☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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The hour was late, and Warwick Hall was cloaked in a blanket of stillness and quiet.
After returning from her cousin's flat, Rose had tucked Teddy snuggly into bed and regaled him with the first several pages of Peter Pan and Wendy, a charming children's story written by J. M. Barrie. Rose enjoyed how similar Teddy was to Peter, and how similar she had once been to young Wendy. Teddy enjoyed the pirates.
The little boy had fallen asleep to the sound of her voice, a hint of a smile on his cherub-like face.
At present, Rose was seated in the parlor, her legs tucked beneath her on the cushions of the sofa, her diary in her lap. The last entry she'd penned had been a couple nights after the benefit. Much had happened since then.
With elegant, looping penmanship, she chronicled the many details of her discussion with Daphne from earlier that evening.
...and once we'd finally put the topic of William Mercer to rest, Daphne gave me the most splendid news: Mr. Hughes has at last made her a senior editor! I knew she could do it, and I couldn't be more thrilled, but the look on her face as she told me was the most priceless bit of all. I am so very, very proud of her. If only her parents would share my celebratory feelings. But they do not know of her job, and for the sake of peace, comfort, and Daphne's sanity, they must remain in ignorance. It's really a shame. Daphne should be praised for her ambition and wit, not berated for...
The door to the parlor opened, and William strode through. He did not look at nor acknowledge Rose, and rather than approach her, he positioned himself before the wide front window, his back to her. Silent and unreadable, he stared through the glass at the night sky.
The pen in Rose's hand hovered over the page. She observed William's back with a cool eye, her expression impassive. Granted, she was more willing to offer an empathetic ear since her lengthy chat with Daphne, but that in no way meant she was going to attempt to bridge the significant divide between them. That was up to him. She would not speak first, nor would she make this easy.
William had broken something precious. Whether that breakage was irreparable depended entirely on his next move.
Several more seconds passed in much the same way: William's back to her accompanied by a tense, deafening silence.
Rose rolled her eyes. This was pointless. The expectation of William admitting he was wrong was as likely as snow in June. Why hope? It only led to disappointment.
She'd all but given up and gone back to writing when William finally spoke.
“Katya Poliatova,” he said.
Rose paused and closed her diary. “What was that?” she asked, her voice phlegmatic.
He turned around so that he was facing her and slid his hands into his pockets. “The other night, during our tiff in my study, you asked me if I'd ever done somethin' foolish at nineteen. If I'd ever loved someone I shouldn't have loved. You remember?”
