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—

Dear Molly,

Life is a mystery. Try as we might to solve it, a new puzzle always presents itself.

The Braun Summit marked a colossal change in my life, a moment when fate pointed its sharp arrow at me. Before that strange day, I was but a burden to be borne by my parents, a costly problem that plagued them, but the second Magnus noticed me in Papa’s oppressive boardroom, everything changed. It was as if both my parents recognized my value for the very first time, saw in me a pathway to a secure future.

Once Magnus and his men were out the front door of the manor on summit day, I was free to ponder what on earth had just transpired in that boardroom. I knew I’d achieved something significant, earning my father a reprieve from losing the family firm. But at what cost? Had I missed something, yet another subtlety of the world of men my mother was always reminding me I failed to comprehend?

My father said goodbye to Braun, seeing him off with a proper handshake and clap to the back. Then he locked the formidable manor doors behind his archrival. As Mama and I watched alongside the staff gathered in the front foyer, Papa paused and took a breath, his hand still clenched on the ornate brass door handle. “You’re all dismissed,” he eventually said, sending the servants away. “William, take the workers to the housekeeping quarters and pay them what’s owed.”

“Yes, sir,” Uncle Willy replied with a curt bow.

Soon enough, it was just me, Papa, and Mama at the entrance. Light streamed through the tall cathedral windows, catching me obliquely where I stood. My parents were gazing at me as if they’d never seen me before, as if the answer to a problem they’d been trying to solve for months had been right in their faces all along.

“What?” I asked them. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“My little Flora, my beautiful blossom,” said Papa. “You did us proud.”

“A blessing in disguise,” said Mama. “And maybe a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“A wolf?” I said. “Me?”

“Doesn’t your book have that story in it?” Mama asked as she tapped my copy of Aesop’s fables, which, along with the Cartier pen, I still clutched to my chest.

“That’s a different book entirely,” I said.

“The point is, you saved the day,” said Papa.

Mama shook her head in disbelief. “It feels like a miracle, like a fairy tale. You caught the eye of the king, Flora.”

“You made Magnus change his mind,” said Papa. He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve harbored doubts about you since the moment you were born, but you just proved yourself an asset to this family.”

“You did,” said Mama. “But make no mistake, this isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning. Keep your eye on the prize, Flora, do you understand?”

I did not understand, not a thing, but I nodded anyway.

“My daughter charmed Magnus Braun,” said Papa in disbelief. “The wheel of fortune has spun, and it has landed on my precious girl.”

“Careful, Reginald,” said Mama. “Men like Magnus are flighty. What takes their fancy one day bores them the next.”

My father ignored her and turned to me. “May I see the pen he gave you?” he asked.

I handed the Cartier to him. Papa inspected the gold details and the glossy black enamel. “It’s authentic, the real thing, Flora,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to lose it.” He popped the pen into his breast pocket. “Good work today. You can go now,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”

—

The Workers’ Ball was but a week and a half away, and there were endless preparations before the big event. Mama pleaded with my father to keep some of the temporary workers on staff, which he did. Soon enough, the manor was teeming with servants yet again. Only Mrs.Mead and Uncle Willy knew the run of the show from having worked the ball for so many years, but with the higher stakes of the Brauns in attendance, Mama was more invested in a display of grandeur than ever before.

In the past, the ball was a dance event featuring a live band and simple hors d’oeuvres. But this year, beyond the dance and band, Mama insisted on a full buffet dinner to be offered in the guest parlor just off the ballroom. She also insisted on reorganizing each room that guests would pass on their way to the ballroom so as to show off our family’s precious heirlooms.

The front foyer now featured an intimidating medieval knight in shining armor, complete with a sword and a shield emblazoned with the family coat of arms. In the portrait corridor, Mama added ancestral busts and sculptures, their dead eyes staring at passersby as if assessing their worth and finding it lacking. She took Chinese porcelain vases and Grecian urns from other rooms, emptying those quarters entirely so that walking through that front corridor was like touring a private museum.

But the pièce de résistance was her lavish display of silver, usually kept in a large pantry in the basement of the manor—engraved utensils and platters, heavy chargers and chafing dishes, monogrammed candelabra and serving spoons—all of which graced the table and sideboards in the banquet room by the ballroom. I learned of my mother’s plan to show off the family’s extensive silver collection when a sheepish temporary maid named Penelope crossed me in a hallway and asked me where the silver pantry was.

