On New Year’s Day of 1886, it was reported that Hector Cartwright, heir to the Cartwright fortune, had disappeared without a trace—and with a substantial portion of his family’s ready money. Even his father’s passing two years later could not coax him out of whatever warren he had hidden himself in. Indeed, it was though he had never even existed, except in the broken hearts of his mother and siblings.

I was born the day Hector Cartwright died. Some might say it was rather a drastic move, and perhaps in my old age I might look back and see it as such, but when the alternative is a life spent playacting, drastic moves are sometimes necessary. Nature gave me the tools I needed to truly become myself, I only had to make use of them, to find the courage to take the necessary step.

A single woman of a certain age, free and without family in America...raises a certain number of eyebrows. Thus, when I stepped foot upon American soil, I became a widow, Mr. Everett Rose having died some three years prior. I opened in Boston a haberdashery and led a comfortable life, but always felt a pang when I thought of home.

Is half a decade (well, near enough) long enough for the dust to settle, for a family—an entire world—to move on? Even with the shop, I was never truly settled in Boston, never truly at peace. The gravity of home pulled at me each and every day until the fall of 1890 saw me return. Not to London, of course, or to Somerset, where my family still kept a summer home. Hogsmeade, practically a stone’s throw from the castle that had been my home for seven years, would be my berth.

Five years on one’s own is enough time to develop myriad skills, and it is these skills I chose to put to work in opening a modiste on the village’s High Street. I cannot help but wonder if this change will be the making of me or my undoing.

There are, of course, questions one must answer, and when crafting a life where a life never truly was, it is important to be careful. Never reveal anything that someone might seek to verify—something that could prove you a liar. I have, over time, crafted the following vague responses, each with a small seedling of truth within.

Education: I always excelled in charms and transfiguration, which I hope shines through in my work. I did not attend formal schooling, but was an eager student.

Upbringing: It is easiest for some to assume I am some sort of upstart, who married comfortably—and up—from the lower echelons of society. My manners and knowledge do floor some who would prefer this version of me—even if I am, perhaps, more forthright than is often allowed a woman—and so, when pressed, my tale is that I travelled during my formative years. This fact, above all others, is more true than I think any would expect.

Family: Dead, all. I find that if one goes quiet after such a revelation, few questions follow.