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Chapter Text

The Featherington were one of the most powerful families in England. The patriarch, Lord Archibald, disregarded the traditions of the aristocracy and immersed himself in the Industrial Revolution.

As a ‘Captain of Industry’, he built an empire with textile mills, railroads, and bold investments, turning his already obscene fortune into something even greater. With his marquise, Lady Portia Featherington, he had three daughters, but no male heir: Prudence, the eldest; Philippa, the middle; and Penelope, the youngest and her mother's favorite.

In December 1864, the American Civil War hit their business. A cotton shortage forced Lord Featherington to close one of his mills, throwing hundreds of workers out of work. That same evening, at their main house in London, while the unemployed huddled in tenements, worried about the hardships they faced without jobs, the Featherington family celebrated with a lavish ball.

The feast was an affront: lavish food, expensive dresses, and a diamond diadem for Lady Portia, a gift from her husband. A crown for a queen indifferent to the hunger of her subjects.

On Christmas Eve, a fire consumed the family's country mansion in Kent overnight. Some downstairs staff escaped, but the doors to the family's bedrooms were locked from the outside.

Lord Featherington and his eldest daughters were burned to death. A maidservant and a servant who tried to save her also perished. The official cause was a candle, but the evidence pointed to foul play.

Lady Featherington survived.

She was in the library and managed to escape. According to her, her youngest daughter, seven-year-old Penelope, escaped with her, only to be kidnapped in the gardens by men furious with her husband.

After that night, no one ever saw Lady Penelope Featherington again. Lady Portia's story was the only truth, but time cast doubt on it. The girl's body was never found in the rubble, fueling theories.

Had she turned to ash? Had she been kidnapped? Or, if she survived the fire, had she died by other means?

For fourteen years, Lady Portia maintained a reward for her daughter, financed fruitless searches, and clung to shreds of hope. Until, in 1878, exhausted by unrelenting grief, she retired to Paris. She had to ponder the unthinkable: whether it might finally be time to give up.

However, even with her mother on the verge of abdication, the story of the lost heiress and her reward persisted. Every now and then, several young women appeared claiming to be her missing daughter.

And none of them were Penelope.

But, although it seemed so, Lady Featherington never let the hope of finding her again die.

Chapter Text

Penelope disappeared in December 1864.

Her existence had become a fable, and the rumors no longer seemed real to Colin. Perhaps she had lost herself to the world, just as the Marchioness, Lady Featherington, had lost herself to sanity.

Still, the boy who had once been part of the Featherington family's servants kept a small gold-plated jewelry box that Penelope's mother had given her.

He could have sold it a long time ago, trading it for food and shelter on the streets of London after leaving the orphanage.

But Colin kept it with him, clinging to memories of the past before the fire. And now, the jewelry box had a use that could earn him a lot of money: proof that Penelope Featherington was alive.

No, he hadn't found her, but he didn't need to. 

He just needed an imposter who could impersonate Penelope to extort a small fortune from Lady Portia. 

The jewelry box was his advantage, his trump card against the other scammers who could only rely on their smooth talk.

“Colin, enough, let’s give up,” Michaela said, getting up from the chair next to me.

All the candidates for Penelope's position were terrible, and the most recent one was no different. He didn't even notice when Michaela turned her down. 

None of them were Penelope.

"To give up?"

"Yeah, give up. You failed all the women." Michaela sighed, worried. "Our searches are running out."

They were in a theater in suburban London, a small, run-down place. Colin won it in one night, stealing it from the drunken owner in a card game, with a mix of clever bluffs and a few tricks up his sleeve.

The Palace was the perfect place to attract actresses who could be candidates to play Penelope, but it was the third ‘audition,’ and no candidate was good enough to be able to deceive Lady Portia.

Colin's name didn't appear in the newspapers at the time, but he was there that night at the Kent mansion. He nearly burned to death, but was rescued by his father before he could return to the fire after his mother.

That day was one of the last times Colin saw his brothers together before they were separated.

"I won't give up!" He rose from his seat in the front row of the stands, pulling down his vest. "This is our chance to have a life without relying on scams and robberies."

Michaela Stirling was an orphan, like him. But unlike Colin, she had been part of a wealthy family. An illegitimate child, she was surprisingly embraced by her father's family and treated as one of their own, even though they kept their relationship a secret.

