LORD OSCAR SEYMOUR STRAIGHTNENED his cravat with a gloved hand, and making sure his hat was perched atop his head in all accurateness, he climbed onto the sleigh waiting outside Wycombe house in the dark of the night. The firelight burning in from various rooms of the estate, whether through candles or hearths, shone onto the dimmed whiteness of the snow. His breath came out in puffs of steam as he waited for Lord Beresford to grace the scene with his presence. The driver sat up front, fully prepared to wait, or perhaps accustomed to the dilemma entirely. Oscar wondered just how often, and considered offering a murmur of an apology on behalf of his friend before dismissing the idea entirely when he saw a figure emerge from the estate entrance towards the sleigh. It was Jack. 

"If you had made me wait a minute more, my friend," Oscar turned to look at him with a complying grin playing on his lips as Lord Beresford mounted himself up and took a seat opposite, "I had a good mind to embark on the endeavour alone." 

"That would be reckless," Jack Beresford chuckled, his eyes glinting under the night sky with mischief, "I would hate for you to get struck down by a group of former mill workers in your prime." 

For a moment, the gentlemen were taken back, to the times they had spent similar good humoured times in carriages or sleighs or estates. With no one depending on them, with no stakes at all. 

"I think you would find, that it is I who will be doing the striking," Oscar turned his face to watch the scenery whisk by as the driver flung the reins and the horses flew, taking the sleigh smoothly along on the crisp mats of snow. 

"Then I'll be sure to stay out of your way," Jack responded, his voice lowering as his mind wandered away onto the gravity of the situation he had suddenly found himself in. For a few seconds in a day, he would forget about Aramina, and that seemed heinous when he admitted it to himself. But those few forgetful seconds kept him sane, triggered by his cigar, he could close his eyes, forget and regroup, before he was pulled to the reality of the scene again with ropes around his ankles and neck. There was to be no rest until she was found, until she was safe again. Had Jack's cousin ever really been safe? Had she felt safe? He doubted it. Who would feel safe when they felt like a target with people desperate to hit their bull's eye? 

"She was outside," Jack found himself murmuring. It hurt like hell to recount a scene you wanted to forget, but one you felt like you had to recount. A constant tug of war between the heart and mind. 

Oscar turned to look at him, his eyes silently observing his friend. 

"She had a headache, and left her rooms for want of air," Jack continued, a hand reaching to his head to pull off his hat and place it next to him on the seat. "That's what she told a maid in the kitchens." 

"A fucking headache made her leave the safety of Wycombe and venture out into the cold grounds for a walk. They found an earring, you know," He turned to Oscar them, a look of disbelief on his face, "A single emerald earring, the only sign of a struggle." 

Jack dug into his pockets then, and pulled out the evidence. Oscar looked at the delicate thing, a small bright emerald stone shining in the palm of his friend's sturdy gloved hand. 

"I don't know if I'm angry at her more or myself. Imagine being plagued by the threat of constant danger, suffering headaches that make nights drag on like torture, and then facing the final danger you tried to recoil from when you're the least ready for it," Lord Beresford smiled a painful smile, before letting out a scoff. "And I slept the entire while." 

"No—," Oscar raised his voice, the blame game was poison, and he would rather not have his loved ones take sips from that cup, "We will find her alright? We're going to be one step closer tonight." 

Jack nodded, but didn't meet his friend's eyes. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair and put back his hat, stuffing the emerald earring in his palm into his pockets. 

"I didn't want to tell you this at present, not at least until I get solid information to report on," Oscar sighed, but continued as Jack looked at him in earnest, "I wrote to my cousin, Lady Diana Buxton, in Portsmouth. Lord Edward Buxton, her husband, owns mills there and I supposed perhaps he would've heard of Thomas Cranmer, or have had the man in his employ by any chance." 

Oscar Seymour had narrated all of the events under the utmost promise of secrecy, to his cousin— to prompt her urgency and co-operation. Miss Jessie Churchill had also made it onto the page, much to Oscar's natural discomfort. Somehow, writing the lady's name on paper felt intimate, and although the act was much too intense for Oscar's liking, it had washed him in a wave of thrill. The kind that made his heart suddenly forget it's natural rhythm to the point Oscar had to take a break in between for a puff of cigar. 

