The wheels of the Whitman carriage clattered rhythmically against the cobblestone streets as the city slowly blurred past the windows. Inside, the silence held for a few long moments—until Jane finally broke it, her voice soft with barely contained admiration.
"You were most composed today, my lady," she said, clasping her hands atop her lap. "Lady Cranford did not expect you to respond so gently. Let alone with such cleverness." She gave a small smile, eyes shining with something close to pride. "You've… changed."
Mary Jane blinked, caught between modesty and disbelief. "I don't think I did anything special. I just didn't want to waste energy on someone like that."
Jane's smile widened slightly. "That, my lady, is precisely what made it special."
Across from them, Sarah scoffed quietly—just loud enough to be heard, just soft enough to feign innocence.
"Oh, but surely you don't mean to celebrate that exchange?" she said, tilting her head with mock concern. "I fear Lady Cranford might think she was challenged at her own tea table. And in front of so many ears, no less."
Jane's smile cooled instantly. "What Lady Cranford meant to do and what she received in return are vastly different, Sarah."
Mary Jane let out a quiet breath and leaned her head back against the cushioned wall of the carriage. Her fingers idly played with the hem of her glove. She didn't want to fight. Not now. Not when her heart was still thumping from everything that just happened.
"I didn't go there to impress anyone," she murmured at last. "But if someone thinks twice before speaking cruelly next time... I'll call it a good day."
Sarah fell silent, but her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
Outside, the sky was streaked in gold, the sun retreating behind the spires of the capital. Inside the carriage, the new Lady Whitman sat quietly in front of two women—one with quiet loyalty blooming in her chest, the other clutching tightly to spite she didn't know how to hide.
And for the first time in weeks… Mary Jane allowed herself a small, secret smile.
*****Let fates entwine*****
The carriage pulled up to the front steps of Whitman Manor just as the clouds began to gather again, casting a faint golden hue over the slate rooftops. Mary Jane eased herself out of the seat with as much grace as she could manage, grateful beyond measure that the tea party ordeal was behind her. Her head still buzzed from Lady Margella's veiled jabs and Sarah's stifling presence.
Before she could even adjust her shawl, the front door burst open.
"Mother!" a young voice called out with unmistakable joy.
Jason came running out in a flurry of dark curls and polished boots, his cheeks pink from either excitement or running down the grand staircase. Mary Jane blinked, startled by the sight of him — not by his presence, but by the nanny following him with a disapproving look.
"Father said I can spend time with you now!" He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steps. "Well, as long as Nanny Jones is with us," he added quickly, almost as if afraid the condition would ruin the good news.
Mary Jane stared for a second, heart skipping a beat.
"Oh?" she managed, a slow smile forming. "That's… that's wonderful news."
Jason beamed. "Want to see my playroom? I have all my best toys there — and my puzzles! You'll like those."
He didn't wait for her answer. Grabbing her hand with an eager tug, he began leading her up the stairs. For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the simple sweetness of it — the warmth of a child's hand in hers, the natural rhythm of conversation that didn't come laced with suspicion or rivalry. Nanny Jones followed at a measured pace, eyeing Mary Jane like she always did, though it was obvious she was preventing herself from pulling the boy away from the villainess.
They passed through the east wing corridor, sunlight catching on the polished floors and tall windowpanes. As they rounded the corner near the grand gallery, Mary Jane caught sight of two housemaids near one of the larger decorative niches.
A waist-high silver statue stood on a pedestal — some kind of mythical griffin or heraldic beast, arms outstretched and wings spread in gleaming pride. Or rather, meant to gleam. At the moment, it was dulled with patches of stubborn tarnish and smeared polish. One of the maids was furiously scrubbing at the metal with a cloth, muttering something about "elbow grease and prayers," while the other held a small tin of what looked like an abrasive paste.
"It's no use," the second maid sighed. "It just spreads the stain."
"I swear this polish is cursed. It leaves more streaks than it removes."
"Mrs. Potts'll have our heads if it's still smudged come tomorrow," the first hissed back. "She walks by here twice a day!"
"Nan said Lady Whitman's vinegar trick worked better on the windows."
"Shall we try that as well?"
Mary Jane slowed to a stop beside them. Jason peeked around her side, curious.
"What's wrong with it?" he asked.
"Um, just tarnish, young master," one maid said, straightening up quickly. "This beast won't shine no matter what we do."
Mary Jane stepped closer, inspecting the statue. She could see the telltale dull grays clinging to the grooves, the polish they used clearly no match for years of buildup.