“How would I know?” I replied. “Ask Mrs.Mead.”

No sooner had I said it than Mrs.Mead appeared from the kitchen, huffing and puffing, and wiping her hands on her apron.

“Do you know where the silver pantry is?” I asked her.

“Ay. And the glassware rooms and the bedrooms and the laundry rooms, and much more besides. I was hired as your nursemaid, and somehow, I’ve become head maid of this household. Rest assured I’m not paid to be in charge, but yes, I do know where the silver pantry is.”

Mrs.Mead then muttered something under her breath. I’ll admit I never took any of her complaints seriously, but now I realize how overworked she was and that if she wanted to keep living in the cottage on the estate, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

“Can you show this maid the way?” I asked Mrs.Mead.

“Come,” she said to the shy girl in the hallway.

“Mrs.Mead,” I called out as they were leaving. “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

She cocked her head to one side, hand on her hefty hip. “Does it look like I have time for a wee chat? Follow me downstairs and we’ll talk as I set Penelope up to polish. Or is the little miss too posh to venture into the basement with us common folk?”

For the first time in ages, I soon found myself in the manor’s subterranean lair—a labyrinth of low-ceilinged rooms filled with antique furniture, banker’s boxes, filing cabinets, and all manner of sundry goods for the running of the household.

“The silver pantry,” Mrs.Mead announced as she switched on the bare bulb in a room that looked very much like a dragon’s hoard, filled floor to ceiling with cobwebs and filthy, tarnished silver.

Mrs.Mead pulled out a basin, a jug, rubber gloves, and some rags from a cupboard. She set Penelope to work in an adjoining room. Then in the room filled with silver, she passed identical cleaning supplies to me.

“What’s all this for?” I asked.

“If you’re seeking my counsel, you might as well lend a hand,” she replied.

Though it was far below my station, I needed Mrs.Mead’s guidance, so I donned rubber gloves and polished an ornate silver spoon with a rag doused in some sort of lye solution, something I would never have deigned to do for anyone except Mrs.Mead. I wasn’t happy about it, not at first, but before long, something about the task became almost enjoyable. With a bit of elbow grease, the tarnish was eradicated. Real life is never that easy—the filth is much harder to wipe away.

“You see?” said Mrs.Mead as she held up a gleaming silver platter. “Silver teaches you things. Never judge by appearances. A tarnished piece might be a hidden treasure. Now what was it you wanted to talk about?”

It had been a week since the Braun Summit, and I still didn’t know exactly what would happen when I met Magnus Braun’s son, Algernon, at the Workers’ Ball. Papa refused to discuss the matter, and Mama would broach the subjects of my jewelry and makeup but little else besides. I tried to ask Uncle Willy about it, but he muttered something about this being Mrs.Mead’s territory, not his. And so here I was with my nursemaid, in the dungeon-like basement, trying to get some clarity on why a man like Magnus was so set on me meeting his son.

“What it means, child, is that Mr.Braun Senior is considering a match between you and his boy.”

I stopped polishing, caught my reflection upside down in the bowl of the silver spoon. “What kind of match?” I asked. Fool that I was, I refused to see what was entirely obvious.

“Marriage. Did you not even understand that much? How can you be so clever at school and so daft at real life?”

I had no answer to her question, but I did know one thing. “I’m far too young to wed.”

“Men like Magnus Braun browse early to buy later,” Mrs.Mead said as she rubbed a round charger, bringing out a high and mighty shine.

“I want to go to university. I have no interest in boys,” I said.

“Is that right?” said Mrs.Mead. “Not even my nephew?”

I could not believe my ears. Her nephew? Though mildly handsome and passably intelligent for a servant’s boy, his righteous arrogance grated on my every nerve. Still, I refused to acknowledge the truth that Mrs.Mead had spotted beneath my thin patina of disdain. “Your nephew thinks himself a gentleman because he’s wearing his father’s shiny shoes. But a pig wearing lipstick is still a pig,” I said petulantly.

Mrs.Mead was adding lye to her cloth, and when a drop landed on her arm, she winced.

