12 years before

The sea had left her drowsy, lulled by its constant motion and whispered promises. For the final hour of the crossing, Odette remained pressed against the wooden rail, her fingers curled tightly around the rough wool of her traveling cloak, eyes heavy as she watched the misty outline of land approach. The salt air clung to her skin, gritty and cold, and the cries of gulls echoed overhead, sharp and plaintive beneath the leaden sky.

When the vessel finally docked, she rose with the tentative grace of a child on the edge of something unfamiliar. Her legs tingled, sluggish from stillness. Her braid had loosened in the wind, blonde strands sticking to her damp cheeks. This place—Scotland—felt different. The wind had teeth. The sky was a veil of iron. She understood none of the words shouted by the dockhands. They were foreign, clipped and unfamiliar, heavy in the mouth like stones.

Her small suitcase, a worn blue leather case tied with her mother’s ribbon, felt too heavy in her hands. Each footstep down the gangplank thudded louder than it should have, echoing through her chest as much as the dock.

A black carriage waited nearby, rigid and formal, its wooden frame trimmed in tarnished metal. Emblazoned on the door was a strange crest—a lion encircled by curling vines.

A tall, expressionless man approached. He wore a long black coat and gloves, his hair neatly combed, his face unreadable.

“Mademoiselle Odette,” he said, bowing his head slightly. His accent was thick, foreign to her ear. “Yer faither is expecting ye. I am Malcolm, the house butler.”

She offered a shy, halting “Bonjour,” barely above a whisper.

He did not return the greeting. Instead, he reached for her case.

“I can carry it,” she said quickly, some part of her wanting to assert herself, to hold onto one small thread of control.

“Aye,” he replied, taking it regardless. “But ye willnae.”

She followed him in silence, her footsteps muffled by the wet earth.

Inside the carriage, the upholstery was stiff and cold. She folded her hands in her lap, posture perfect, chin high—like her governess had taught her. But her eyes remained fixed to the small window, watching the countryside roll past like a dream she wasn’t part of. The hills were wide and grey-green, dotted with sheep and stone fences. The sky loomed endlessly above, a pale wash of silver.

She missed the golden warmth of France. She missed the sound of bread crust cracking open. She missed the scent of lavender and the steady cadence of voices she understood.

Four days since she’d seen her governess. Her father’s letters had been frequent and affectionate—ink-smudged, always ending with promises—but it had been nearly two years since she had seen him. He had remarried. A Scottish woman named Sheona. Odette had practiced the name in secret, over and over. But it always sounded like flint between her teeth.

The house rose like a relic from the hill.

Not quite a castle, but close. Its dark stone walls were coated in ivy, and the roofline cut sharp against the sky. The windows were long and narrow, recessed like eyes. Two stone griffins flanked the grand entrance, their mouths frozen mid-snarl.

The carriage halted. Malcolm stepped out and opened the door, offering a gloved hand.

“Welcome tae Beaumont House,” he said.

She stepped down cautiously, boots crunching against the gravel. The air smelled of ash and peat, of something earthy and old. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

A man stood at the top of the stairs.

Familiar.

“Papa!” she cried, voice breaking.

She dropped her suitcase and ran. Her braid bounced against her back. Her legs, unsteady on the voyage, found speed as if her body remembered its way home.

He caught her mid-leap, arms wrapping tight around her waist. His coat smelled like pipe smoke and worn parchment. His beard brushed her cheek like bristles. Her heart opened.

“Ma petite,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Mon coeur. Look at you. You have grown like the wild roses of summer.”

She burrowed against him, desperate for his warmth, for the solidity of him. He was here. Real. Solid. She felt like she might dissolve if she let go.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“And I, you. Every day since I left.”

He set her down gently, brushing windblown hair from her brow. “Taller, no? And your mother’s eyes. The same frown when you’re trying not to cry.”

She laughed, embarrassed, and swiped at her eyes.

Then she felt it.

A presence.

She turned slowly.

At the top of the stairs, standing just beyond the threshold of the house, was a woman. She was tall and composed, her dress a deep forest green. Her dark auburn hair was pulled so tightly from her face it gave her an expression of severity. Her smile was slight, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hands were folded in front of her.

Odette knew instantly that this was Sheona. There was nothing warm in her posture. Nothing soft. Her beauty was precise, calculated.

Odette stepped slightly closer to her father.

For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. But then he drew back. His hands, strong and rough, stayed at her shoulders, anchoring her in the hush that followed.

“Ma petite,” he said, his voice softened by memory. He crouched to her level, searching her face. “No one will ever take the place of your maman. You know that. She was… irreplaceable.”