The tragedy began with a bad investment that ruined the family's finances. Her father died. Then her cousin John died young, leaving the estate without heirs, and her mother and aunt fell ill and died of fever, leaving Michaela as the only remaining Stirling.

With no living relatives, the girl was sent to an orphanage. She only adopted the surname Stirling after leaving the orphanage.

"What are we going to do? As you said yourself, Lady Featherington needs to feel the hope that she's seeing her daughter again before she sees the little box and confirms it. She needs to believe our girl is her," Michaela said, pivoting on her heel to begin her restless pacing once more.  "If none of them convinced you right off the bat, and you knew Penelope up close, then they have no chance of convincing the Marquise."

Colin pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. It wasn't a gesture of exhaustion, but rather of someone seeking focus.

“We will find our girl. I swear on everything that is holy. Trust me.”

Although she wasn't convinced, Michaela's trust in Colin outweighed her doubts. After all, he'd never let her down, and if he assured her the audacious plan was possible, she would go along with it.

The woman stopped in front of him.

“Are you really going to do that to her?”

“That what?” he asked, confused.

“Deceiving her mother. Usurping Penelope’s place,” Michaela insisted. “She was your friend.”

Colin gave a humorless chuckle.

“The servants' son is no friend to a noble girl. Besides, we have to think of ourselves first, not a ghost. Penelope is dead; the Marquise is about to come to terms with her loss. That's why we're running before she gives up.”

“Are you saying you don’t care about Penelope?”

He wanted to answer immediately, but an involuntary pause stopped him. His inner self fought against reason. Even so, Colin cleared his throat at Michaela's raised eyebrow and shrugged.

"Exactly."

“What if it’s true? What if they kidnapped her that night? Can you imagine the horrible things that could have happened?”

A shiver ran down Colin's spine, but he insisted on appearing impenetrable.

“I care more about the two of us.”

"Serious?" 

Michaela pointed to the painting on the floor.

Leaning against one wall of the decaying theater was a remnant of the Featheringtons' former glory: a family portrait. The canvas, partially burned at the edges and impossible to hang, depicted the last generation of the clan, with Lord and Lady Featherington flanked by their three daughters: Prudence, Philippa, and Penelope.

The painting had been a gift for the marquise. Colin had acquired it on his last trip to Kent. The tragedy of the fire had been so traumatic for Lady Featherington that she simply abandoned the property, leaving everything behind to the mercy of the ruins. To make matters worse, after the fire was extinguished, the country house was looted by opportunists.

“I just thought it was a waste to leave the painting at an antique shop.”

"Even knowing all the disbelief and sadness of the poor woman trying to find her daughter, you still want to take advantage? Revive her hopes only to have it all turned out to be a lie?"

He refused to feel guilty, he had survived a lot since that fire and the Featherington family had done nothing for his brothers and him after his parents burned to death.

I didn't care.

"When did you get so soft, Mich?"

"Soft?" Michaela planted her hands on her hips, indignation flashing in her eyes. "Did you just call me soft?"

“Ah, a thousand pardons, my lady.” Colin bowed mockingly. “I forgot your selective scruples. Stealing? An art. Deceiving? Admirable. Cheating? A natural talent. But touching less than 1 percent of the fortune of a filthy rich widowed marchioness?” He placed a hand on his chest, feigning shock. “Barbarity! Pure barbarity!”

With a frustrated cry, Michaela chased after him. They were cat and dog, setting the room ablaze with their provocation. They circled the worn red velvet chairs, like in the old orphanage days, two children trapped in adult bodies.

Colin laughed as he jumped up and down the rows, knowing that Michaela with the skirts of that exquisite dress could never.

"I like your treacherous side better, MiMi. It's more… authentic."

She growled at the nickname.

"If you don't shut up, I'll set your bed on fire! With you in it!" The words escaped before she could stop them. Michaela stopped suddenly, the green fabric of her skirts billowing around her. Horror washed over her face. "I'm sorry. Colin, I didn't… I didn't mean it."

Colin's laughter suddenly stopped. The whole place went quiet. The smile that had been on his lips didn't reach his eyes.

"Don't worry," he said, his tone taking on a calculated formality as he plopped down in one of the fourth-row chairs. "I'd sleep with one eye open anyway." He dipped his mental quill into an imaginary inkwell and began to scribble notes in his mind, changing the subject. "For tomorrow, we need to be smarter. We have to word the ad to specify her current age."

Michaela sighed, throwing herself into the nearest chair, making the ancient wood creak in protest.

