A month and a half had passed, each man absorbed into the quiet divergence of his own life. On a Saturday afternoon, Turner Gate moved briskly—heels striking stone, carriage wheels biting into damp streets, voices overlapping without patience.
Adrian matched the pace instinctively, umbrella tucked beneath his arm, eyes fixed ahead as the academy came into view. He gave his thoughts on Matthew, on the strange, uncharacteristic desperation love had drawn from him.
Selene walked beside him, her steps measured but unhurried.
She had asked about his daily life—an exercise, she insisted, in never missing the smallest moments.
"Honestly," Adrian said after a pause, "I'm surprised to see Matthew this desperate." He faltered briefly, noticing Selene more clearly than before: the simple light-grey silk skirt-waist dress, the way it emphasized her pale skin and brought out her eyes. She was too absorbed in his account to notice his stare.
He swallowed and continued quickly, masking his reaction. "He was always boastful, forever praising himself. 'I am the beloved sent to Turner Gate,'" he said, mimicking Matthew's posture.
Selene laughed softly.
"Well, that is love, Mr. Vale," she replied with a knowing smile. "A certain person needs it to complete his compulsory term."
Adrian realized he was staring longer than he should. A strange flutter settled in his stomach.
*Is this what they call butterflies?*
Love.
He slowed half a step.
The word loosened something in his mind—and another followed.
A dark silhouette. The same restless urgency as Adrian's. Breath coming too fast.
"Emily—please."
His hands trembled where they hovered near her waist, uncertain whether to hold or retreat. The silk of her Jean-Philippe red gown caught the light—immaculate, unwrinkled, untouched by the damage unfolding inches away.
"You promised," he said again, weaker now, as though repetition might restore meaning. "You said we were building something."
Emily did not raise her voice. She simply stood there.
That was the mistake.
The silhouette pulled her into a tight embrace from behind.
Emily smiled.
If only the figure had stood before her, he would have seen the restraint in that smile.
Adrian snapped back to the present, shaking his head.
"Love," he said quietly, "feels more like a fling—something born from wanting what one cannot have. He'll get over it."
He did not know whether the words were meant for Matthew or for himself.
Selene noticed his hesitation but chose silence, careful not to overstep.
Together, they stepped into the academy.
---
Meanwhile, at the famed Wally Hall, a place for those who believed themselves the luckiest people in Turner Gate. Thomas emerged with a broad grin and a bag of shillings in hand.
He shook it several times, unable to help himself, his face flushed with unrestrained delight.
Before he could go any farther, a figure stepped into his path.
She wore a silk promenade dress and a boater hat perched neatly atop her brown hair. Soft grey eyes, a gentle jawline, and ivory skin glowing beneath the sun lent her the appearance of a rush-embedded swan.
Thomas, ready to snap at the interruption, froze when he recognized her.
"Miss Abigail Fletcher," he said coolly. "I didn't see you there. To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?" His tone remained unmoved by her beauty; he knew her true colors.
Had Matthew or Adrian been present, they would have been surprised. Thomas Wellington was not a man known for associating with women, especially one this dazzlingly.
Abigail lifted her fan to cover her mouth, though her eyes revealed clear annoyance.
"Well," she said evenly, "that is no way to address your bookie, or the mother of your child."
Thomas went still. His voice wavered. "What did you just say?"
"Bookie," she repeated softly, savoring his expression.
She gave him no time to recover.
"I am pregnant, Thomas Wellington."