The carriage ride home was a torture of silence and complaints.

The wheels rattled over the cobblestones, shaking her bones. The interior smelled of Kenney's cigar smoke and his disappointment.

"A waste," Kenney muttered, staring out into the dark, snowy streets. "A complete waste of a new dress. I didn't even get near Sterling."

She leaned her head against the cold glass. The vibration of the carriage triggered a memory, sharp and violent.

Flashback.

The same carriage. Two years ago. She was crying. Shaking.

"He... he forced me, Kenney," she had sobbed, clutching her torn bodice. "The King. He pulled me into the box. I couldn't stop him."

Kenney had pulled her into his arms. He had cried with her. "I know, my love. I know. It's the Crown. We are powerless. If we fight him, he'll destroy us. He'll hurt Emily."

She had believed him. She had wiped her tears and agreed to go back to the King, to protect her husband. To protect her family.

It wasn't until she was dying, until the smoke cleared the lies from her eyes, that she understood. Kenney hadn't been helpless. He had set it up. He had left her in that stairwell on purpose.

End Flashback.

She opened her eyes. The streetlamps blurred into streaks of yellow light.

She looked at Kenney now. He wasn't crying. He was annoyed that his bait hadn't been taken.

"Kenney," she said, her voice cutting through the rattling noise. "If the King had noticed me... what would you have done?"

Kenney blinked, pulled from his sulk. "What?"

"If he wanted me. Not for conversation. But for... himself."

Kenney shifted in his seat. He adjusted his cuffs. He didn't look at her. "I would defend your honor with my life, Imogene. Of course."

Liar.

She laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "Of course you would."

She reached up to her neck. She felt the cool, smooth surface of the pearl necklace-the fake one.

She hooked her finger under the string.

"What's so funny?" Kenney asked, frowning.

She pulled. Hard.

The string snapped.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The fake pearls cascaded down her bodice, bouncing off the seat, rolling onto the floor of the carriage like hail.

"Imogene! What are you doing?" Kenney shouted, scrambling to catch them. "Those are heirlooms!"

"They're glass, Kenney," she said coldly. "Just glass."

She kicked a pearl with the toe of her shoe. It rolled under the seat.

When they arrived home, she didn't wait for him to help her down. She walked straight up the stairs, past the confused servants, and into the nursery.

She sat in the rocking chair next to Emily's crib. This was her fortress. Her sanctuary.

Meanwhile, across the city, the gears of fate were grinding.

In the Royal Study, a fire roared in the hearth. But the room felt cold.

Sterling stood before the desk, a file in his hand. He looked weary.

"Her name is Imogene Lloyd," Sterling said.

King Alaric sat in a high-backed leather chair, staring into the flames. He still wore his black shirt, the collar unbuttoned. He looked like a man possessed.

"Lloyd?" Alaric turned his gaze to Sterling. "The Treasury clerk? Kenney Lloyd?"

"His wife, Your Majesty."

Alaric's hand tightened on the armrest. "Wife."

The word hung in the air. It should have been a deterrent. It should have been a wall. Instead, she knew exactly what it was to him. It was a challenge. It was a transgression.

"Is she happy?" Alaric asked quietly.

"Kenney Lloyd is a man of... moderate ambition and flexible morals," Sterling said diplomatically. "He has been petitioning for the Undersecretary position for months."

Alaric laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound.

"Give it to him," Alaric said.

Sterling paused. "Sir?"

"Give him the position. Give him whatever he wants." Alaric stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow that covered London. "And in exchange... I want her."

"She is a married woman, Sire. This could be... complicated."

"Make it simple," Alaric commanded. "Arrange a reading. A private gathering at the Lodge. Invite her. Ensure her husband understands the terms."

"And if she refuses?"

Alaric touched the cold glass of the window. He was seeing a ghost. He was seeing Adella.

"She won't refuse," he whispered. "She ran, Sterling. But she looked back."

The next morning, the devil came to knock.

She was upstairs, hovering at the top of the landing. She had sent the maids to the kitchen. The house was quiet enough that voices carried from the study below.

Sterling had arrived at ten o'clock sharp.

