The letter had arrived during luncheon the day prior. Philippa had shared its highlights—that her sister had been born—with Forsythia and Iris and Harriet of course, as well as whomever had been in earshot, but her father's words, and the gravity they carried, had been kept for Pippa and Pippa alone. She had turned their heavy meaning over and over in her mind in the time since, their weight exhausting even as she went through the motions of a day at the finishing school. If anyone had noticed she was off, they had not said anything—though the stubborn Miss Rowle would have denied it in a heartbeat if they had.

"I think my mother is going to die."

The words were offered softly to the darkness of the room she shared with Forsythia, sleep having eluded Pippa entirely in the hour or so since the cousins had extinguished the lights. Perhaps, she thought, if she acknowledged the feeling aloud, it would cease to trouble her—and in a place such as this, where appearances mattered, the darkness, with only a cousin she expected was already sleeping, was the lone place where she might find the privacy—and the bravery—to do so.

It didn't help.

Instead, saying the words aloud served as a chink in her internal armour, and a tear rolled silently down the girl's cheek.