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After spending over a week in London, Thea believed they were making progress and it filled her with hope.

At least, until all the actors quit four days before the performance.

“You cannot leave. Look how far we’ve come! Don’t give up,” she called out from the stage one morning as they began to file

out of the theatre.

One straggler appeared from stage left and he eyed her guiltily.

“Mr. Samson, please. Won’t you stay?”

He worried the brim of his felt hat and looked toward the door. “I wish I could, Miss Hartley. But, and I shouldn’t be telling

you this, we’ve all been offered parts in one of Sir Archer’s plays. There’s fame in that. Immortality. And, frankly, better

pay.”

She growled. Of course it was Kellum’s fault. What was wrong with that man? Why wasn’t he happy unless he took everything

from her?

Well, she had ether and iron inside of her, the heavens and the earth. And she was done with his games. This was going to

end, once and for all.

“My apologies. But he already offered me the part of Mr. Bumbleton in his new play,” Samson said from beside her as she marched

down the center aisle.

She stopped in her tracks. “Did you just say... Bumbleton ?”

“Oh, yes. He’s a dance instructor, a right solid comedic character. The play is sure to be a smash.”

It didn’t make sense. She’d written a comedy featuring Mr. Bumbleton and Kellum had told her it was rubbish. The play had

been in the ledger that had accidentally slipped out of her pocket last Season.

Unless... it hadn’t been an accident.

Suspicions wove like a spider’s web inside her mind all the way out the door as she took her father’s carriage to Haymarket.

It was high time she confronted Kellum.

She stole in through the back door of the theatre. The familiar path was the same that he’d shown her when he’d said that

he never revealed his private lair to anyone, and that she was special. Pretty words without substance.

But she didn’t find Kellum in his office. She did find the pages of his script, however. At first glance, she saw the list

of characters that she’d created. Reading further, she noted that he’d altered the script somewhat—a word here or there—but everything else was hers.

That arse had stolen her play!

She slammed the portfolio shut, the papers on his desk fluttering. And then she saw it: her lost ledger. Of all the despicable,

loathsome—

“What the devil are you doing here?” Kellum demanded from behind her.

She whirled on him, smacking the pages of his pilfered script against his chest. “I could ask the same of you. You stole from

me!”

Her accusation grabbed the attention of a handful of the stage crew.

“Lower your voice, Miss Hartley. It’s just as annoyingly shrill as ever,” he said crowding closer, forcing her back a step.

Was he trying to intimidate her?

Well, her temper was beyond intimidation. She shoved at him to get away and moved around him. And she was ready to storm off, but then something occurred to her.

That was precisely what he wanted. Just like before.

“You came to see me at Lady Broadbent’s because you wanted to send me away from London, to make me feel worthless again. You

didn’t want me to hear about this play.”

“You are delusional,” he said with a laugh, ensuring that his voice carried to the onlookers.

Thea knew she wasn’t. She might have been for a time, but not any longer.

She wished it hadn’t taken her this long to figure it out. But when one’s sense of self-worth was constantly under siege,

it was difficult to see the truth. She could forgive herself for that, and be grateful that her eyes were finally open.

“I see you for who you are,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “You are nothing. A void. You feed on the light and passion

in others until you drain them. And even that isn’t enough. It will never be enough for you. Because, every time you look

at your own reflection, you see it, too. The darkness. The void. Because you know you are nothing. Now I know it, too.”

With her head held high, she strode off and let the stage door slam shut behind her. She walked down the stairs like a queen...

then accidentally approached the wrong carriage.

“Apologies,” she said, closing the door. Drat! Why did they all have to look the same?

***

Unfortunately, her confrontation with Kellum didn’t solve her problem.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Thea lamented to her father later that week. “I’ve been trying for two days to find replacements,

but that villain has threatened that any actor who assists me would never work in theatre again.”

“It will all work out as it ought,” Father said, unconcerned as he continued to paint the backdrop. “Pick up a brush. The solution will come.”

Thea looked at him and wondered why she was the only one panicking. The play was in two days. Two! Even if she managed to

find one or two actors, they would still need time to learn the lines.

But it had to work. It had to! There was too much at stake.

“Your mother was always so much better at this part than I,” he said, painting a sky with swirls of blue. “Give me a sword-fighting

scene any day.”

Perhaps he was right, she thought. What could she do about it in this moment? And the scenery still needed to be finished.

So, she picked up a brush. “Until recently, I didn’t even know Mother painted. I had seen her sketches, but none of the landscapes

or portraits.”

“Mmm...” he murmured in agreement. “It was especially difficult for her, losing our boy. She’d lost herself in grief. And,

in turn, we had almost lost her.”

Thea had never experienced that kind of pain. But when she thought of the life growing inside of her—a life that she dearly

loved already—she had a better understanding.

“When I returned home from my first Season, all her paintings were hanging in the house. And I want to say that, first of

all, I’m glad they are. I think it’s important for us to keep the ones we love close in our hearts and never forgotten.” She

swallowed, feeling emotion tighten her throat. “I wish I had known them—Ernest and my grandparents. I wish that I could take

part in the conversations that you have with Truman, Verity and Honoria. But I cannot and I feel... like I’ve been left

out.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw that her father stopped painting. But she wanted to say all the things she’d bottled up over the past few years, before she lost her courage.

“I realize now that the reason I first began writing plays was to feel like I was part of the family. I suppose I wanted to

prove that I truly did belong. And I know it sounds selfish and perhaps infantile, but I’ve often wondered if you and Mother

only had me to replace the child you lost.” Her breath stuttered and the sting of incipient tears burned the backs of her

eyes. “And with all that has changed of late, I don’t really belong anywhere.”

His heavy breath came out in a gust, then he went to her, brushing a blue hair away from her face. “Don’t you know, my sweet

daughter? You were made from enduring love and hope. Every part of you is filled with it, shining out like a beacon. The warmth

of your light has always brought this family together and always will.”

Her tears spilled over and she embraced her father.

When the doors of the playhouse burst open, she didn’t know what to expect. Was it someone coming on Kellum’s orders to shut

down her play?

“What now?” Turning, she faced this new obstacle with dread.

Then she gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth as she saw her entire family and half of Addlewick flood in through the doors.

They were there for her. Because they were a family. She felt the truth of it swimming inside of her. And she would always

find a place of belonging, no matter what the future held.

***

The night of the play, all of Thea’s hopes depended upon the Duke of Sherborne. She knew that if he saw it, he would understand

that Jasper didn’t deserve to hang for his crimes.

But when she peered through the tormentor curtain, she saw that the duke wasn’t in his box.

“I thought you said he would be here,” she said to her father.

“‘Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites,’” Father said, quoting Shakespeare as he always did when giving advice.

She threw one of the bard’s quotes back to him. “‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.’”

Father grinned and held up a finger. “‘Make use of time, let not advantage slip.’”

“‘I wasted time, and now doth time waste me,’” she groaned.

What if this was all for nothing? This was her only chance to expose Redcliffe—or Redstone in her play—for the villain he truly was.

But all she could do was hope, because it was time.