If there was a hell on Earth, she was in it.

The transition from living in Bartonburg to living in London had been a rough one. Her distaste of London had weaned only slightly over the last four months, with everything from the lights to the constant noise keeping her up nightly until just before Christmas. She’d always dreamed of a quiet life for herself—a dream that was squashed the moment she gave up the marriage mart for the life of a governess.

But after being in London for a bit longer, she'd gotten used to the ruckus. She'd even begun to appreciate the easy ability to blend in with her surroundings, getting lost in the wave of people who trekked through the streets on the daily. She didn't think of home as often—rather, she grew more and more weary of facing Hogsmeade with each passing day.

But it wasn’t being here, in Wellingtonshire, as a governess that made her feel as though she’d entered the most demented of nightmares.

It was the fact that he was here. Mr. August Echelon-Arnost. Their acquaintance had been brief and not at all noteworthy in the grand scheme of things, but he represented the one thing Grace had lost since leaving her family home: hope. He’d been kind, he’d not seemed too bothered with her awkwardness, and she’d liked him, if only because of the aforementioned qualities. She knew very little about him otherwise, but still, he’d been hope.

Grace had been tasked with accompanying young Miss Ellie, her nine-year-old charge, to the home of a friend. From what she’d gathered, Ellie and Mr. Echelon-Arnost’s child were not too familiar with each other, but were both eagerly conversing with the same person: an beaming little girl with blonde ringlets and a book in each hand. It was her house they stood in, Grace next to the bannister in the foyer and Mr. Echelon-Arnost against the wall across from her. Her face burned as she tried to keep her gaze off him, but she was so embarrassingly aware of him.

What did he think of her? Surely nothing good. She was a governess now. She was nothing.

“Ellie,” she managed weakley, keeping a focused gaze on her charge’s forehead as the three children turned towards her, “Shouldn’t we go to the playroom?” Surely all children had one—Ellie did, even if she rarely touched any of the toys within it. It was then that she made the mistake of glancing up, seeking another pair of adult eyes to agree with her, and found Mr. Echelon-Arnost’s. Oh Merlin.

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Grace was thankful he broke the eye contact first.

Her mind was not built to handle such scattered thoughts. She ought to say something. Maybe an encouraging go on to Ellie, or even a I'll come with you, leave Mr. Echelon-Arnost be (which might have worked had her brain not stumbled at the thought of speaking his name out loud). Instead she stared down at the three pairs of shoes side by side, trying to un-warm her cheeks and find her voice.

Only it was Mr. Echelon-Arnost who spoke first, good-humored and light. Her gaze rose to him again, pleased to find that he was no longer looking in her direction. Her stomach still felt tight and she was nearly certain her she'd knicked off the tip of one of her fingernails from fidgeting with them, but she managed to stand up a little taller. At least for a moment.

"You needn't bother," she said, her voice not nearly as confident as she'd hoped to project, "I can—well, it is my job to handle children. You don't—you are his father, I suppose, but you don't have to, is what I mean." Wellllll.

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Had Grace not already decided how poorly suited she was to a career as a governess, being corrected by a literal child might have been her moment of realization. She did not have any comeback, no well-rehearsed apology. She simply shut up and nodded, averting her gaze to the floor. Her mind urged her to steel her spine and recover what dignity she still had (because the mere act of being in the room with Mr. Echelon-Arnost had unfortunately stripped her of most of it), but in the next moment the boy had extended the invitation to join the game.

Miss Ellie did not look as pleased, her gaze flickering back and forth between the two adults as if the thought of playing with them either made her very nervous or very annoyed. Grace had still not figured out all of her micro-expressions. Grace tried to smile at her, but it seemed to go unnoticed.

"I played charades growing up," she confessed, moving her attention to Mr. Echelon-Arnost, his charge, and the other little girl. "I have four siblings." She left out that their age gap made any meaningful competition an impossibility, but they had played. Many times, however brief.

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