Isabelle looked at her direction and when they had just a small eye contact , she winked at her.
Mary turned away so quickly she nearly knocked into a waiter carrying a tray of pastries.
"Pardon me," she mumbled, stepping aside, cheeks burning. Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
She winked at me. She actually winked.
Mary tried to focus on the rose bushes. The grass. Anything but the woman on the stage with the voice that made her knees weak.
"Don't look back. Just breathe. She's probably like that with everyone," she whispered to herself, half-hoping it was true.
But the truth tugged stubbornly at the back of her mind. That wink… it felt too direct. Too personal.
She kept her eyes down as she walked across the lawn, pretending to study the floral arrangements. Her mother was thankfully distracted, chatting with a group of magistrates' wives near the refreshment table.
Mary weaved through the crowd and found a quiet corner beneath a willow tree, hidden behind a wall of hedges. She exhaled deeply.
"What am I doing?"
Her fingers gripped the edge of her dress. "She's just a singer. I'm engaged. This is madness."
"You talk to yourself often?"
Mary flinched, nearly jumping.
She spun around and there she was.
Isabelle Hart.
Up close, her presence was even more disarming. Her dress shimmered slightly in the dappled sunlight, and her expression was amused, like she knew exactly how flustered Mary was.
"I—um—" Mary's words tangled. "I wasn't—talking. I mean, I was. But not out loud. I mean—only a little—"
Isabelle laughed, soft and low. "Relax. I've seen worse conversations than that."
Mary's mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. "I didn't realize you were… here."
"Oh?" Isabelle raised a brow. "You mean here in the garden? Or here in your dream?"
Mary went pale. "What—what do you mean?"
Isabelle tilted her head, her smile growing slightly. "Nothing. Just that you looked like you'd seen a ghost when our eyes met earlier. I tend to remember faces that stare at me like I've come down from the moon."
"I wasn't staring!" Mary said quickly, too quickly. "I mean—maybe just a little. I didn't mean to. It was rude. I apologize."
Isabelle laughed again, clearly enjoying herself. "No need to apologize. I like the way you look at me."
Mary blinked. "I—I wasn't trying to look at you. I was just surprised. You sing… differently."
"Differently," Isabelle echoed, tasting the word like wine. "Is that your polite way of saying I don't belong here?"
"No! I mean—yes. I mean—" Mary covered her face with both hands. "I'm terrible at this."
"Good," Isabelle said, taking a step closer. "I prefer people who are terrible at this. Honest types."
Mary lowered her hands just enough to peek at her. "Why are you talking to me?"
"Because you looked like the only real thing in this entire painted garden." Isabelle's voice softened. "And you didn't stop staring. That always intrigues me."
"I wasn't—" Mary hesitated. "Well. Maybe I was. A little."
Their eyes locked again, and the space between them seemed to shimmer. The wind stirred the willow branches above, and for a moment, everything else—the music, the guests, the world—faded.
Mary was the first to look away.
"I should… I should probably go. My mother will be looking for me."
Isabelle smiled gently. "Let her. You're just talking to a singer, not the devil."
Mary glanced back at her. "Some would say it's the same thing."
"Well," Isabelle said with a wink, "then I suppose I'll see you in hell, Miss Whitmore."
Mary's breath caught again. "You know who I am?"
Isabelle leaned in slightly. "Of course I do. You were in my dream last night."
Mary froze.
But Isabelle had already turned and walked away, humming the melody of the very song that had undone her only hours ago.
What was this? How was she in Isabelle's dream? It was their first time meeting then how?