Florence was wrenched back into consciousness by pain.
Her mother's hand had struck her face, the sharp sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.
"Come to your senses, Florence!" she snapped. "Do you intend to present yourself to the Oberons as some witless, vacant-headed thing?"
Florence blinked, disoriented. The world lurched into focus—embroidered walls, the heavy scent of perfume, candlelight trembling against gilded frames. She stared down at her hands, thin and pale, fingers trembling against the white silk pooled in her lap. The dress clung to her like a shroud. Her heart lurched.
She knew she had died. She knew it with a certainty deeper than memory. And yet, how could the dead awaken? How could a corpse feel breath in its lungs, pain on its skin?
Another blow landed against the back of her head, harder this time.
"Are you listening to me at all?" her mother shrieked. "Heavens above, Florence, I swear I do not know what curse made you this way!"
Her mouth worked uselessly before words finally spilled out, fragile and uncertain.
"Mother… am I dreaming?"
The answer came in the form of another strike.
"You have screws for brains!" her mother hissed. "Dreaming, at a time like this? You are making the Oberons wait! It is blessing enough they chose you from all the suitable young ladies in England, and here you sit drifting among clouds instead of preparing yourself. Good heavens, Florence!"
Florence's breath hitched. "I'm… getting married. Today?"
Her gaze drifted to the vanity mirror across the room. The girl staring back at her was younger; unmarked, unbroken, untouched by the years of suffering she remembered with a wedding ring. The sight stole the air from her lungs.
Before she could process it, another sharp blow struck but instead from her mother's hand, it crawled out from her lips.
"I swear, if you do not regain your senses this instant, you'll be bruised before you're even wed," her mother warned coldly.
It was impossible. And yet everything felt horrifyingly real.
Florence pinched her wrist until her nails bit deep into flesh. Pain bloomed, bright and undeniable. She gasped. Then the memory surfaced; a half-forgotten legend whispered in hushed tones. Of cursed rebirths. Of souls dragged backward through time to confront the lives they had wasted, the choices they had surrendered. Her stomach twisted.
Living it was far worse than hearing it told.
Florence lifted her chin, something hard and resolute settling in her chest.
"Mother," she said quietly, "I will not marry Lord Eulothorne."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Her mother turned slowly, fury tightening her features. To her, Florence was an illegitimate thing, a bargaining piece, a body without claim to dignity. How dare she speak of choice?
"I will not marry Eulothorne Oberon," Florence repeated, her voice steadier now.
Her mother's hand rose, poised to strike again.
"I will not be your puppet," Florence said, standing her ground.
For a moment, her mother faltered, then her expression softened into something far more dangerous. She lowered her hand and smiled thinly.
"Calm yourself, child," she cooed. "It need only be for a short while. Once the brideprice is secured, you may leave the marriage if you wish. Simple, really. Let us not create unnecessary trouble when security is within reach."
Florence lowered her gaze, masking the truth in her eyes. She knew better now. Her mother's promises were nothing but snares dressed as mercy.
Florence lowered her gaze, not in surrender but in concealment. Her mother's lips to curl in satisfaction. The woman stepped forward and wrapped her in a hollow embrace, whispering with false warmth, "You are such a wonderful daughter, Florence."
Those words had always been chains meant to anchor her back into her mother's control. As if some clicker meant to put her into place again and to make her retreat, her mother treated the words she emotionally craved as the cornerstone to hoist her control.
Humming with triumph, her mother reached for the brass knob of the chamber door. She spared Florence a quick, satisfied smile before shutting it behind her. The smile vanished the instant the latch clicked into place, and another phony smile crept to her face hearing the chatters of some women.
Outside, voices rose, sharp with envy. "Mrs. Moore, you must be overjoyed, marrying your daughter into such an esteemed house. Might we have a glimpse? The Oberons are so… particular about their weddings."
Mrs. Moore smiled broadly, basking in their admiration. She had struck gold. And once the brideprice was paid, her role would be finished. It was her perfect dream escape.
