Dear Mr Cavendish,

It is with great respect that I write this letter. My name is Miss Simone Priest and I'm your neighbor. While I do love our quaint neighborhood, I'm afraid that there is much to improve on our villas, most particularly the walls. It is not your fault, of course, that they are somehow built too thin with too little space in between.

I have learned that you are an actor and must be passionate about your craft because last night I heard you, with no intent to eavesdrop, practicing your lines with a fellow actor, a woman who has such an amazing voice. However, I could not sleep because of the noise. It pains me to write this letter after what I heard last night. Your dear friend must have met an accident as I heard her crying. She must have been in pain. I heard her whimpering for quite some time throughout the night, and did not miss the shout of pain. I hope she is doing well now.

My other concern, of course, is that you may find my request troublesome. Again, this is no one's fault but our poorly constructed walls. As to my request, if it is of no consequence, perhaps you can find a different room, one that is not northward, to practice in. That would be thoroughly appreciated.

Please accept the small gift that comes with this letter. Consider it a sign of my gratitude for taking the time to read my concerns. It is a concoction that will help you sleep at night. I know you have trouble sleeping as I can always hear the squeaking of your bed, last night being particularly stronger and more frequent. I also hope you can pull the bed a few inches from the wall (I also hear the banging along with the squeaking).

Again, I apologize that I have to write this letter. Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Cavendish.

Sincerely,

Miss Simone Priest

***

Simone was looking out the window, her cousin Lydia at her side. Both girls were roughly the same age, Simone sixteen and Lydia fifteen. They were best friends, they would say, but really, they were more like siblings. As the only girls in their family who were close in age, they always believed they should be sisters.

"There," Lydia excitedly whispered, elbowing Simone. With wide ribbons above their heads, they perked up to their knees and pressed their nose against the windowpane.

"Do you think he's famous?" Simone asked as they watched their neighbor cross the street.

"Not quite," said Lydia, eyes narrowed. Mr. Cavendish looked young, maybe the same age as their eldest cousin, Harry. "But the maids know him."

"The maids know him because they know everyone," Simone said.

Lydia pushed away from the window and away from the afternoon sunlight.

"Do you think he got my letter, Lydia?" Simone asked, looking over her shoulder at her cousin.

"What letter?" a low voice asked from the doorway of the parlor. They turned and found Gale standing there, apple in hand.

The villa of the Earl of Abberton in Picadilly Street was full of young people. Sure, the earl could afford a larger housing, but the quaint Picadilly Street was special to him. It was where he realized his dreams, Abraham Stratford had said so many times before. And so, every social season in Coulway, the capital city in the kingdom of Sutherland, he would gather everyone here. All nine Stratford children would leave the spacious Abberton House and squeeze themselves into the seven-bedroom villa in Picadilly. Nine! Well, at least most of the nine because the older ones were quite busy going places.

It would have been fine if things were not chaotic most days, but they were. Their grandfather liked the chaos. He welcomed it even at the age of seventy-eight. But not Simone and Lydia. Peace and quiet for them only came at night when the two youngest Stratfords were asleep or when the older cousins were out for business or their clubs.

That's why Simone wrote the letter to their new neighbor. He was just a bit loud at night. Well, maybe she was also curious. It was not daily that they get a young, handsome neighbor. However, he was not very social. Even Lydia, who could catch gossips even when asleep, could not gather much about the man.

"Nothing," Simone and Lydia chorused, nonchalantly taking their place in the chaise. The two youngest Stratford girls of age four and five rushed past Gale's legs and into the parlor, laughing at something or nothing, brown hair bounding with them. They climbed on Simone and Lydia, and both, with perfect synchrony they mastered over the years, lifted the two girls off their lap and back onto the floor. Roxie and Freda turned and ran toward Gale who, in a move he mastered over his eighteen years, stepped to the side, taking a bite from his apple, stepped back when the girls chased, and again to the side until they gave up and exited the room to cause havoc elsewhere.

"I saw the neighbor cross the street. Were you talking about him?" he perfectly guessed, settling in the opposite chaise, crossing his leg over the other.

"No," they both denied in a manner so strongly unconvincing.

"Hm," Gale hummed in a very taunting way. "Of course," he said. He continued chewing, not letting go of their gaze as his gaze narrowed. "I wonder if I should tell Harry."

Simone shrugged one shoulder. "What good would it do?"

"None for you both, certainly," he said with an evil curl at the corner of his mouth.

"We're too old to be intimidated, Gale," Lydia said.

