I realized a long long ago I was imprisoned under my own chains of what happiness really was. I told myself I was happy as men doted on me, giving me dresses and taking me out to dinners—most of all, money. When Auguste de Winter slowly found me customers all I was glad was that I wasn't pimped out and most nights ended with a kiss and hug.

Now as I stared at Dylan's face I thought of being Rose. Was I really happy then? I only ever had Leroy or the mysterious man who always put flowers by the lakeside to entertain me and my imagination. My marriage, true love, being anyone but Rosemarie who was eternally fifteen.

Dylan looked up at me and seemed wary.

"Why are you standing there like that? You can sit," he said as he gestured to a chair. I thought over it for a while.

"Is Sal Mazzanti that important?"

"I'll protect you," he repeated, but this time with a strange confidence. "Hughes is here too, as well as Vaughn. He really means good for you, although he's always yapping away like that."

"He was mentioned in the will—isn't it strange? I have to marry soon, don't I?" I asked, even though I knew the answer.

"I think Leroy is showing enough interest." He was suddenly looking at the papers on his desk again. I felt like holding his face up to stop avoiding it.

We both were avoiding it.

God, I loved him. It was insane how much it hurt seeing him tell me to marry, to deny what we both felt. How vulnerable we both were to only one another. The treehouse.

"Weren't you against us?"

"What? No, not particularly. I just happened to follow you with Vaughn that day because we didn't have plans."

"But you—you said you didn't not reciprocate my feelings!" My face flamed.

"What feelings?"

"God!" I shouted in a whisper, my thoughts overlapping to the point I knew I looked crazy. "Dylan, just say it! What do you want of me?"

"What do you want me to say?" he snapped back sharply, making me tilt my head in anger.

"What? I asked you, why can't you answer anything? It's always question after question—and you dragged me into this!"

He stopped because I was correct, then cleared his throat. "I told you, I care for you. Take it as you want."

"I'm only a pawn to you!"

I finally began to sob, making Dylan stand up and hastily pat my back then my shoulder in the least comfortable way alive. He was so damn awkward!

"I really care for you. I regret what we forced you to do—but you make me feel conflicted when you laugh with Leroy."

"I say everything to make Vaughn satisfied!" I cried.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Rosemarie." He was awkwardly trying to comfort me as I cried.

Men are stupid, but it was true that tears made them weak and finally address important matters.

"I'll marry Leroy then—"

"No!"

Dylan looked at me, aghast as though he hadn't hinted for it.

I wiped my tears and glared at him. "Make up your mind for real, I'll marry if you tell me to, and forget about you."

Then he leaned down, looking up at me and then holding my hands in my lap.

"I know you are legally my sister now, but I know you aren't. I want to hold your hair and face—even if you scold me for that. I missed you when Leroy took you for the dance, and I only looked at you."

"You hurt me and then you say such things, it's confusing."

"Then I'll stop being confusing." Dylan murmured. "Rose, stay here with me. I have feelings for you."

The words were all I needed. Tears fell again, but this time he was there to see it and touched my face without his usual hesitation.

The woman who I knew had a heart outside her heart fell in love, she told me ever since then it felt as though she had two hearts. She was a regular at the restaurant I worked at, and I smiled when I saw a man come and get her. She no longer held her heart when she walked down stairs, because he gently guided her down and she clung to his arm.

To her, she probably wouldn't mind falling with him.

"I suppose we could find Blanche," Dylan said," And you can stop being my legal sister.

I looked down at him, and his ears reddened. I had never seen his bashful face that I wanted to imprint it in my mind until I decided to walk over to his desk.

"Do you want to find Blanche and make her marry?"

He scratched at his head and shrugged. "This plan was doomed to fall, you ought to go and have a happy life. You told me you didn't want to marry. I can't tell if you actually have feelings for Leroy, but I suppose you don't want to hold strange secrets from him."

"I don't care for Leroy—" I stopped. "You know, Dylan, you could have saved me so much heartache if only you said this." I wiped my tears.

"Vaughn thinks we are lovers!" Dylan buried his face in his hand, groaning softly.