She pressed her ear against the banister.

"Mr. Lloyd," Sterling's voice was smooth, professional. "The King has been reviewing the staffing for the Cabinet."

"Yes?" Kenney's voice cracked. She could imagine him leaning forward, greedy and desperate.

"He is impressed with your... dedication. The position of Undersecretary is yours. Pending a probationary period, of course."

"Oh, thank God," Kenney breathed. "Thank you. Please convey my eternal gratitude to His Majesty."

"There is one small matter," Sterling continued. "His Majesty is hosting a literary retreat at the Royal Lodge. A small, private affair. He was quite taken with the... aesthetic of the masquerade. He wishes to invite Mrs. Lloyd to attend."

Silence.

The silence stretched so long she thought the floorboards might snap. Kenney wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what "literary retreat" meant. He knew what the Royal Lodge was. It was where the King kept his mistresses.

"Imogene?" Kenney said, his voice wavering. "She... she is of delicate health. And propriety..."

"The Undersecretary position requires a man who puts the Crown above all else," Sterling said. His tone dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. "It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Mr. Lloyd. For both of you."

She heard the scrape of a chair. Kenney was pacing.

"She will be honored," Kenney said finally. The words came out fast, like he wanted to get them over with. "It is an honor for the family."

She closed her eyes. Even knowing it was coming, hearing him sell her for a desk and a title felt like a physical blow to the stomach.

She stood up and walked back to her room. She sat on the sofa and picked up her embroidery hoop. Her hands were steady. Cold, but steady.

Ten minutes later, Kenney came in.

He looked flushed. Excited. But as soon as he saw her, his face crumpled into a mask of tragic despair. He deserved an award for this performance.

"Imogene," he sighed, collapsing onto the ottoman at her feet. "We are undone."

She didn't look up from her needlework. "What is it, Kenney?"

"I have made a terrible mistake at the office. A clerical error. The King... he is furious. He threatens to ruin us. To throw us into the street."

He grabbed her hands. His palms were sweaty.

"There is only one way to save us," he said, tears welling in his eyes. "He has summoned you. To the Lodge. To plead our case."

"Me?" She widened her eyes, feigning shock. "But why me?"

"Because you are charming. You are innocent. If you go, if you read to him, if you entertain him... he might forgive me. For Emily's sake, Imogene. I cannot let our daughter starve."

He was using Emily. Again.

She pulled her hands away, covering her face to hide her expression. He thought she was sobbing. She was trying not to vomit.

"Must I?" she whispered.

"Please," he begged. "I promise, if you do this, I will buy you the real sapphires. I will give you anything."

She lowered her hands. She let him see her red-rimmed eyes.

"Fine," she said. "I will go. For Emily."

Kenney exhaled, a massive rush of relief. He hugged her. She sat rigid in his arms, staring over his shoulder at the wall.

"You are a good wife," he murmured. "The best."

That night, she packed.

Sophie fluttered around the room, nervous. "Madam, the Lodge... people say things. About the King."

"Let them talk, Sophie," she said.

She wasn't packing her modest woolens. She was packing silk. She was packing the dresses that showed skin.

She reached into the false bottom of her sewing box and pulled out a book. It was a biography of Adella Lynn, unauthorized and scandalous. She had sent Sophie to a back-alley bookshop for it just last week, a piece of armor she knew she would need.

She opened it to the illustrations. Adella had a way of tilting her head. A way of holding her hands.

She stood in front of the mirror. She tilted her head. She lowered her eyelids.

She looked like a tragic heroine. She looked like a woman who needed saving.

"From today on," she whispered to the glass, "Imogene Lloyd is dead. Long live the King's nightmare."

The morning of her departure was gray and bitter.

She sat on the floor of the nursery, combing Emily's hair. Emily had her dark curls, but Kenney's weak chin. She prayed Emily would grow out of it.

"Where are you going, Mama?" Emily asked, twisting around to look at her.

"I have to go on a trip for a while, sweetling," she said, smoothing a curl around her finger. "To ensure we can always buy you dolls. And the chocolate you like."

"Take me with you," Emily demanded.

Her heart cracked. "I can't. Not this time."