“Did that sting?” I asked.

“Not as much as your comment,” she replied as she wiped away the drop.

I know now that Mrs.Mead expected more of me, that by keeping me close all those years, she believed I would one day wake up and see my parents’ entitlement for what it was—privilege and prejudice that kept others in a state of perpetual servitude. But at the time, in my foolish, young mind, I believed Mrs.Mead and Uncle Willy were rare exceptions, the only blue-collar specimens of real worth. It pains me to write this down, but it is the truth.

In that moment, by attacking Mrs.Mead’s nephew, I knew I’d insulted her terribly, and I tried to make things right. “This isn’t about your nephew,” I said. “It’s about me. I’m just not interested in boys.”

My nursemaid huffed dramatically. “That will change,” she said as she fixed her blue-eyed-green-eyed gaze on me. “In my estimation, the changes have already begun. There’s a lot riding on this meeting with Algernon. But you never know. Maybe you’ll fall for the young prince.”

“Impossible,” I said emphatically.

“Is it?” she said.

As I’ve come to learn, Molly, when you’re young, you can be very certain of something, but too often, that doesn’t mean you’re right.

—

As the fateful day of the Workers’ Ball approached, preparations at the manor ramped up even more. The entire household vibrated with nervous energy.

The day before the ball, my mother ordered the staff to fill the house with daffodils, which were in full bloom in the fields by Mrs.Mead’s cottage. Vases of the yellow flowers decorated every horizontal surface. Meanwhile, my father, having learned of Magnus’s love of whiskey, set out to procure the finest bottles money could buy, displaying them on the bar in the banquet room.

At school, the headmaster returned our papers on Aesop’s fables, calling me to the front of the class.

“Flora, you took top grade this time around,” he announced. “I very much applaud your creative application of the lion and mouse fable to the business world. Well done.”

He shook my hand, and I felt a swell of pride. I walked back to my desk, eager to catch Mr.Preston Junior’s eye, fully expecting him to be peeved, but contrary to my expectations, he was smiling so genuinely it was as if he’d earned top place, not me.

I took my seat, turning my back on him. For the rest of class, I focused on the headmaster, who was offering pointers on how best to tackle comparative questions on our upcoming exams.

When we were dismissed, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by classmates, boys who were starting to see me as perhaps not so worthy of their disdain. Moreover, many of these young corporate heirs had been invited to the ball for the very first time. Redheaded Percival and his mess hall mates hoped to glean from me some clues about what to expect and how to behave at the ball.

“So there’s dancing?” Percival asked.

“Of course there’s dancing. What do you think a ball is?” I replied.

His mates chortled and knocked elbows.

“Will you wear a dress?” Percival asked.

“Not a dress, a gown,” I corrected.

“I can’t picture you in a gown,” Percival replied.

“Good,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

His retinue of friends hooted at my witty rejoinder. I’d discovered that caustic humor offered the best protection against their jabs and barbs. I didn’t care whom I hurt with my “humor,” provided my ego remained intact.

Percival slunk away without another word, and his band of brothers followed.

Uncle Willy’s son was now the only other student left in the classroom. He made his way over to my desk. He was close enough that I could smell his father’s scent on him. “Congratulations on your paper,” he said. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, Mr.Preston,” I curtly replied.

He sighed and ran a casual hand through his tousled brown hair. “Please, can we stop that?” he pleaded. “Just call me John like you did when we first met, remember?”

His brown eyes were shiny and bright. There was a look of forgiveness and longing in them that made my heart clamor in my chest, though I did my best to deny it. Still, I found myself unable to tear my eyes from his. As I stared at him, a memory returned with such force it gave me vertigo. How I could have forgotten, I don’t know, but sometimes, Molly, we bury deepest that which is too painful to remember.

When I was but a child, no older than five years of age, my mother held a ladies’ tea party on the manor lawn. She invited all the bourgeois wives, who in turn brought their bratty little bourgeois girls. While the ladies enjoyed tea, I was to entertain the girls and host my own parallel tea party, sharing my books and dolls with them. Things turned sour when I demanded they listen to me read a story from my favorite picture book. The girls grabbed the book and crumpled the pages.

