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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