The morning of our first anniversary, I woke before dawn.
A year. It seemed impossible. A year since the rain, the contract, the cold ceremony. Under the terms of the agreement, I was free to go that very day. The debt was paid. My father was safe. I could pack a bag and walk out the front door.
I lay in bed staring at the canopy above me, and I knew with perfect certainty that I wasn’t going anywhere.
But I had no idea what he would say.
All day, the mansion felt different. The maids smiled strangely at me. Mr. Voss, normally as expressive as a statue, gave me a small nod in the hallway and murmured, “Happy anniversary, Mrs. Baste.” I could have sworn there was a hint of emotion in his voice.
At five o’clock, a maid delivered a package to my room.
Inside was a gown the color of midnight blue, embroidered with tiny silver stars. A card lay on top, written in an angular, careful hand:
Wear this tonight. Meet me in my study at eight. — D.
I held the dress against me and felt tears prick my eyes. I had spent months thinking of how to tell him what I felt. Now I had a gift of my own, a small leather-bound book of poems I had been secretly collecting for him, with a letter tucked into the first page.
I dressed carefully. I pinned my hair up. I touched the little silver book charm on my wrist for luck.
At exactly eight o’clock, I stood outside the heavy oak door of his study, my heart hammering.
Whatever he says, I told myself, whatever happens, I will tell him the truth.
I knocked.