"Listen, Dylan, this will all be fine. If we want we could flee this crooked house after we find Blanche. Together, anywhere!"

The evening light, orange and yellow, streamed in and settled behind Dylan like a halo. He smiled a little, lips pursed in the way he did when he tried to hide a laugh.

"Mmmh. Maybe we should leave together."

"Dylan, I can't believe it." I looked at him and his face melted, relaxed.

He reached out to wipe more wetness on my cheeks.

"It might take years, Rosemarie. It'll take a lot of work, while I try and keep you from all the suitors and mafia dons. You're so much problems and—and you're so mysterious."

A fear crept up in me once again and I drew back before grasping his hand that had been comforting me. He didn't pull back but he was stiff as his hand widened to let my fingers intertwine.

"I will wait. Let's find Blanche." I looked up at him. "Give me Auguste's diaries. I might know something."

I thought of the other girls that hung by his arm each time I saw him. Sometimes they gave me envious glances as they realized Auguste was finding me jobs or men to escort. Sometimes they connected with me, sharing names, but I had never heard of Blanche. But im sure I'd know more than Vaughn.

"I don't know how you'd know but sure, most of the files are kept by Vaughn but some should be here." Dylan bent down and opened a drawer to extract some worn journals. "Sadly some pages were ripped out by the old man, but he has his letters about Blanche."

"Let me see it."

"Can I stay here?"

I laughed. "Why did you ask? It's your office—"

Then without warning, Dylan leaned down and pecked my cheek. He quickly drew back and looked away before clearing his throat.

"I think I'll leave after all. Please ask Hughes if you need any help, have a nice evening."

He muttered the whole sentence within seconds before leaving his office, door closing silently.

I watched his back as I held my face, my cheek feeling warm and as though all the blood had drained from my body and into that small, innocent kiss. Why—why was Dylan so clumsy and dumb?

But then again, that's what I loved about him.

And that's why I will find Blanche.

***

I went through the journals, and read strange poems Auguste had written, almost copies of Ruby's songs.

When I see you cry (tears in your eye)
I feel like I would cry, feelings similar to thy.

While I read it I thought of our sparse and straight to the point conversations. He always had a new girl and would occasionally whisper to me about them. Samantha who wanted to be his second wife, Daisy who was a ballerina with an injured ankle and future, and Sally who was an orphan. He didn't really have a type, unlike his eastern wives and first mistress, Lucinda.

It was strange to think Auguste would cry for anyone, and if it was Blanche he certainly had some possessive feelings too as other poems showed.

Live in my dollhouse of glass,
I'll come every Sunday after mass,
This time don't make a mess—
Rest, my beloved darling, take a rest.

His poems were all lovesick and made me cringe before I flipped to parts about Blanche. It was real, or he was good at lying: he saw her irregularly, she loved him, or his facade, at least. Then he got sick and missed her and assigned her a messenger or caretaker, who was supposed to notify her of her will but had not. Funnily enough, her only descriptions were of her black hair, if we didn't count the red lips that almost people could easily obtain.

There were no description of whether she looked eastern like Lucinda, or western like who her father (unmentioned in the diary) was. Either way, I could only imagine Blanche as someone similar in figure to me, but her face was hazy.

She was really beloved but their dialogue was never written down. I opened one letter and finally saw what "Blanche" wrote. It said vague things of thanking him for the presents, but she didn't want them. She was humble and asked when he would visit again. She did mention, however, that she was lonely.

Thoughts swirled in my mind.

It couldn't be Irene, Gwendoline, or Julie—all three had blonde or brown hair. Their facial structure was more western and they were hired by Dylan, not Auguste. But what if? What if they dyed their hair as women now did? It was common, and Blanche's eye color was never mentioned.

Hughes did raise my suspicion, too. What if he was the messenger? I forgot who had hired him. Should I ask?

I flipped through the letter aimlessly, nothing telling me of Blanche but her handwriting in plain black ink. Just in case of anything I'll ask the maids and even Hughes to write to me tomorrow, but how?

I touched my head and thought carefully before I developed a plan.

Maybe I was more shrewd than I thought.