The bells of Saint Eden's rang out across the town, clear and noble in the late morning air.
Mary stood at the top of the stone steps outside the church, her gloved hands clasped delicately in front of her. Her mother stood just behind, chatting with two women from the parish about floral arrangements and wedding hymns.
Mary wasn't listening.
Her heart was pounding—not from nerves, but from resolve.
She had made her decision. It wasn't the kind of rebellion that required shouting or slammed doors.
It only required a single moment.
One fall.
One cry.
Just enough to shift the tides.
She took a soft breath and stepped forward—her foot catching the edge of her skirt, just as she had practiced the night before in the mirror.
Her heel slipped.
Her ankle twisted.
She let herself fall.
"MARY!"
Her mother's voice shrieked just as her body landed against the stone steps with a sickening thud. A sharp cry escaped her lips—half from pain, half from fear that it had looked too real.
She clutched her ankle, eyes tearing, face pale.
People gathered immediately. "She's hurt!" "Someone fetch help!"
Lady Whitmore dropped to her knees beside her, panic in her eyes. "Mary, speak to me—can you move it?"
Mary shook her head quickly, biting her lip. "It… hurts. Badly."
Within the hour, she was back in her bedroom, propped up by pillows, her ankle elevated, the family doctor already inspecting the swelling with furrowed brows.
"It's a sprain," he confirmed, wrapping her foot gently in cloth. "Quite a painful one. She won't be walking properly for a few weeks. No standing for long periods."
"But the wedding…" Lady Whitmore said, her face drained of color.
"Absolutely not," the doctor said firmly. "She needs complete bed rest. I'd recommend at least six weeks, perhaps more. If she strains it again, it might not heal properly."
Lord Whitmore entered then, reading the tension in the room immediately. "What's happened?"
"The wedding must be postponed," his wife said flatly, staring at Mary. "Two months. Perhaps more."
He exhaled slowly and looked at Mary. "Are you in much pain, my dear?"
Mary nodded, eyes downcast, voice soft. "It's… awful. I'm sorry."
"You needn't apologize," he said kindly. "We'll delay things until you're well. That's all that matters."
Lady Whitmore stood still, watching Mary with a careful eye. Her voice was less gentle. "Try not to make a habit of these… unfortunate stumbles."
Mary looked up at her mother, eyes innocent. "I didn't mean to fall."
She smiled—just slightly.
Later, alone in her room, Mary held her journal close to her chest and whispered to herself:
Two months. That's time.
Time to think.
Time to breathe.
Time to write to Isabelle.