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J oy felt like a fraud as she stood in the glittering ballroom at Grosvenor Square.

It was a study in opulence—diamonds glinting under the light of countless chandeliers, silken gowns swishing in rainbows of colours, and the murmur of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter.

None of it held the slightest appeal for her.

Standing near the refreshment table, she tugged absently at the too-tight sleeve of her lilac gown, a rare concession to fashion which left her feeling utterly unlike herself.

Her wild locks had been subdued into an elegant coiffure with a thousand pins that dug into her scalp.

She felt sure it would not survive the night, and her feet, garbed in delicate slippers, already pinched from the quadrille she had just suffered through.

“Cheer up, Joy,” Patience whispered at her side, her voice laced with both amusement and sympathy. “It is the day of your birth. Surely you can find a shred of enjoyment in all this?”

Joy shot her elder sister a glare that lacked any real venom. “I should much rather be mucking out the stables than mincing about, pretending to care for this nonsense.”

Patience sighed, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “You might try smiling, at least. It is not so very dreadful.”

Joy did not reply. The ballroom was a blur of indistinct shapes and shifting colours, and her head pounded from the effort of trying to distinguish one person from another. The Season would be one endless parade of such events, and her nerves were already wearing thin.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Cunningham, who approached with his usual air of easy confidence.

“Miss Whitford,” he said, bowing with exaggerated formality, his grin wide. “Suffering already?”

“Help me to escape, Freddy,” she begged. “I do not know how you can stand these confounded events.”

“It is all in how you look at them, my dear.”

“There is more than one way?” She wrinkled her face, which she knew her governess would have scolded her for.

“You enjoy dancing.”

“Yes, but not the stuffy ones where I must hold myself just so, and paste a false smile on.” She imitated said posture and flattened her face.

Freddy laughed, as she had known he would. “You could do that, of course, or you could just be yourself.”

“People already think I am outrageous.”

He did not deny it. “Do you really wish to ensnare someone with whom you will have to pretend to be someone you are not for the rest of your life?”

“No, of course not.” A feeling of panic threatened to make her flee the ballroom.

“Joy,” he said lightly, though his tone held a note of concern, “are you quite well?”

“I am perfectly well,” Joy said quickly. “My next partner approaches.”

Joy found herself dreading the dance she had promised Lord Abernathy, a rather foppish young man who fancied himself a wit. As they stepped onto the floor, the patterns blurred and swirled before her eyes, and she stumbled, catching herself just in time.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Joy’s cheeks burned.

Abernathy, oblivious, chuckled and guided her clumsily through the steps, but her humiliation was complete.

Now she had almost knocked down two Abernathys: mother at an earlier dance, and now the son.

She could not endure an entire Season of this.

Freddy was waiting for her when Abernathy led her from the floor.

She looked down, avoiding his gaze. “The ballroom is crowded, and I was distracted.”

“Hmm,” was all he said, but his gaze lingered on her longer than she liked.

By the end of the evening, he sought her out, cornering her in a quiet alcove near the terrace. “Joy,” he said softly, his usual banter absent. “When will you tell me what is troubling you?”

She opened her mouth to protest but faltered, the weight of her secret pressing down on her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I am your best friend,” he said gently, his voice laced with a rare seriousness. “What is it? Your sight?”

She gasped and turned away. “’Tis nothing. Just…an inconvenience.”

“It is not nothing,” Cunningham said firmly. “Why have you not told anyone?”

Joy glared at him, but the fight drained out of her as quickly as it had risen. “What do you suggest I do? Call off the entire Season? Let everyone know how useless I am?”

“You are the least useless person I know,” he said, his tone softening, “but you cannot face this alone. Let me help.”

“The doctor said there is nothing to be done. I might be permanently blind soon.”

As she looked up at him, his sincerity reflected in his steady gaze, something in Joy’s heart shifted. Perhaps confiding in someone wasn’t such a terrible idea.

Joy blinked furiously and glanced away while holding her hand to her head where it throbbed.

The semi-circular scar left on her temple was a daily reminder of one of her restless escapades.

