If it had been someone worthy of her – if it had been real – Estelle probably would have declared their name at once, and bathed in Torie’s (no doubt) taken aback expression.

So, itching at this ill-thought-out deceit, she decided she would have to keep it up until such time as she could make it real. Extending out the prelude to a courtship just a little longer than it actually was: if she could find someone, sooner rather than later, all the pieces would fall into place, and all Estelle had done was give herself some crumb of pleasure to survive upon in the interim.

If she found no one, and Victoire found her out, sending regular flowers to herself, then – well, then Estelle would have to move to Timbuktu in shame and never return. Still, there was something terribly peppy and yet knowing, skeptical, in Victoire’s last remark – hopefully something will come of it! – that made Estelle glare at her outright. “Of course it will,” she said, rather more snappishly than she ought to have been, having just received a surprise bouquet, and she shook her head, feathers ruffled, and flounced for the door before she could say something else she would regret.

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