Irate, I grabbed it back, scolded them, then ran away from the party, past the lawns, through the garden gate, down the path toward the orchards until I was safe behind the Mead cottage, standing by the pond with my ruined book in the mud at my feet.

Only then did I allow myself to cry. Why were girls so mean? Why was it such a struggle to make friends? Why did I always feel left out? I imagined jumping into the pond and disappearing into the muck to live amongst the frogs. No one would miss me. But as I stared at my despondent reflection in the water, I felt a disturbing pull that made me back away from the water’s edge.

I walked along the pathway to the knotty old oak tree on the edge of the estate. I sat against the massive trunk, and I wept. That’s when I heard a voice behind me.

“Are you okay?”

I turned and saw a boy my age standing there. He was wearing short pants, his brown hair tousled, his head cocked to one side.

“Go away,” I said as I wiped my tears.

“Are you the fairy?” he replied.

“I’m not a fairy,” I said. “I’m just a girl.”

He moved closer. “They come here sometimes. Fairies,” he explained. “They put things in the knothole of that tree for kids like us to find.” He came closer and pointed to an oval hollow above me in the tree trunk.

“I once found a cat’s-eye marble in there. And some skipping stones another time.” He smiled then, that same generous smile. “I’m John.”

“John,” I said, trying his name on for the first time.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Flora,” I replied.

“Flora!” I heard, but not from the boy beside me. It was my mother, shrieking, running down the pathway in her party dress and heels, her legs splattered in mud. She scooped me up in her arms and hugged me so tight I could barely draw a breath.

“She’s here!” she yelled out to the trail of ladies following behind her.

Her grip released, and she put me down. She stayed at my eye level, looking me in the face. “Your book,” she said. “I saw it by the edge of the pond. I thought you’d drowned!” she cried as tears streamed down her cheeks.

I placed a hand on her hair. “Don’t cry, Mama,” I said.

It was then that she slapped my face. “How dare you scare me like that!” she growled. “You’re a very bad girl. Come. Now.”

She grabbed my hand and marched me up the path, away from the little boy and all the grim-faced ladies who’d borne witness to the entire spectacle.

Back at the manor lawn, I was made to apologize to the little girls for ruining their tea party. Mrs.Mead was instructed to take me to my room, where I was banished for the rest of the afternoon.

The next day, when no one was watching, I sneaked out of the manor and made my way back to that old oak tree. The boy wasn’t there anymore, but in the knotty hollow of the trunk was my storybook, the mud cleaned off, the pages smoothed, the ripped ones taped up neatly.

From that point onward, I wholeheartedly believed in fairies, but what I should have believed in all along was John.

—

“You really don’t remember?” John asked as we stood there, the only two left in the classroom.

He looked at me with the same glassy brown eyes he’d had as a child, the eyes of an old soul.

I shook my head and looked away, pretending I had no recollection.

“I wanted to tell you something,” John said. “The other day, at the Braun Summit, what you did in that boardroom…It was brave. It was remarkable.”

“I did nothing,” I replied.

“That’s not true,” said John. “There’s nothing more important than family, and you saved yours. Don’t you see that?”

Was that what I’d done? I could give myself no credit, for it had been by accident or instinct, but as John looked at me, it was as though he was seeing me in a whole new light.

“As your auntie would say,” I replied, “don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

He laughed. “Aunt Maggie would say that,” he said. “Please. Will you call me John from now on? I promise not to be an idiot. And I promise not to hate you for being a rich kid. Truce?”

He held out his hand, and I took it. I felt a tremor run through me then, as if nothing else mattered except his hand in mine, soft and warm, a perfect fit. “Truce,” I said as I held it tight.

“May I ask a favor?” he said. “Tomorrow night, will you reserve a dance for me at the ball? I have a feeling you’re going to be very popular.”

“Of course,” I replied, still holding his hand. “As long as you don’t step on my feet.”

“I think I’ve made enough graceless missteps lately. The next one won’t be mine.”

“You’re sure about that?” I asked.

Those lips, that disarming smile. I tell you, Molly, that man could light up the entire world. As I watched, he raised our conjoined hands and planted a delicate kiss on the back of mine.

“See you tomorrow night, Flora,” he said.

“Until then…John,” I replied.