"You know," she said after a thoughtful pause, "there's an old method we used where I'm from."
Both maids glanced up at her, wary but listening.
"If you mix equal parts flour, salt, and vinegar into a paste, then spread it over the metal and let it sit for a few minutes — maybe ten — you can just buff it clean after. It lifts the tarnish off like magic."
The younger maid blinked. "Just flour?"
Mary Jane nodded. "Flour, salt, and vinegar. Nothing fancy."
The older maid frowned skeptically. "We've never heard of such a thing."
"Well, I…um….my previous maid back home tried it before on a silver serving tray that looked even worse than this." She gave them a friendly smile; thankful she was able to give a believable explanation. "Didn't take much effort at all. Worked better than any polish."
Jason gasped, eyes going wide. "Really? That's amazing! Did you learn that from a magic book?"
Mary Jane laughed. "No, just from someone very clever back home."
The younger maid brightened, nudging her companion. "We could try it, couldn't we? Remember the window?" The last question was whispered.
"…Wouldn't hurt," the other muttered, clearly still skeptical but no longer dismissive.
Jason turned to her with admiration practically glowing off his face. "You know everything, Lady Whitman!"
"Hardly," she said, her smile growing. "But I know a few tricks."
"You should teach me some," he said earnestly. "Then I could help the staff too! Maybe even Nanny Jones."
From behind them, Nanny Jones coughed once — though her expression was unreadable.
The maids curtsied quickly, offering quiet thanks before scurrying off in the direction of the kitchens to fetch ingredients. Mary Jane stepped away from the statue, letting the moment pass without fanfare. But inside, a strange feeling settled over her — not pride exactly, and certainly not triumph.
It was something gentler. Like… belonging.
And being heard.
Jason tugged Mary Jane's hand excitedly as they walked past the sparkling brass statue—now coated in the flour-salt-vinegar paste as instructed.
"This way! I want you to see my playroom. Father said he had it built just for me when I turned three."
Mary Jane smiled as she followed his bounding steps down the hall, Nanny Jones quietly trailing behind with her usual firm but silent watchfulness. The door opened to reveal a sun-drenched space filled with carefully arranged shelves, a small table with carved wooden puzzles, and an entire corner devoted to plush animals and wheeled wooden animals painted in cheerful colors.
Jason darted to a worktable and picked up a hand-carved knight mounted on a painted horse. "See? Sir Darion the Bold! I named him. He fights dragons and never loses."
She knelt beside him, intrigued. "Did you make this?"
"I helped! But the carpenter did most of it. I just told him how many spikes the dragon should have." He reached into a box and pulled out several wooden blocks. "And look! These fit together to make a castle. Well… almost. They don't always stay."
Mary Jane picked up a piece and examined it. "May I?"
Jason nodded eagerly.
She pressed the edges together and frowned as one piece wobbled out of alignment. "Hmm. If these had little grooves or pegs… like a puzzle… they'd fit better and stay upright."
Jason's eyes lit up. "Like the shape puzzles on my table!"
"Exactly. Or like the Lego set my brother used to play with—" She stopped herself quickly. "—Well, someone I once knew."
"What's a Lego set?"
"It's like a set of blocks that snap together more securely. You can build towers taller than you are with snap-on blocks."
Jason's mouth dropped open. "Blocks that snap together?"
She smiled, the idea already forming in her head. "Imagine if your castle pieces clicked into place more securely. You could build turrets, gates, towers—and nothing would fall over when the dragon attacked."
Jason jumped to his feet. "That would be amazing! Could we ask the carpenter to make some?"
Mary Jane glanced over at Nanny Jones, who was pretending not to listen but whose eyes missed nothing. She softened her tone, "Maybe. But only if we drew up the right design first. Good inventions start with good planning."
Jason ran to his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment. "Can you draw it for me?"
Lego and Snap inventors, I'm sorry for this—she thought. But I need more independence to move in this world and money, my own money, might just help me achieve it. Mary Jane took a pencil, her fingers steady as she sketched a simplified version of interlocking blocks. Nothing too futuristic—just enough to hint at a better idea. "We'll call these building bricks," she said, voice light. "They'll be toys for boys and girls, builders, thinkers… and dragon-slayers."
Jason leaned on her shoulder, watching the drawing take shape. "Mother?"
"Hm?"
"You're really smart. Like the Grand Inventor from the fairy books."
