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THE HOUR BEFORE DINNER found me in a flurry of indecision, standing before my looking glass as if it were the verdict of some stern judge. Elle fussed with the hem of my dress while Hyacinth adjusted my bonnet, each taking their role as stylists far more seriously than I took my own nerves.

"You mustn't look as if you've come straight from the battlefield," Elle declared with a sigh, "but neither must you seem the victim of one. Balance, Francesca, balance."

I cast a wary eye to the reflection showing the frayed edges of my gloves and a stray ribbon defiantly escaping its moorings. "I daresay I am better suited to a campaign than a dinner party," I muttered, twisting a curl absentmindedly. "Do you suppose one might march in with muddy boots and still be admired?"

"Not unless you intend to be admired for your impudence," Hyacinth chimed in, "which I confess would be more than amusing, but scarcely the goal."

Elle offered me a knowing smile. "My dear, there is a wisdom in being loved quietly rather than admired loudly. One can thrive better under the first's soft shelter than beneath the second's glaring spotlight."

I allowed the thought to settle like a much-needed balm upon my frayed nerves. Quiet love. Not that the world around me had much of either, but a girl might hope.

"Very well," I sighed, smoothing my skirts. "We shall proceed with quiet love, then."

Hyacinth smirked. "Sounds like a plan. Now, let us attend to the matter of your hair before you frighten any gentlefolk."

***

The evening air bit sharper than I expected as I stepped up the worn wooden path to the Blythe house, nerves pricking at my spine like restless needles. I clutched my muff tighter and lifted my skirts a tad higher to avoid the inevitable mud. Thoughts of proper conversation and genteel manners swirled in my head—until my foot caught on something impossibly feathery and squawking.

Before I knew it, I was sprawled ungracefully on the frosted earth, my skirts askew and cheeks flushed with embarrassment hotter than the kitchen stove.

"Oh, heavens!" came a voice, swift and concerned, as a tall figure appeared at the door, his dark hair tousled as if from chasing something more troublesome than a mere chicken.

"Good evening, Miss Doyle," he said, offering a hand with a crooked smile. "I daresay the fowl here has taken a particular liking to you."

I accepted his hand, rising with a mixture of dignity and haste. "It seems I have taken a liking to it first," I quipped, brushing snow and feathers from my sleeve. "I had hoped to make a more refined entrance, but apparently, the chickens have other plans."

He chuckled, eyes gleaming with amusement. "A most memorable introduction, if nothing else. I am Sebastian Lacroix. You have my apologies for the misbehaving poultry."

"Apologies accepted," I said, smoothing my skirts and trying to restore some semblance of composure. "Though I must admit, I was beginning to suspect I'd stumbled into a scene from a farce rather than a genteel dinner."

"Come in, then, before you have a second encounter with the local wildlife," Bash said, stepping aside with a flourish.

As I crossed the threshold, I cast a glance back at the hapless chicken, which seemed to regard me with the same smug expression a duchess might reserve for an unruly servant.

"I suppose," I mused aloud, "that vengeance shall have to wait until after I've survived dinner."

Bash's laughter followed me into the warm glow of the house, a sound as welcome as the fire crackling in the hearth.

***

After the dishes had been dried and the baby rocked to sleep, the warmth of the evening gave way to the hush of twilight. Mary and Bash busied themselves putting their infant daughter, Delphi, to bed, exchanging murmurs and a few sleepy chuckles. Gilbert offered to walk me home, and despite the frost beginning to silver the porch rails, I agreed.

The air outside was sharp and clean, the kind that nipped your cheeks and cleared your head. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders as we started down the narrow path toward town.

"I can't tell if that went terribly or not at all," I said after a beat, my tone dry.

Gilbert glanced at me, a flicker of amusement behind his eyes. "You only threatened vengeance once, so I'd say it was a success."

I smiled, grateful for the tease. "They're lovely. All of them."

"They are." He walked a few paces more before adding, "I'm glad you think so."

A soft silence settled between us, broken only by the muffled crunch of our boots through thin ice. Lantern light from windows we passed cast long amber lines across the road.

I finally spoke, quieter now. "I hadn't realized you didn't grow up with them."

He looked straight ahead, his jaw working thoughtfully. "No. Mary and Bash... they're family now, but not by blood. My mother died when I was born. And my father—" He stopped, breathed out through his nose. "He passed not long ago. It was quick. Quiet, at least."

I didn't speak at first. There was nothing to fix, no platitude that wouldn't feel hollow.

"I'm sorry," I said eventually.

He gave a small nod. "Thank you."

Another silence, but it wasn't heavy.

"I suppose there's a strange kind of freedom in it," he went on. "Not having anyone left who remembers you from the beginning. You stop being someone's child and start being entirely your own."

I looked up at him. "That sounds terribly lonely."

He smiled—small, rueful. "Some days, yes. But other days... there's something honest in it. Like you get to choose who you are without anyone reminding you of who you were."

I watched him a moment longer. "That's a brave way of putting it."

"It's a lonely way of living it," he replied, a little more honestly.

We had reached the edge of the town now. The lights of the Doyle home glowed faintly in the distance, a warm dot against the darkening trees.

I paused before the final bend. "Thank you for inviting me tonight."

"I meant to, for a while," he said. "But I wasn't sure you'd come."

"And why wouldn't I?"

He turned toward me, voice low. "Because I thought you might be the sort of girl who admires things from afar rather than allows herself to be a part of them."

I met his gaze. "And I thought you were the sort of boy who carried too much grief to let anyone in."

The cold, it seemed, was no match for that moment.

Gilbert bowed his head, just slightly. "We're both wrong then."

I smiled softly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we're simply learning something new."

He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

And I took it.