He had found himself writing about how he had taught her to hold herself, to pretend to play at being an heiress, only, not for a game. An unfamiliar itch in his fingers urged him to write on about she looked, how she did. The way she had hesitated, or shivered really, when he had raised her chin with his fingers. The way her chest had heaved trying to support her wildly thumping heart, Was it really anxiety, or was it the way he had made her feel? Did Oscar make her feel anxious? Oscar wanted to know if it was the good kind of anxious, he found himself hoping it was. It was when his treacherous thoughts took him to the smooth arch of her back, and to her delicate fingers entwining at the base of her stomach, he snapped himself forcefully out of his trance. 

"Oscar, are you alright?" Jack Beresford's voice infiltrated his senses and Oscar blinked. 

Good God, just how much detail have I written in that letter? Oscar gulped. Had he even Proof read it in his haste for tonight? And what are these disgusting thoughts? 

"You look as though you are going to be sick," Lord Beresford's eyes narrowed in concern. 

"Maybe not right now," Oscar Seymour responded. The real trepidation would start when Lady Diana Buxton's response letter arrives. 

"How confident are you though? That your cousin's husband might have some information?" 

"Confident enough," and with that, their journey was finished as the sleigh stopped outside of the gentlemen's club Thomas Cranmer's former work buddies frequented. 

༺♥༻

"Is an announcement necessary?" Jessie Churchill implored, her hands gripping onto each other so tight her knuckles whitened.  

"Of course, my dear," Lady Acacia Beresford responded with perfect calm. "The servants of Wycombe need to know that Lady Embry has been found. The only servant who knows of the plan and your presence is Lacey," At her name being spoken, the maid curtseyed toward the lady, "The others still believe Aramina has been stolen. To stop word from getting out, it is them we need to convince first." 

At Jessie's visible discomfort, the lady of the house continued, "Calm yourself. You need not say a word at all. Just smile." 

A minute later, as if on cue, the butler of Wycombe presented himself in the parlour, followed by the rest of the estate staff that appeared to be a group of almost fifteen. Somehow, Jessie knew this was only the cream of them. 

"My Lady," He curtseyed, a middle aged man with a curt voice and prim demeanour. The rest of them followed his lead. 

"Erasmus," The Lady of the house acknowledged the butler, a strong smile on her face. Jessie wanted to see the effort behind the fake smile that was about to lie to everyone present, but it seemed to come naturally to Lady Beresford, as though she had smiled in wake of lies countless times before. 

With a fake smile of her own, though not as convincing, Jessie followed the lead.

"I would like to inform the Wycombe staff of the return of my husband's cousin, Lady Embry," Acacia Beresford began boldly, her voice steady yet soft, "I know there has been much unease in wake of her departure. I am aware my husband's composure had much faltered that night and like you all, we too feared of something terrible happening. Lady Embry did indeed go through some troubles that led her to leave Wycombe without prior notice to us, but she has returned and my husband and Lord Seymour at present are doing their utmost to resolve the issues to ascertain Aramina's safety in the future." 

Jessie received warm smiles then, from some of the house staff, and a brief welcome back greeting from the butler, Erasmus. The staff was dismissed then, and Jessie was surprised how easily they were convinced. 

"It is because they trust Lady Beresford. They know she would never lie to them," Lacey explained later upon Jessie's inquiries, "Most of them won't care if your eyes aren't emerald like the real Lady Embry's were, some would, but most wouldn't. If Lady Acacia Beresford says Lady Embry has returned, she has returned." 

How did it feel to be trusted like that? Jessie found herself wondering. Had she ever been trusted herself? Had someone ever truly, unconditionally trusted her? Even if it was just a maid, Jessie wasn't sure. 

The time for dinner had come, and Lady Beresford had promptly knocked upon Jessie's door, finding her dressed and ready, she had wrapped an arm around Jessie's elbow and escorted her downstairs. 

"We haven't any gentlemen to escort us today," She smiled a sad smile, "So we had better do it for eachother." 

They sat together; two ladies, the former born that way and the latter pretending to be one. The rest of the chairs stood empty, with the staff trying to disguise it by placing all sorts of dishes on every exposed corner of the dining table. It looked beautiful, it looked as though Jessie was in a dream. She had seen such full dining tables a lot recently, and it made her float further away from her previous life inch by inch. It all looked beautiful, but it felt empty. Food wasn't supposed to fill in the place of missing people. Lamb sauce could not change the fact that Lady Embry was clinging to life somewhere, pineapple custard won't change Jessie's fate once all this was over. 

