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Thea didn’t know how long she blubbered all over Lady Broadbent. But, apparently, it was long enough for her to send a messenger

to Hartley Hall.

The next thing she knew, she was enveloped in Roxana Hartley’s sweetly perfumed embrace. “What is it, my darling? You can

tell me.”

The instant she buried her wet face in the crook of her mother’s neck, Thea felt about four years old, watching from the nursery

window as her brother and sisters went off on an adventure without her. And some of the anguish she’d been suppressing for

so long just slipped out. “Sir Kellum Archer told me that I wasn’t worthy of a footnote. He called me small and insignificant,

and said that my plays would bore a dullard to his grave.”

“That arse! He wouldn’t know a good script if it bit him in the bollocks!”

Thea wasn’t certain if it was her mother’s vehemence or her unconditional, unflinching support, but it opened the floodgates.

Then everything poured out of her at once.

“That horrible Nell Hunnicutt had a party and I told a story about a highwayman. The next thing I knew I was covered in punch

and in the arms of an actual highwayman...”

Even feeling her mother stiffen at the news, and likely casting a pointed look at the countess, Thea still couldn’t stop.

She told her all about that night and how she’d been inspired to write for the first time in a year.

About Redcliffe and Lady Abernathy and the maze.

And about how she’d figured out that Jasper was the highwayman.

Though, by some miracle, she managed to edit out the part about being kidnapped in the middle of the night, as well as all

the other scandalous bits.

“I fell in love with Jasper, but he doesn’t”—she sucked in a soggy, staggered breath—“he doesn’t love me. Even Tempest knows

it.”

Mother drew back to smooth the damp, straggling hair from her cheeks. “Tempest doesn’t believe that for a moment. She came

by to apologize and was positively devastated that you overheard her angry tirade.”

“But I know the truth,” Thea lamented. “You didn’t see him. His eyes were so cold and stony. It was as though he’d closed

himself off from me irrevocably. And the things he said...”

The memory lodged in her throat like thorns digging into the tender lining, refusing to let her finish.

Lady Broadbent handed her a cup of tea, a soft smile on her lips. “Surely, you understand a nature that bends toward isolation.”

Taking the saucer, Thea gazed pensively down into the dark amber liquid. “It’s true. He does have a tendency to handle matters

on his own. But if you knew the terrible treatment he has endured, then you would see that he had no other choice.”

“No, my dear. I was referring to you.”

“To me?”

The countess shared a look with Roxana and, this time, it was her mother who smiled. “Yes, my darling daughter. Apparently

you have that trait in common with him. And,” she added more somberly, “with me.

“When I was a girl, my parents demanded perfection in all things. Mistakes were never forgiven, not even something as insignificant as spilling milk onto the nursery table or wobbling when I curtsied for their guests. It made me feel angry and sad and so many other emotions that I could never express. So, I learned to sequester myself. If they couldn’t see me, then they couldn’t find fault with me.

” A rueful puff of amusement left her. “Then I turned fifteen and their friends started to comment on my beauty. So I was sent to a Paris finishing school, where I learned how one should behave in society. But more importantly, that is where I learned how to paint and how to put all the things I couldn’t say onto the canvas.

It was liberating. My parents hated it, and were greatly disappointed in my unseemly display of independence. ”

Thea shook her head with sympathy. “I didn’t know. That sounds dreadful.”

“Yes, well, that is one of the reasons I never took any of my children to Surrey to meet them. The other reason, I believe

you know, is that they cut me off when I eloped with your father.” Her eyes glowed at the memory. “And our life together has

been everything my heart had yearned for, even when I didn’t know such happiness could exist.”

Then her gaze turned distant, the light in her eyes dimming. “But no life is filled with constant gaiety. And when sorrow

came, I withdrew into my old ways. I could no longer join your father on the stage. Sewing costumes held no appeal. And I

couldn’t paint. The palette of watercolors seemed to mock me. My world was oil black and void of emotion.”

