Holly's future, while more solidified than some girls—especially in the marriage department—lacked true direction. Her father had been a distance once since the plague had seen the majority of her siblings buried six feet under, so he hadn't been too much help deciding what her future would be like. Would she attend Pendergast's School for Young Roses? Be immediately married? Enjoy a single season, if only to be able to assist her future daughters in their seasons? She didn't know, and she hadn't thought to ask at the young age of twelve.

"I'd like that," she confirmed with a nod. "I'd like to be able to be myself—but without losing what makes me me. Whatever that means." Who was she? Was she supposed to know at twelve?

All she knew is she didn't want to end up weak, spineless, and a doormat for any man or woman.