A faint smile touched his lips—so fleeting that she wondered if she had imagined it. “I seem to recall that you write your own stories. You mentioned it once.”
Emma’s brows lifted in astonishment. “I do, but I had not thought you would remember.”
He shrugged, his manner nonchalant, though there was an unmistakable glint of interest in his gaze. “I pay attention, even if it appears otherwise.” His eyes drifted to the stack of papers in her arms. “Are those tales of your own creation?”
She hesitated before nodding. “Yes. This one tells of a young farmer’s daughter who wins the heart of a prince. She marries him, becomes queen, and dedicates herself to bettering the lives of others.”
Evan arched a brow, a faintly sardonic note creeping into his tone. “An ambitious narrative to share with children in an orphanage.”
Emma met his gaze steadily, her voice firm yet kind. “It is my belief that they should be shown the limitless potential of their own lives. Though life may place obstacles in their way, they must always endeavor to rise above them. To hope for something greater.”
He regarded her for a moment, his expression inscrutable, before inclining his head in acknowledgment. “A sentiment worth imparting, I suppose.” He stepped aside to allow her passage, his posture as composed as ever.
Emma offered him a polite smile and resumed her path toward the door. But as her foot touched the first step, his voice called her back.
“Emma.”
She turned, her brow slightly furrowed in question.
“Would you dine with me this evening?” he asked, his words measured, his tone betraying a rare hint of uncertainty.
Her breath caught at the unexpected invitation. In the days since their union, they had barely exchanged more than civil pleasantries. The prospect of sharing an evening together felt almost unreal. After a brief pause, she inclined her head. “Yes, of course.”
His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile but something close. “I shall see to it that something you favor is served.”
Emma’s cheeks warmed, and she lowered her gaze briefly before responding. “There is no need for concern, Your Grace. I have already sent the week’s menu to Mrs. Havisham. Everything is in order.”
His brows lifted, the faintest flicker of surprise lighting his eyes. “You’ve taken the reins of the household with remarkable swiftness.”
She offered a modest smile. “It seemed a necessary step.”
With that, Emma continued on her way, her footsteps light but her thoughts scattered. The invitation lingered in her mind, its unexpectedness stirring an unfamiliar flutter in her chest. As she stepped out into the crisp morning air and made her way to the carriage that would take her to the orphanage, she foundherself anticipating the evening ahead, though she could not quite explain why.
The soft hum of children’s voices filled the orphanage’s reading room, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves brushing against the tall windows. Sunlight streamed through the glass, catching motes of dust that danced lazily in the warm air. Emma sat amidst the little ones, her papers neatly arrayed on her lap, the faint perfume of parchment mingling with the faintly sweet scent of the strawberries she’d brought for them. Her voice rose and fell with practiced animation as she read aloud.
The children leaned forward, wide-eyed, their gazes fixed on her face as though she were a sorceress weaving enchantments. Their rapt attention was balm to her spirit.
As she neared the end of the tale, a sound disrupted the gentle harmony of the room. Footsteps—measured, deliberate—echoed faintly from the hallway. Emma’s words faltered for the briefest moment, and she glanced up, her brow furrowing. A figure stood just beyond the doorway, silhouetted against the light filtering in from the corridor.
Ophelia.
Emma’s breath caught, her pulse quickening in disbelief. Her mind raced, grasping for an explanation. What could have brought Ophelia here? A strand of Emma’s hair slipped freefrom its pins, tickling her cheek, but she barely noticed, her attention riveted to the figure now stepping fully into view.
Ophelia moved with deliberate grace, her posture erect, her gloved hands folded lightly before her. There was a weariness in her bearing. Without a word, she crossed the room and selected a chair at the back, seating herself as quietly as a shadow.
Emma’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of her papers, her heart a drumbeat in her chest. Every instinct urged her to hasten the tale, so she could speak to Ophelia. Yet the children’s expectant faces made her stop. She had to force herself to finish the story.
Her voice steadied, though not without effort, and she pressed on. The story’s closing lines emerged with a faint tremor, but the children did not seem to notice. When the final words fell from her lips, a chorus of delighted cheers erupted, pulling a soft, automatic smile from her.
The children bounded away to attend to their games while Emma smoothed her skirts with trembling hands and crossed the room toward Ophelia, the weight of their shared history pressing heavily against her chest.
“Ophelia,” she began. Her throat felt dry, as though her words had caught on the barbs of unspoken apologies. “Is this... a coincidence? Or—did you mean to come here?”
Ophelia lifted her gaze, a faint smile curving her lips, though her eyes carried the weariness of long nights spent wrestling withunresolved emotions. “No, Emma,” she said softly, her voice low and deliberate. “It is no coincidence. I came here to see you.”
Her fingers curled around the edges of her papers, holding them tightly as though they might anchor her. “You sought me out?” Her brow furrowed. “How did you even know where I would be?”
Ophelia’s smile wavered, tinged with something bittersweet. “Evan told me.”
