, broken only by the light gurgling of the tea in my mother’s cup.

“Do you have something to tell me, Evander?”

“No, mother. Nothing of relevance.”

“Nothing of relevance...” she repeats, half-voice.

I feel a tangle tighten inside me and I take a hesitant step closer.

“Are you wel—”

I am cut off sharply. The dry rustle of her hand on the table makes me start: a newspaper page spreads out between us, still trembling from the impact.

“Explain to me what this means.”

Her tone is low, but contempt seethes at the corners of her lips. Her nostril flares as if she had a filthy animal before her.