By the following morning, it was as though the day itself had already begun to fade from memory, a grim occurrence many would have preferred to forget. Eulothorne's visit to the villa and his sudden demand for a dowry had struck Elizabeth unprepared, the shock lingering like a bruise beneath her composed exterior. What followed had been a protracted and uneasy exchange, Elizabeth circling the subject with practiced evasions, striving to steer the conversation away from the very demand that threatened to unravel her designs.
Twilight had deepened into night by the time Eulothorne finally departed, his presence receding with the last echoes of his footsteps. Elizabeth remained behind, robbed of speech, her thoughts snarled and restless, unable to reconcile the loss of control she so rarely endured. The house seemed to hold its breath in his absence, shadows pooling thickly along the walls.
Florence, unwilling to endure another moment beneath her mother's gaze, withdrew in silence. She retreated to the attic, closing the door as one might seal away a nightmare. There, she surrendered to sleep with unnatural swiftness, as though exhaustion itself conspired to bury the day whole to pretend, if only for a few hours, that none of it had ever come to pass.
The knock came sharp and insistent, cleaving through the hush of dawn and tearing Elizabeth from her sleep. For a fleeting moment, she lay still, disoriented, the faint, uneven breathing of her daughters drifting from the corridor beyond her chamber. Then the sound came again, harder, impatient, demanding to be answered.
She rose at once, fingers snatching the robe draped over the back of a chair, its fabric cold against her skin. Wrapping it tightly about herself, she hurried down the corridor, slippers whispering across the floor as she made for the door.
When she opened it, the chill of morning rushed in. Eulothorne's butler stood upon the threshold, posture rigid, spine straight as a blade. Behind him loomed his master, cloaked in a heavy coat, a top hat pulled low to obscure the upper half of his face, casting his features into shadow. He looked less like a guest and more like a judgment come calling.
"You arrive very early, my lord," Elizabeth said, her lips curling into a practiced smile, one already drunk on the promise of his presence. He has grown fond of me, she thought, her heart quickening with greedy hope.
"I have an arrangement with you, Elizabeth," Eulothorne said.
Her eyes widened, the words striking deeper than she allowed to show. At once, her thoughts raced toward coin and contract. She was not mistaken in her anticipation—only naïve in how it would be delivered.
She ushered him into the parlor, where the air smelled faintly of old wood and steeped leaves. Elizabeth seated herself with her legs neatly crossed, while two porcelain cups of Earl Grey rested upon the low table between them, each prepared with two cubes of sugar dissolved within.
Eulothorne glanced at the tea and pushed his cup aside with a single, deliberate motion.
"Unsweetened," he said flatly. Elizabeth smiled, unfazed.
"I imagine you haven't the leisure to wait for another cup, my lord." she replied lightly. "You still have matters to negotiate, do you not?"
He inclined his head, his expression unsoftened. "I did not request it."
Her brows lifted, amusement flickering briefly across her face. Eulothorne Oberon had always possessed a talent for the unexpected.
"Then perhaps..." she said smoothly, "...we should spare ourselves the ceremony and speak plainly."
Eulothorne's fingers interlaced, knuckles whitening as his gaze fixed upon her.
"Your daughter," he said. "Name your price."
The bluntness struck her like a slap. She had anticipated payment for discretion, for silence, for compliance; but never for this. Not such naked commerce.
"I was under the impression..," Elizabeth replied carefully, lifting her teacup, "...that you intended to wed her under her own terms. Or have I misunderstood?"
"I am pressed for time," he answered, his tone clipped and unyielding.
Elizabeth lowered her cup slowly.
"Then it would be improper of me..," she said, feigning reluctance. "...to rush such a matter."
Even as she spoke, the sum had already formed in her mind.
"Threepence," Eulothorne said.
The word landed like an insult. The smallest sliver of silver, scarcely worthy of mention.
Elizabeth's smile tightened.
"Fifteen sovereigns would be more fitting..," she countered smoothly. "...if you ask the mother who bore and raised her."
"A crown," he replied, his voice calm, as though Florence were no more than a trinket upon a merchant's table.