The door banged open. Lady Lloyd marched in. She began rifling through Imogene's open trunk.

"Is this all?" she scoffed, holding up a silk stocking. "You're going to the Royal Lodge, not a nunnery. You need to look expensive. Otherwise, they'll think we're paupers."

"I am going to beg for mercy," she said coolly. "Humility is the best costume for a beggar."

Lady Lloyd huffed, dropping the stocking. Her eyes landed on a bottle of French perfume on Imogene's vanity. Before Imogene could stop her, Lady Lloyd slipped it into her pocket.

"Payment for watching the brat," Lady Lloyd muttered, and waddled out.

She stared at the empty space on the vanity. Thief.

That evening, the tension in the house was suffocating. Kenney hovered outside her bedroom door. She could hear his breathing. He wanted to come in. He wanted to claim her one last time before he handed her over, a dog marking its territory.

She had anticipated this. She needed him to. A child conceived at the Lodge would always be questioned. But a child conceived on the eve of her departure... that could be his. It had to be his.

She unlocked her door and opened it a crack. Kenney was pacing in the hall, looking like a caged animal.

"Kenney?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stopped, startled. "Imogene. I thought you were asleep."

"I can't sleep," she said, pulling her robe tighter. She let a single tear trace a path down her cheek. "I'm so frightened. Of what the King might do... to me. To you."

The sight of her tears, the feigned vulnerability, worked like a key in a lock. His face softened with a mixture of pity and possessiveness.

"There, there, my dear," he said, stepping into the room. "It will be alright."

"Hold me," she pleaded, reaching for him. "Just for tonight. Before... before I go. I need to remember what it feels like to be your wife."

She pressed herself against him, her face buried in his chest. It took every ounce of her will not to recoil from his touch, from the scent of his ambition and his betrayal. She thought of the fire. She thought of Emily's cold skin. She turned the revulsion into fuel.

He led her to the bed. It was a calculated, cold performance on her part, a sacrifice on the altar of her revenge. He saw a frightened, dutiful wife seeking comfort. He had no idea he was nothing more than a pawn, providing the alibi she would need in nine months' time.

She let out a breath she had been holding for an hour. She walked to the bed and looked at Emily, who was sleeping soundly in her own room.

She went to the corner where Emily's toys were piled. She picked up Emily's favorite teddy bear. It had a seam that was coming loose in the back.

She pulled a folded letter from her pocket. It contained everything she knew about Kenney's minor embezzlements-the ones he had already committed, not the big ones yet to come. It wasn't enough to hang him, but it was enough to ruin him.

She stuffed the letter inside the bear and stitched it shut.

"Keep this safe," she whispered to the bear.

She didn't sleep. She stood by the window, watching the stars.

She thought about Alaric. In her past life, she had been terrified of him. She had been a weeping mess. This time, she knew him. She knew he wasn't a monster. He was a man haunted by a ghost.

He didn't want a whore. He wanted a connection. He wanted Adella back.

She would give him Adella. But she would give him an Adella with teeth.

Dawn broke like a bruise on the horizon.

A carriage pulled up to the back entrance. It was black, lacquered, and bore no crest. The carriage of a mistress.

Kenney was waiting by the door. He wouldn't look at the coachman. He wouldn't look at her.

"Hurry up," he muttered. "Don't keep them waiting."

She wore a dark gray cloak with the hood pulled up. She looked like a widow.

She knelt down and hugged Emily. Emily smelled of milk and sleep. Emily started to cry, sensing the finality of the moment.

"Let go, Emily!" Kenney snapped. He grabbed Emily's arm and yanked her away.

"Don't touch her!" she hissed, turning on him.

Kenney recoiled, shocked by her tone.

She kissed Emily's forehead one last time, then stood up. She walked out the door and climbed into the black carriage.

The door slammed shut.

She watched through the window as the carriage pulled away. Kenney was already turning back into the house, dusting his hands as if he had just taken out the trash.

She didn't cry. The tears were gone.

She leaned back against the plush velvet seat.

"Goodbye, Imogene," she said to the empty air.

The woman who arrived at the Lodge would be someone else entirely.