A part of her mind scolded her for making a scene—an entirely new experience for her, for seldom did she care what onlookers thought—but this was different.

This was not a trifling matter, such as wearing an unfashionable gown or forgetting a dance step.

This was her sight, which seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

Freddy reached out, but she drew back an inch, uncertain whether she wanted comfort or the preservation of her pride.

Still, the concern radiating from his eyes struck a chord deep within.

She did not want to be pitied, and she did not want to air all of this at a Society ball.

Yet Freddy was her dearest friend of the past few years. He had understood her from the first and had never made her feel insignificant or treated her like a silly young girl. He had always been her champion, in jest or in earnest. And here he was again, championing her.

“Joy,” he said gently, “why would you suffer through this alone?”

“Please do not pity me,” she managed, though her voice trembled. “I cannot abide pity, Freddy.”

He shook his head. “Pity is not what I offer. I offer help—or, at the very least, an ear to listen. If you cannot see well, has it occurred to you that spectacles might help?”

Joy gave a bark of disbelieving laughter, quickly muffled by her gloved hand.

She had never heard him speak so plainly and so…

practically. Spectacles. The very word conjured up the image of a stern governess or an elderly scholar in a dusty library.

It was not the sort of thing worn in London’s fashionable ballrooms, certainly not by young ladies making their debut.

“Do you think I should become an object of ridicule?” she asked, managing a wry smile.

“It is hardly the thing for a debutante to sport spectacles.”

Freddy’s eyebrows arched in gentle amusement. “Perhaps not, but I would argue it is better to see clearly than to fret over Society’s silly notions. You have always scorned them, have you not?”

“Yes, but one learns that there are certain…boundaries,” she whispered, glancing about to ensure no curious ear lurked nearby.

“I do not mind being thought outrageous, but—” She paused, turning to face him fully.

“Should I suddenly appear with spectacles, heads would surely turn, tongues would wag. I suppose they already do. I do mind being pitied and coddled. I mind even more losing what little independence I have.”

Freddy took a step closer, his voice lowered in confidence. “Let them wag. When have you ever cared about trifling gossip? Were you not the one who climbed a tree in full view of half the ton ? You braved that with a laugh, I recall.”

Joy felt a gentle flush warm her cheeks.

She did recall that mortifying moment, though at the time she had laughed it off, unprepared for why strangers of the ton would care what a country girl did.

Her eldest sister Faith had only smiled in that resigned way she had, while her other sisters had said nothing.

And Joy had continued on as she always did.

Yet losing one’s sight was not a trifling tree-climbing escapade. It changed everything. “I wish,” she said slowly, “it were as simple as a pair of spectacles. But the physician said that it may worsen. Even if a lens aids me for a time, what happens when—when it grows worse?”

Freddy’s hand found hers, and she let him gently cradle her fingers, surprised at the comfort it brought.

“We shall cross that bridge together when it comes,” he said.

“But if you do nothing now—if you hide and suffer through these balls and soirées, half-blind and in pain—what will that solve? It will only make you miserable…and very likely more conspicuous than even spectacles themselves.”

Her mouth curved into a rueful line. “It is not a thing I wished to share. I suppose I thought that if I did not speak it aloud, it might resolve itself.” She sighed.

“It has been happening for some months. Some days are better—I can read, or ride astride, or dance without much difficulty. Then, on other days, the world blurs, and every shape merges into an indistinct haze. If I exert myself—ride too hard or dance too long—my sight worsens.”

Freddy lifted her hand to his lips in a rare gesture of tenderness. “If—if the worst should happen and your sight fails entirely, I promise I shall remain by your side, whether Society scorns or not. Your friendship has always been precious to me. Nothing shall change that.”

She looked away, though she felt a flush heating her cheeks. “That is kind of you,” she said softly, unused to tender emotions from her friend.

She glanced down at her slippers, noticing with some irony how much more clearly she saw them than the swirling shapes of people in the ballroom.

The floor was an elaborate mosaic in muted greys and gold, though to her eyes it was starting to blur at the edges.

“I do not even know where to procure spectacles,” she murmured.

With a rueful smile, Freddy nodded. “We can discover that together.”