Chapter One — The Cage of Silk and Lace
The Whitmore estate was suffocating in the springtime.
To anyone else, the manicured gardens, gleaming white pillars, and gold-trimmed windows might have appeared a symbol of wealth and refinement. To me, they were bars on a gilded cage.
"Evangeline Rose Whitmore," my mother's sharp voice rang across the drawing room, "for heaven's sake, sit up straight. One would think you were a governess' daughter, the way you slump."
I straightened immediately, spine stiff as the ivory buttons of my corset dug into my back. My teacup rattled against its saucer, betraying my nerves.
"Yes, Mother," I murmured.
She eyed me with the same critical sharpness she reserved for servants and floral arrangements. "You are eighteen years old, and it is high time you began to conduct yourself as a lady of breeding. Mr. Ainsworth will be in attendance at this evening's dinner, and I expect you to make a fine impression."
Mr. Ainsworth. A man nearly twice my age, balding and perpetually sweating through his waistcoats. My "suitable match."
I lowered my gaze to the rippling surface of my tea, fighting the urge to grimace. The pale liquid smelled faintly of bergamot, but even its fragrance could not soothe the sour taste in my mouth.
If my mother noticed my silence, she said nothing more. Conversation in the Whitmore household was rarely a dialogue—it was a decree.
Later, when the drawing room emptied and Mother retired upstairs, I escaped into the gardens. The evening air was cool and damp, carrying with it the scent of earth and rain. Somewhere beyond the rose bushes and trimmed hedges, the woods whispered.
I had always been drawn to those woods. Nannies and maids had spent my childhood scolding me for straying too close, muttering warnings of wolves, witches, and old spirits that lingered beneath the trees. But the older I grew, the stronger the pull became.
It was not Mr. Ainsworth I dreamed of at night, nor of teas and socials and a life of polished smiles. It was of wings unfurling against a violet sky. Of fires that burned but did not consume. Of creatures too magnificent to belong to the pages of storybooks.
Sometimes, in those dreams, I heard a voice. Low, commanding, ancient. It called my name like a summons.
Evangeline.
I shivered as the wind brushed across my face, carrying with it a faint, impossible scent of smoke and something older—something wild.
Perhaps it was my imagination. Or perhaps, just beyond those woods, something waited.
Something that would change everything.
By nightfall, I was laced into pale blue satin and marched into the dining room like a soldier to the gallows. The chandelier blazed overhead, scattering prisms across crystal goblets and polished silverware. Every detail gleamed—except my spirit.
Mr. Ainsworth sat at the far end of the long table, a man of forty at least, his cheeks ruddy, his collar too tight around his thick neck. He rose as I entered, bowing stiffly.
"Miss Whitmore," he said, his voice damp and heavy. "An honor."
I curtsied, though my knees locked. "Mr. Ainsworth."
Mother's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as I took my place beside him. Conversation droned on—crops, business, weather—while I pushed peas about my plate and tried not to flinch at the brush of his hand upon the tablecloth, far too close to mine.
"I hear," Mr. Ainsworth said, leaning toward me, "that you are quite the reader, Miss Whitmore. Though I do hope your tastes are… appropriate."
"Entirely, sir," I replied sweetly, though my heart hammered. "I read history, geography… and legends."
"Legends?" He chuckled, as if I were a child speaking of fairytales. "Dragons and fairies, no doubt. Dangerous nonsense for a young lady. You'd do better with poetry."
I smiled, though inside something sparked like a struck flint. "Perhaps, Mr. Ainsworth. Though I should like to think the world still holds mysteries we have yet to uncover."
My father cleared his throat in warning, but I held the man's gaze a heartbeat longer before dropping it to my plate.
The rest of the evening blurred. Polite laughter. Wine poured into crystal. The weight of expectation pressing against my chest until I could hardly breathe.
When at last I was excused, I slipped into the gardens again. The moon was high, silver light spilling across the lawn. The woods loomed in the distance, dark and beckoning.
I lifted my skirts and walked to the very edge of the hedge where the garden ended and wildness began. The air was cooler there, scented with pine and damp earth. And again—faint, impossible—I smelled smoke.
Not the acrid smoke of chimneys, but something older. Something alive.
A flicker of warmth rippled through me, as if the world itself exhaled against my skin.
"Evangeline."
The voice brushed across my mind like a whisper carried on the wind.
I froze, heart pounding.
It was the same voice from my dreams.