Her smile turned wistful. "I just like solving problems. Especially if it helps someone smile."
Toy-making could earn money—money she could control. Not Bettina's money nor her husband's money. Something independent. Something that couldn't be taken away if her last name or status was stripped from her. Something that could even help her gain more freedom and power to search for a way home.
"Jason, why is this one all broken?" She pointed at a knight with a broken arm and leg among the other displayed knights.
Jason ran to his shelf and pulled out the wooden, painted knight she indicated. "This one! It was my favorite toy. I was playing with it when I suddenly got sick."
Mary Jane accepted the toy and tried to make the broken pieces fit together. "Oh?"
He sat on a cushioned chair by the puzzles, legs swinging. "I don't really remember most of it—I was really sleepy for a long time. Nanny and the doctor stayed with me the whole day. I think it was the milk that made me feel weird."
Mary Jane's smile froze for the briefest second. "Milk?"
Jason nodded. "Milk and honey biscuits. It was my favorite snack! But after that day, Father said I couldn't have it anymore, and they threw everything out. He was really mad."
From across the room, Nanny Jones looked up sharply from her chair by the fireplace. "Rightly so," she said crisply. "The young master was in danger. We were fortunate the doctor arrived in time."
Mary Jane turned her head, eyes warm but curious. "And what were the signs?"
"Swollen airways, shallow breathing. We barely caught it in time." Nanny's gaze was cool but measured. "His lordship suspected food poisoning. Found powdered nuts in the milk to which the young master is allergic to."
Jason scratched his nose absently. "Father yelled at everyone for days. He even shouted at Cook! I don't know why. Cook cried."
Mary Jane's heart twisted. So young, so unaware. She lowered her voice gently. "You don't remember anything strange before it happened?"
Jason shook his head. "Nope. Just… sleepy. I thought maybe I was just tired from my lessons."
Nanny stood and walked over, eyes on Mary Jane. "Children forget details. Adults know better. The incident… changed this household. Some things are not to be taken lightly."
There was something in her tone — a warning, perhaps. Or a quiet distrust.
Mary Jane offered a serene smile. "Of course. I imagine it was terrifying for everyone involved."
Jason leaned into her side. "But I'm fine now! And Nanny says my new snacks are safe. Father ordered everything to always be checked."
"I'm glad," she said softly, smoothing his hair. "You deserve to be safe. Always."
Nanny's eyebrow raised in disbelief at her response.
So, it really was the milk. Powdered peanuts? She remembered the article. "Suspected Poisoning". She looked down at the boy's innocent smile and swallowed hard. He didn't even know. And, of course, neither did she.
Jason smiled up at her—pure and trusting—and in that moment, Mary Jane felt it: the undeniable urge to protect him. To uncover what had happened to him… and make sure it never happened again. But someone in this house had tried to kill him, and everyone believed it was her. Including the man who now allowed her near his son again… with supervision.
But if Bettina was not the culprit, then there was at least one dangerous person that must be purged from this house.
And Jason… Jason's tragedy and the truth of whether or not Bettina was involved must be made clear. Not only to her, but also to those who love and care for him.
After a fun afternoon of 'horsing around' with Jason in his playroom, they both went down in high spirits, and had their dinner. It was a more enjoyable dinner for her, since the Earl was not home once again. It seemed that most of the Earl's time was spent working outside, or doing God knows what. Which she was grateful for.
Jason asked if Bettina could read him a bedtime story and tuck him to bed that night, to which she was quite happy to oblige. She had so much fun with Jason that day that she almost forgot the constant presence of Nanny Jone's watchful eyes.
*****The justice that you seek*****
The heavy scent of rose oil still lingered in the air, clinging to the damask drapes and the rich wood-paneled walls. The Earl stood near the tall window of his office, at the very top of the Sutherland Trading Company's headquarters, buttoning his shirt with practiced detachment. Behind him, Lady Margella lay sprawled across the velvet-lined divan, her gown halfway re-draped but her gaze sharp beneath fluttering lashes.
"You've been distant lately," she murmured, smoothing down the bodice of her dress. "Outside of these… functional arrangements."
The Earl didn't look back. "Because our arrangement is precisely that—functional. You're well aware."
Margella's smile faltered for just a second, but she recovered with a light, almost teasing scoff. "A woman likes to be seen sometimes, Anthony. Not just summoned."
He turned then, sharp gray eyes locking onto hers. "You're not my wife, Margella."
Her laugh was brittle, low. "And yet, I've been more loyal than she ever was."