“To prevent ladies in their late fifties wearing tight corsets from trying to convince us they’re twenty?”

“Precisely,” Colin said, with a distant look in his eyes.

“We should have scolded them for their age before the test.”

“My mother used to say it’s not polite to discuss a lady’s age out loud.”

A silence fell, broken only by the hum of the streetlamps. He looked up into the darkness of the upper galleries, where the gilding was peeling from the moldings.

“Who’s going to make dinner?” she asked finally.

“I’m exhausted,” Colin admitted, loosening the tie around his neck.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Michaela surrendered, already feeling tired just thinking about walking to the dressing room where they slept.

He grimaced.

“Try not to make a thin soup.”

“Are you complaining?”

“You’re a woman. Shouldn’t you have a little more skill in the kitchen?” the provocation was automatic.

She arched an eyebrow.

"You're a man. Shouldn't you be providing for us with something better than a theater that's falling to pieces and canned food?"

He raised his hands in surrender and made a fencing sign, a glint of truth returning to his eyes.

“Touché, mademoiselle.” he said, with an exaggerated French accent. “I’m training for when we get to Paris.”

“If we get to Paris,” she corrected him.

“We’ll go to Paris, Stirling,” he insisted, looking up at the ornate ceiling as if he could see the River Seine through it.

“Not if you keep rejecting every candidate because they’re not ‘Penelope’ enough.”

The mention of the name broke the spell. The gleam in his eyes faltered. Colin stood, the sound of his chair scraping against the wooden floor echoing through the empty theater. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair.

“Don’t worry, my pretty Michaela,” he said, offering Michaela a confident smile as he pulled on his coat. “Tomorrow will be a new day. We’ll find our girl. I have a good feeling.” He finished adjusting his tie. “Now, I’m going to go get us something to eat. Hopefully, warm meat pie that doesn’t taste bad. Stay here and rest.”

Self-confidence was Colin's armor. If he doubted, everything would fall apart. So he left his uncertainty to Michaela; it was a burden he couldn't carry. Sometimes, he just had to be careful not to believe too much and end up crushed by his own heart.

As has happened before.

To survive, you must cling to reason. To facts, not to the fantasy that things could go back to the way they were before.

Penelope was not her friend.

Penelope was dead.

Penelope was a ghost.

<<< O >>>

A sigh of pure agony escaped Colin's lips.

On stage, a woman in her forties, her cheeks flushed with too much rouge and her lips painted in a grotesque caricature, tried for the second time to convince the audience that she was the young and innocent Penelope.

The scene was so disastrous that he felt a visceral urge to rip his own eyes out and only put them back in when it was over.

“Hello, Mommy. It’s me, Penelope, I…” her voice wavered, shrill.

“No!” 

The scream escaped Colin, louder and wilder than he had intended. He immediately jumped to his feet, the impact of his feet on the wooden floor sounding like a blow.

“Colin, for God’s sake!” Michaela scolded, her face flushed with embarrassment. She nudged him discreetly with her elbow. “Manner up.”

“Why are we wasting time with this?” he retorted, impatience tinged every syllable. Standing up, he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We greatly appreciate your participation.”

The woman on stage snorted at the two in the front row, her face flushed with fury.

“Stupid little man!”

She stomped off.

He descended the side stairs, marching down the aisle between the bleachers and out of the theater, cursing in what Colin would have guessed was angry, broken Italian.

He slumped back in his chair, massaging his temples before facing Michaela. She was glaring murderously at him.

“What?” Colin defended himself. “You have to agree, she was terrible!”

“We’re running out of options, Colin,” her voice was icy.

“Isn’t there anyone else?”

“No! Do you see anyone else here?” she gestured to the empty theater. “And I know what’s going to happen. You’re going to reject them all, one by one. I’ll never believe your foolish hunches again.”

“Foolish?” he said, offended. “I remember saying I had a good feeling when we stole that suit during that dead man’s wake, and I was right.”

The first lie, the most important of all, is the one you wear. A good suit or an elegant dress are not vanities; they are the foundation of all deception. People don't see the person, they see the fabric. They forgive a shifty look, but never a patch on the sleeve.

Before they began their plan, Michaela visited a Delacroix studio and left wearing a blue silk dress and several thin undergarments.

For days, the two observed Genevieve, the dressmaker's assistant. Her facade was impeccable: a prestigious job and a resume featuring stints at the finest ateliers in Paris. However, their investigation revealed the truth: there was nothing French about the woman.