"Ten sovereigns, my lord," Elizabeth said, her eyes sharpening with insistence.
"Five," Eulothorne said, the command threaded with finality.
Elizabeth paused, only for a breath, then smiled.
"Sold."
She struck her palm against the oak desk beside her, the sound ringing sharp and decisive, like a gavel sealing judgment.
"And the dowry?" she asked lightly. "Does that arrangement still stand?"
"The previous negotiations are void," Eulothorne said. He rose, retrieving his hat from the desk. From within his coat, he produced a small silk-embroidered pouch and tossed it onto the wood. Coins clashed loudly within, their sound rich and unmistakable.
"Five sovereigns," he said. "I expect her delivered within the week."
Elizabeth's fingers closed around the pouch, its weight a promise too sweet to resist. She opened it, gazing upon the gold as though it might return her gaze.
"It will be done, my lord."
A week's labor or even a month's, rested in her palm in just a night. Elizabeth smiled, and this time, the smile was real.
The sun had fully ascended, pale and watchful, when Florence stirred from her restless sleep. She rose expecting the familiar neglect, only to be met instead by a sight so unnatural it sent a chill through her bones: her mother stood in the dining room, arranging the morning meal with her own hands. Elizabeth Moore, who had never so much as lifted a finger for such menial tasks, now moved about the table with forced diligence. The change was so abrupt it felt less like kindness and more like a warning.
Elizabeth's gaze settled upon Florence with a brittle brightness as she commanded both her daughters to rise.
"Come now, Florence," she said sweetly. "Where would you like to sit?"
Florence's sisters exchanged glances, their expressions tight with disbelief, yet neither dared to speak. Florence hesitated, suspicion coiling in her chest. She pulled out a chair slowly, her eyes never leaving her mother, and sat with stiff unease. To be served rather than commanded felt grotesque, as though the world had been tilted just enough to reveal something rotten beneath.
"Lord Eulothorne does not want the dowry anymore," Elizabeth announced lightly, as if speaking of the weather. "We shall have a new dress made for you, Florence."
The words slid past Florence without meaning. She chewed her food carefully, mechanically, while her gaze tracked her mother's movements—Elizabeth bustling clumsily through chores she had long deemed beneath her. Each step, each smile, rang false.
Later, in the attic chamber, the morning sun filtered weakly through the thin curtains, casting a dull warmth upon the worn floorboards. Florence stood before the mirror, her reflection tense and unfamiliar. Elizabeth moved behind her in wordless focus, brushing Florence's dark hair with uncharacteristic care, fastening the corset, and smoothing the folds of her morning dress. It was the first time Florence could ever recall her mother attending to her with such deliberate hands.
At last, unease spilled from her lips.
"What has come over you?" Florence asked, the question edged with a rudeness she rarely allowed herself. The disquiet she had tried to swallow now betrayed her.
Elizabeth smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her mouth. "Your mother came into some money this morning."
Florence's fingers stilled. "Did the Oberons give it to you?"
Elizabeth stepped closer and pressed a gentle kiss to Florence's forehead, the gesture so foreign it made her skin prickle as if her lips were some thorn.
"You will understand soon," she murmured.
From a small jewelry box, Elizabeth withdrew a brooch Florence recognized at once, one she knew her mother had always guarded jealously, never allowing her sisters so much as to touch it. Elizabeth pinned it carefully in place, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Your father..," she said softly, "...would be very proud of you when he sees you."
Elizabeth stepped back, her gaze roaming over Florence as though she were an unfinished portrait, searching for some invisible flaw in the arrangement of silk and skin. A spark of satisfaction lit her features. She reached into the jewelry box and withdrew a necklace, its metal cold against Florence's throat as she fastened it in place. Then she smiled—warm, almost girlish, a softness that felt rehearsed rather than real.
"A letter arrived this morning," Elizabeth said lightly, as if speaking of weather or tea. "The Loxleys have summoned you to London."
Her eyes lingered, sharp beneath the smile. "Your father, I suspect, is not long for this world."