Gale tilted his head to the side and took another bite, the crunching sound as irritating as his grin. It did not help that his light brown hair looked golden where the sunlight touched. It made him look like an angel, which he was not most of the time. They knew because they were his minions and he theirs depending on the situation. "Yes, you're probably right," he said with a heavy sigh. "Harry doesn't have time for such trivial things such as his two young cousins spying on the new neighbor and writing him letters. However..." He let the anticipation linger for a while. "Web and Damon might be interested," he said. At the mention of her brothers, Simone glowered while Gale wiggled his perfect brows at them.

"You're worse than Price," Simone groaned.

"What do you want?" Lydia wryly asked, crossing her arms.

"Ah, good question." He straightened in his seat. "I need you, young ladies, to help me with something. For my silence," he added the last part in dramatic whisper.

They groaned.

"Ah—" Gale said, pointing his apple at them. "Do I hear a protest?"

Simone and Lydia sighed and rolled their eyes.

That very afternoon, they accompanied Gale to the Paragon Exchange, the famous bazaar near Bridge Street where the jewel of his season could be found.

"You could have just gone on your own," Lydia said, looking around the crowded place. The entire building was filled with shops. One side mostly catered to women, the other men. But that's not where Gale intended to go. He guided them to the courtyard which was the brightest in the building, much thanks to the glass dome ceiling. Chairs and tables for the outdoor cafe scattered the place along with men and women who batted their eyes at one another. The first time they witnessed such act of flirtation, Simone wondered how it worked. Was it even possible to see each other's eyes from yards away?

"He's not confident enough," Simone noted, glancing at Gale's face. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, his eyes flickering back and forth to their table and the small dress shop to their right.

"If you get her name, I'll forget about the letter you sent to our neighbor," he said, leaning over his tea.

Simone and Lydia turned their heads at the direction where his brown eyes were glued, seemingly enchanted. Their own brown eyes narrowed. "Don't you think she's a bit too old for you, Gale?" asked Lydia.

"Too tall, too," added Simone.

"What are you on about? She's perfect!" their cousin said with heartfelt wonder.

Both ladies shook their heads. Gale always fancied himself in love with someone. Their fingers and toes combined were not enough to count the number of girls he claimed to be in love with back home in Abberton. "I can't quite agree," Simone said, "But she must be a good modiste, cousin. Women are lining outside."

Lydia nodded, but still looking quite baffled.

Simone faced Gale. "Cousin, you're not looking for a mother figure by any chance, are you?"

Lydia's eyes widened, then sympathetically softened. Her hand went to her heart as she said, "Oh, Gale. We all miss our parents, that's for sure. But I truly think you're just going through a phase this time."

They reached and held each of his hand in comfort. Gale's handsome face crumpled in confusion, his brows fusing in an angry line. "What in the hell are you two talking about?" he hissed, pulling his hands free to gesture at the shop. "She's perfect! She's not old, and she's not tall! Just look at her!"

Again, Simone and Lydia turned. And there, they saw her. "Oh," Simone said. "I thought you meant the modiste."

"I thought you mean the one being fitted," Lydia said with a wave of her hand. "And oh, look at that! She's a beauty, isn't she, Sisi?"

"Indeed," Simone replied, smiling conspiratorially. They tore their eyes off the young lady with chestnut hair assisting the modiste and back to their cousin. "Her name must be very precious."

"Utterly," added Lydia. "I wonder why you asked no one for her name?" she asked Gale.

"I just saw her this morning," he said. He leaned forward and caught Simone's gaze. "Remember Web and Damon, Sisi," he said with a smile, some wavy brown locks hanging between his eyebrows.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll let it pass if grandfather steps in," she said, feigning nonchalance. She knew Gale was desperate. It was written all over his face. She shared a look with Lydia before she added, "In exchange for her name, you're going to take us to a play," she said.

"He will?" Lydia asked, blinking rapidly. "Then I would also love to get a few things from the art store, Gale. I need some fresh paints."

Simone did not break eye contact with Gale who was clearly struggling. Growing up together like siblings, she could read him like the back of her hand.

"You are not yet old enough to enter a theater."

Simone sighed and stood. Lydia followed. "Very well. See you at supper, cousin." They started to walk away.

"Wait!"

They stopped but did not turn.

"Bloody hell. Just one play." Lydia turned to him with an expectant look on her face. "Fine. And paints."

Without another word, Simone and Lydia turned toward the direction of the shop. Nearly three hours later, they both got dresses (paid for by Gale), new paints for Lydia, and a name for Gale. And another hour later, before supper, they acquired tickets for Mr. Cavendish's play.