"I wish…" she sighed, her voice carefully laced with regret, crafted to sharpen the envy already glinting in their eyes. "But even if I dared invite you, the Oberons would have you escorted out without a second thought. I fear my mercy would never be enough to bend their will."
The ladies' smiles faltered, their expressions souring into quiet resentment.
From within the chamber, Florence watched her mother revel in their dismay. Mrs. Moore basked openly in her borrowed splendor, drinking in admiration that did not truly belong to her.
Florence smiled, not in admiration, but with intent.
On silent feet, she edged toward the adjoining room, careful to keep to the shadows, certain her mother's pride would blind her to absence. The ivory gown the Oberons had chosen clung heavily to her frame, its silk and lace weighty as chains. With trembling fingers, she began to shed it piece by piece, letting fabric, jewels, and finery fall to the floor behind her. The remnants of a wedding trailed in her wake like discarded vows.
She fled into the manor's parklands, breath ragged, skirts abandoned, the damp grass biting at her bare feet. Freedom felt nearer than it ever had before, close enough to taste.
But her escape was frantic, unrefined. She did not know she was being watched as she disappeared into elsewhere.
Sharp, calculating eyes traced her path even in absentia, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface. The wine trembled in his glass with the motion of his hand as his eyes followed her with the weight of his gaze. The mirth her escape might have brought to her stirred no triumph within him as he watched her figure fading through the woods not afar from the manor's parkwall.
"My lord, your morning coat is ready," came a soft, hesitant voice from behind. A frail valet, his limbs slender and careful, as though each movement might crack under the weight of the master's presence stood by the door. His hand extended, presenting the freshly pressed garment with trembling reverence.
"Set that aside. Fetch my frock coat instead," the master said, voice low, deliberate. "I have pressing matters to attend."
The valet inclined his head swiftly, vanishing into the shadows of the chamber to retrieve the requested coat, leaving the room steeped in quiet expectation and the unspoken weight of the master's intent.
Florence continued running into oblivion. The temperature felt warmer outside than any shelter with warm boilers.
She had once nurtured the fragile dream of escape in her former life, but the slow, unrelenting weight of abuse had crushed it long before it could take shape. Never had her blood burned with such desperate resolve as it did now, and it was a fire born entirely from the thought of escaping that cursed marriage.
Her flight ended beneath the looming boughs of an ancient oak, sentinel-like against the sky. She sank onto the palmetto grass, limbs trembling, breath shallow. A cool breeze brushed her skin like fleeting mercy. Freedom felt unreal, yet for the first time, she was breathing within its shadow.
Florence turned her gaze back toward the manor, its vast silhouette rising like a slumbering beast against the darkening sky. A single, dreadful thought drifted through her mind, heavy as a curse. How am I meant to escape such a cruel end? Is it enough to simply run farther?
As though she had plunged too deep into a sea of tangled thoughts, Florence failed to sense another presence until a young voice, coldly familiar, sharp enough to crawl along her spine had cut through the hush.
"You seem to have taken your time leaving behind remnants of the fabric bought with my wealth," he remarked, smooth and cruel. "It appears you do not yet grasp the meaning of this wedding, Loxley."
Her eyes widened—not in surprise, for she had known he would follow her trail—but in raw, instinctive fear. Florence rose at once, turning her back as she readied herself to flee. She understood too well that such defiance would kindle his wrath, yet no other choice presented itself. Running had become her only language.
"Florence Loxley."
His voice fell upon her like iron upon stone; measured, commanding, inescapable. Her limbs grew heavy, as though the earth itself conspired to root her in place.
"Why do you run from me?" he asked. "What wrong have I done you?"
The question mocked her, dragging her into memories of nights spent praying for death over mercy. Words fractured within her. How could he possibly comprehend the ruin he would one day bring?
When she finally answered, her voice was soft, restrained, yet laden with quiet resolve. "I do not wish to be caged within a luxury that disguises itself as mercy, my lord."