Thea felt the fresh sting of tears along the rims of her eyes. She imagined the empty void inside herself, a black and swirling

mass, sucking in every ounce of feeling and leaving her as nothing more than a husk. She couldn’t see a way around it. But

when she met her mother’s gaze, she saw complete understanding.

“How did you get beyond it?”

“When all the color had faded from my life,” her mother said, “I thought it was because my heart had shattered and everything

inside of it was just... gone.” She drew in a careful breath that seemed to have taken years to master. “It wasn’t until

later that I realized I had buried my heart instead, in a box under earth and stone. And I think you have done the same. Buried

the things that are, perhaps, too overwhelming to speak aloud.”

Thea swallowed thickly as the truth of those words sank in.

“But know this, my darling,” Mother continued, brushing a final tear from her cheek, “time and again, you have proven yourself

brave enough to give voice to those feelings. Trust yourself to open your heart to whatever this life may bring, and I promise

you that the words will come.” She settled the crook of her finger beneath Thea’s chin and held her gaze. “After all, you

are a Hartley. We are made of ether and iron, the heavens and earth. Everything you need is already inside of you. And it

is infinite.”

At that, Thea ended up blubbering again like a broken faucet.

By the time her eyes were dry, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. The heartache remained, but she believed

she knew precisely what to do with it.

Apparently, so did Lady Broadbent, because she slid a ribbon-wrapped parcel of new ledgers onto Thea’s lap. “I’ve had a maid

prepare a room upstairs, with plenty of ink at the writing desk. Just in case.”

She turned to her mother, her brows lifting in a silent query.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Roxana Hartley asked with a smile.

Thea only paused to press a kiss to her cheek and then to Lady Broadbent’s. Then she dashed upstairs as tingles of inspiration tightened her scalp and sprinted down to the tips of her fingers.

***

Thea spent the following week writing. The idea for the play—and for a plan to help Jasper—came to her, like a gift. A gift

she wasn’t about to question.

Would her plan work? She had no idea. All she knew was that Jasper needed to know that he could rely on other people to help

him. So it had to work.

She wrote all throughout the days and long into the nights until she was finished. Only then did she return to Hartley Hall.

Now she was ink-stained, exhausted, pacing the floor outside her father’s study, and gnawing on her thumb’s cuticle. He was

inside with her script as the longcase clock ticked loudly from the foyer, the sound reverberating inside her skull and needlessly

reminding her that time was running out.

After an hour, Conchobar Hartley emerged and simply stared at her, his expression inscrutable. And in that moment, her heart

sank.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Her father surprised her by wrapping his arms around her and hauling her close. “It’s the best play you’ve ever written, and

one of the best I’ve ever read.”

She pulled back, uncertain. “Truly? You’re not just saying that because you’re my father and you’ve taught me far too much

about theatrical poisons and fear that I will put that knowledge to use?”

“No.” He held her face in his hands. “You, my daughter, are a brilliant playwright.”

She took a moment to soak that in. It had felt good when she’d written it. “Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me,” he said, standing apart to chafe his hands together.

“All you have to do is tell me what we’re going to do with this gem.

I know I’ve offered before and you’ve refused my help, breaking my heart in the process,” he added with his signature flair for dramatics.

“But I still have a few friends in the playhouses of London...”

In the past, she’d had something to prove to herself. So she’d refused to let anyone in her family help her. Now that decision

reminded her a great deal of the way Jasper refused to let anyone assist him. She knew firsthand how frustrating it must have

been for those who cared about her.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. “I accept.”

***

Thea never expected an answer to arrive within two days.

She was certain that it would be a rejection. After all, who could decide on something so quickly?

So it came as an immense surprise when her father gave her the news that her play— her play! —was on the schedule at the playhouse. His friend was already printing bulletins to paste on brick walls and lampposts. The

only drawback was she had to be ready in a fortnight.

“A fortnight?” She gawped. There were sets to build, backdrops to paint, actors to be hired and rehearsals...

“That is all he has open. And he loves your play. He thinks it’s timely and he has every confidence that an audience will

storm the doors.”

She was nodding even before she had any inkling on how she would manage it in such a short time. “When do we leave?”