Odette nodded, though her chin trembled. The soft weight of those words curled into her like a ribbon, sad and sweet. She didn’t fully understand them, but she wanted to believe them. Her father had always spoken in truths too large for her to hold all at once. Still, she nodded. That was what daughters did.

He pressed onward, gently. “But sometimes, when the heart has known sorrow, it learns to carry joy again. Not the same joy—but a new kind. You will understand one day, when you are older.”

Odette wasn’t sure she wanted a new kind. She wanted the old kind, the kind that smelled of lemon soap and sang lullabies in French. But she nodded again. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his coat with the desperation of someone trying to hold on to what remained.

He rose and turned to the woman who had been waiting, half in shadow.

“Odette,” he said carefully, “this is Sheona.”

Sheona came forward, her steps deliberate. She lowered herself into a crouch with a poise that reminded Odette of statues—elegant, unmoving, cold.

“Hello, Odette,” she said. Her French was passable, but her voice held none of the softness of the language. It was too precise.

Odette dipped her head politely. She did not smile, not yet. But she stepped forward when her father gave the smallest nod.

Sheona’s embrace came too quickly. It was practiced, unnatural in its choreography. Her arms wrapped around Odette tightly—too tightly. The fabric of her bodice smelled of lilies and something metallic, like jewelry left out in the rain. Odette felt the pressure of the woman’s ribs, the tension in her shoulders. This was not the softness of her mother’s touch. This was something else.

“Ye are lovelier than I imagined,” Sheona murmured. “So delicate.”

Odette pulled away and blinked. “Merci, Madame.”

Her father smiled, proud. “Sheona has prepared everything for your arrival. The room, your books, even a few sweets.”

Odette forced a smile and turned toward Sheona again. “You look very elegant,” she offered, in her best polite French. “Like someone from a painting.”

Sheona’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her lips curled upward. “What a lovely thing tae say.”

Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

Two girls appeared, descending quickly. One was taller, with pale gold hair tied back in an elaborate braid and a faint, curious smile. The other trailed just behind, her auburn curls bouncing, her expression sharp and sizing.

“And these,” said her father, gesturing with pride, “are your new sisters. Vivienne and Celeste.”

Vivienne curtsied. “Bonjour,” she said in halting French, the accent harsh. “Welcome tae Scotland.”

Celeste folded her arms. “She’s not as tall as I thought. Papa said she was nearly ten.”

“I am ten,” Odette said, blinking.

Celeste turned her head. “Dinnae look it.”

“Celeste,” Sheona said, her tone flat with warning, but the girl only smirked.

Vivienne stepped forward. “We’re going tae the garden,” she said. “Maman says it’s good tae get fresh air.”

Odette hesitated, unsure whether that was an invitation.

Her father rested a hand on her head. “Go on, ma chérie. Play with your sisters. The sun’s still out, and the garden is safe.”

She looked down at her shoes. The laces were crooked; one had loosened on the walk from the carriage. Her stockings sagged slightly. Her dress, though carefully chosen, was wrinkled from travel. Her fingers clutched at the edge of her sleeve.

“Can I leave my suitcase in my room first?”

“Of course,” he said. “Malcolm will see to it.”

She turned and followed the girls. They did not wait. Their skirts flared as they hurried through the corridor, whispering to each other in quick, breathless bursts. Odette’s smaller steps forced her to skip now and then to keep up.

The back doors opened into a garden that looked like it had once been drawn from a fairytale. But now that story had ended. The rose bushes were unruly. The hedges overgrown. Lavender and heather crowded the paths. Wild bees danced between blossoms.

Celeste darted toward a crooked swing and shouted, “Ye can sit if ye want! But the bench is wet.”

“Yes,” Vivienne echoed. “Ye can watch.”

Then they were gone—laughing, swinging, racing in circles that did not include her.

Odette remained where she was, caught in a pause she didn’t know how to step out of. The sun warmed her shoulders. A breeze fluttered the edges of her sleeves. Her new sisters’ voices lifted and echoed across the garden like birds in flight.

She moved to the bench and sat carefully, tucking her dress beneath her. The wood was indeed damp. She felt it soak through her stockings. But she didn’t stand.

Sheona’s hug still lingered. Her words, too, with their polished sweetness. Odette’s mind tried to sift through what felt strange. The house was grand. The garden full. But something within her remained unsure.

She watched the clouds drift, white and careless. A bee landed near her foot. She tucked her hands beneath her knees. She would be good. She would be sweet. That was what girls like her were meant to be.

But already, the world felt different.

Already, she felt alone.

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