For a second, just a second, Jessie hoped that things would delay. That Lady Embry could hold on a little longer, so that she in turn could be here longer, and maybe that time would be enough for Lady Seymour to forget what she had asked of Jessie, maybe in that time Lord Victor Colston would have married someone else. 

The thought was crushed mere seconds after it had intruded, and Jessie found her eyes misting slightly at the cruelty of her mind. 

As they ate in silence, only the clinking of china and the soft thudding of snow fall hit the windows and the roof from outside, Jessie reached for a dish of roasted meat, when Lady Beresford interrupted her. 

"Have some Mackerel, dear," She reached for the dish herself and spooned some onto Jessie's plate, "I have had them made with fennel and mint. Aramina preferred it that way." 

"Thank you, Lady Beresford," Jessie managed, drowning out a protest. She had never liked Mackerel, but of course, she wasn't to be herself anymore. 

"Please call me Acacia," The lady responded, her eyes falling to her lap and she smiled a small smile, "It's comforting."

Jessie Churchill saw her shiver slightly, refusing to look at her face lest she was reminded once more that Jessie's eyes were not emerald, the lady's eyes fell back to her plate as she continued eating with that small smile maintained. Jessie swallowed down bits of the Mackerel from her own plate, the eyes on the fish round and wide, staring at her from her plate. 

༺♥༻

Somewhere, in a remote rundown building, in a dark room full of discarded wooden boxes and other ridiculously miscellaneous items a victim had no heart to decipher, the real Lady Aramina Embry closed her eyes against the single ray of light entering through the glass on the single small window bolted shut right above her head. She pressed her eyelids, the muscles in her faces quavering and shaking and faltering. An ache in her consciousness descended. She pressed harder, her hands clinging onto eachother on her lap as she tried to shut the world out. She could not, for closing one's eyes did not make monsters go away, it only made one blind.

Despite the darkness in the room, the sun was shining brilliantly outside, and she wondered how many times she had admired it in her life, thought of it as her constant companion. But do constant companions sit and watch while the other suffers? Perhaps not everything constant is a companion. 

Three days in captivity, the sun marking the start of the fourth. It would be Christmas eve in two more days, and this is how Aramina would spend it. Her lip turned upward in a small smile. On every occasion, every celebration, perhaps even every day of her life, alone is something she had never supposed she would be. 

"You are destined to have people scuttering about on your heels, darling." Her mother's words echoed in her head. 

They have scuttered alright, she answered inside her head. They have plot and schemed and they have scuttered. Aramina wondered who had confided in her uncle, which of her kin had offered up the information on Aramina's whereabouts, especially since she had taken much care to let only a select few know. Someone had shamelessly offered her up, and Lady Aramina Embry had not the heart to round up names and point fingers, at least at present. 

She looked around for perhaps the hundredth time since she had been brought here. Since she was made unconscious on the grounds of her beloved cousin's estate, rounded up God knows in how many carriages, and opened her eyes here. She hadn't yet set eyes upon her captor, nor his accomplices, but she still knew who he was. He had plagued her nights after all, making sleep a near impossible demon to catch, and if caught, a most deadly enemy. 

Aramina had been fed, for she was not tied by ropes, just by the four walls of the room and the terror in her mind. As meal time had approached each day, thrice, a man would unlock the door and come inside, setting a steel plate of hard bread and a glass of water in front of her. His face was always covered, and untidily so. As though if Aramina were to take hold of the woollen makeshift face cover with a slit for the eyes messily cut out, bound with white threads at the back of his head, it would drop into her lap. The man's hair was dark and messy, as though he hadn't the time to settle it. His movements were quick, almost.. sympathetic, in the way that he placed food just a convenient distance near her and a careful distance away. The way his eyes, grey in the dim light, skimmed over her to make sure she was.. secure? The way he closed the door slowly, as though he did not want to startle her. The way he never spoke a word to her, but always appeared right on time. 

The way she waited for him right now. He was different, somehow. Maybe not in the way that he had resorted to violence like her uncle. Maybe not in the way the he would have the conscience to hold a lady captive. But he was still different.  

A stir outside the door made her pull back from her reverie. It was the shuffle of feet, and a clink of a key turning into the keyhole, both sounds she had learnt by heart in her present predicament. 

She straightened herself, though the familiar fear washed over her in tides every time that the someone behind the door might not be him anymore but her uncle. Aramina prepared herself mentally for any possible outcome she could think of in the mere two seconds before the door finally pushed open.