The night was slowing, folding gently around them like a closing curtain. The stars had shifted westward, and the breeze had cooled.
Mary's head still rested on Isabelle's shoulder when she heard her whisper:
"Promise me something."
Mary sat up slightly, her fingers still lightly entangled with Isabelle's. "What is it?"
"When I return to London," Isabelle said, "I'll write to you. But only if you promise you'll write back."
Mary blinked, surprised. "You want… letters?"
"I want something real to hold on to," Isabelle said quietly. "Even if it's just words on paper. I want to know you're still there—even if the world makes you pretend otherwise."
Mary felt her heart ache again. But this time, there was something steadier behind it.
She nodded slowly. "I'll write. I swear."
"And not just about the weather," Isabelle added with a small smile. "I want the truth. I want your thoughts. Even the messy ones."
Mary gave a soft laugh. "Then I'll need more paper."
They shared a long look, one that said everything the night didn't have time to.
And then, it was time to go.
Mary slipped away beneath the willow's arms, turning only once to see Isabelle still standing there, moonlight lacing around her like a dream that refused to fade.
She walked back through the garden path and scaled the side terrace again, heart thudding with every step. The estate was asleep—mostly.
She stepped into the marble hallway, avoiding the broken vase spot like it might awaken memory itself.
The next morning
The dining room buzzed with something Mary hadn't heard before: excitement.
"We've received replies from both the Langdons and the Westboroughs," her mother said cheerfully over tea. "Everyone's looking forward to the wedding next week. The guest list has nearly doubled."
Her father looked up from a letter. "And Thomas sent word. He'll be arriving tomorrow with his tailor. Wants to take you for a promenade around the grounds."
Mary lifted her teacup with careful fingers. "Of course."
But something in her voice had changed. Softer, quieter—but not defeated. More like thoughtful.
Her mother didn't notice. "You'll be a proper wife before the end of the month. A fine match for society."
Mary's lips formed a faint smile. "Yes... a fine match."
But not for me.
Inside, her thoughts stirred like a storm held back by ribbon.
She had written Isabelle's name on a page in her journal last night. The letters looked too small to contain all her feelings, but they were there. Real.
Just like the kiss.
Just like the memory.
Just like the promise.
The wedding was seven days away.
She had seven days to either let her world be handed to someone else—or try to write a different ending.
Even if it came with risk.
Even if it came with fear.