A beat passed, taut as a drawn bowstring.
The Earl returned to his desk, adjusting his cufflinks as if sealing himself back into his role—unfeeling, unreadable, The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman once more. "We both use each other, Margella. Let's not pretend otherwise."
She rose, slowly, holding up the front of her gown which would have fallen back on the floor should she remove her hand. "Fine. But you should know your wife made quite the impression at the tea party just earlier today."
That caught his attention—barely, but enough. His hands stilled over a sealed envelope.
Margella's voice turned silk-smooth, feigning nonchalance as she fixed her gown more securely on her body. "She was... different. Almost charming. Some even whispered she might have been unwell." She walked toward him, each step measured. "What do you make of that?"
"I wasn't aware she attended."
"She might have been…forced to. I don't know about that."
He said nothing. But Margella saw the flicker in his gaze, the way his fingers tightened briefly on the edges of the envelope he was holding.
"I wonder," she said softly, "what changed in her. Not so long ago, she could barely speak without spite. Now, I hear she's charming kitchen maids and winning over children. Even I, personally witnessed a softening in her manner and speech."
That struck deeper than he liked. He masked it quickly.
Margella tilted her head, reading him. "You look almost… uncertain."
"I'm not." His tone was final. "Whatever mask she's wearing now, I don't trust it."
Margella stepped closer, her smile wry. "And yet… you didn't know she went to the tea party."
The Earl's silence was answer enough.
She smoothed her gloves slowly, deliberately. "Be careful, Anthony. A woman playing redemption is either sincere... or calculating. And you know which makes the better threat."
She paused at the door. "But I suppose you have your own ways of finding out."
With one last glance—half challenge, half farewell—Lady Margella swept out, her perfume lingering like a warning.
The soft click of the door echoed like a judgment in the suddenly too-quiet room.
Anthony James Whitman remained still behind his desk; eyes fixed on the carved wolf-shaped paperweight beside the ledgers. Outside the window, the port city of Aurenport, situated just outside of the capital, bustled even this late at night. But inside these four walls, time seemed to stall—suspended between past regrets and present discomfort.
He let out a slow breath, shoulders finally sagging the moment he was alone.
Margella's words rang in his ears.
"…winning over children…"
His jaw tightened.
Jason.
He'd noticed it, too. The child had smiled more these past few weeks—laughed, even. That hadn't happened since... since before.
He turned away from the window, eyes scanning the room but not truly seeing it. His fingers found the corner of a drawer and pulled it open. Inside, beneath ledgers and stamped papers, lay a folded newsprint—The Boleus Tribune. Its edges were worn from being handled too many times.
He pulled it out.
COUNTESS OF WHITMAN LINKED TO SON'S NEAR-FATAL ALLERGY INCIDENT.
He'd read the headline so many times that it no longer had meaning, yet the knot it formed in his chest hadn't unraveled.
His fingers curled around the paper slowly.
They were never able to prove anything. The maid had died, hung herself by the window bars using her own skirt, taking with her all the answers to their questions. The whispers, however, remained. Bettina had slept during the entire ordeal. Either the maid heavily drugged Bettina before committing that atrocity to his son, or Bettina drugged herself so she won't be implicated in this planned crime. Bettina had known of his son's allergy. She must have known.
He wanted to believe it.
He had believed it.
And yet—
He remembered the 'mother' Jason spoke of days before. "She loved the flowers I gave her, Father. She even cooked breakfast for me!"
A woman who had once loathed the child now smiled with fondness. A woman who had once spat venom now gave maids useful household tricks, remembered their names, blushed at compliments.
It didn't make sense. Not unless...
"What changed in her?"
Margella had asked it like a question, but he heard the warning underneath.
Anthony leaned back in his chair and covered his face with one hand, dragging it slowly down as if trying to scrub the uncertainty from his skin. For the first time in years, his iron certainty had hairline fractures.
A knock broke the silence.
He straightened. "Come in."
A clerk entered, crisp and professional. "Lord Whitman, the ledgers for the southern trade fleet have arrived."
He nodded once, folding the paper and sliding it back into the drawer as if it were just another document—not a phantom clawing at his conscience.
"Leave them on the desk. I'll review them shortly."
The door closed again.
Alone once more, the Earl reached into the drawer for his pen but paused. Instead, he stared at the faint ink smudge left by Margella's gloved fingers on his desk.
Then, for the first time in a long while, he whispered to himself.
"What did change in her?"