Being as skilled a con artist as they were, she immediately feared that they might destroy her reputation.

Colin's case, however, was more delicate. Tailors are observant and expensive, and none had a secret they could use as blackmail. So, the two of them sought a solution in a place where security was lax and the client couldn't complain: the wake of a baron.

While the young baron's family wept in another room, they paid their private respects. It was a matter of priorities: first the soul, then the tailor. They prayed for the nobleman's eternal rest and then relieved him of his splendid suit.

He certainly wouldn't be needing it anymore.

“And we almost got caught!”

“Ah, ‘almost’! The most insignificant detail,” Colin dismissed with a wave of his hand. “No one even checked to see if the poor man was dressed when they buried him. Everything went smoothly.”

“Stupid little man!”

“The dead gentleman? I have to agree,” Colin said thoughtfully. “But it wasn’t his fault he died from shitting so much. Poor man.”

“I’m talking about you!”

Colin's lips parted in shock. He stood, hands on his hips.

“Are we really going to wash our dirty laundry now?”

“And why not?” Michaela also stood up, lifting her chin in defiance. “You always come up with the worst plans!”

“And you…” he began, but stopped, frustrated. “Damn, you’re always too perfect at what you do! It makes my plans worse in comparison!”

"Excuse me?"

The voice was new. They both turned to find a young, petite, red-haired woman standing in the center of the stage. She must have walked in while they were arguing, watching everything curiously.

Michaela made an impatient gesture with her hand.

“Just a second, please!” She turned to Colin. “You make the plans, and I always have to fix the holes you don’t see!”

“We’re a team! That’s what teams do: we cover for each other!”

“Excuse me?” the redhead repeated, a little louder.

“Look, miss, you shouldn’t even be in yet,” Colin said sharply.

Michaela scolded him instantly.

“Hey, don’t be rude!”

“I’m not being rude!”

“You’re being rude!” she accused.

“Rude,” Colin mocked, making his voice high-pitched to shrilly imitate her outraged tone.

To complete the provocation, he pressed his tongue against his lips and made a wet, coarse sound. It mimicked a fart.

The shock on Michaela's face was genuine. She put her hand to her chest, offended.

“How dare you... in front of..." Her eyes darted to the young woman on the stage, who seemed to have been petrified. Michaela's irritation, however, turned into something more dangerous: determination. "Pathetic."

Before Colin could react, she responded with a sound of her own, shorter, louder, and decidedly more impressive.

Colin arched an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. He produced a new note, long and vibrant.

Michaela countered with a flurry of three quick sounds.

A high-pitched scream interrupted the bizarre competition.

"EXCUSE ME!"

The young woman on stage stared at them, her face horrified. The two con artists stopped in mid-act, like children caught red-handed.

“I didn’t come here for… for whatever this is!” Her voice trembled, but it was firm. “Or for the reasons that lady went around cursing you two.”

Colin studied her, intrigued. She had exactly the profile they were looking for to impersonate Penelope, and wasn't she here for the audition?

“And what exactly did you come for?”

She gathered her courage.

“I’m looking for Mr. Colin Bridgerton. Is that you?”

Hearing the name, Michaela shot Colin a warning look. He, however, remained calm, his eyes narrowed.

“Maybe. It depends on who’s looking for it.”

“I need to leave the country,” the young woman said. “I need to get to Paris. I hear Mr. Bridgerton is the only one who can arrange such a ticket for a reasonable price.”

The mention of forged notes set off alarm bells in Colin's head. It was a closed chapter. The only ones I had were for three specific people, and that girl wasn't one of them.

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“But they said that you…”

“Because they said it wrong,” he cut her off. “You can leave.”

With a desolate expression, the young woman nodded her head.

Clutching her threadbare hat and old gloves, she turned and walked toward the stage stairs.

“Wait!” Michaela’s scream was so sudden that it made the young woman stop and Colin turn around sharply.

“What?” he asked, seeing Michaela shove her hands into the inside pockets of his coat. He tried to push her away, but she was quicker, pulling out a small, crumpled photograph of Penelope, which he always carried close to his heart. “What are you doing?”

From where she stood, she lifted the photograph, looking from it to the young woman's face on the stage, and back again. A slow, triumphant smile appeared on Michaela's lips.

And then she looked at Colin.

“Look,” she commanded. “I noticed the similarities with the painting, but the photograph makes everything clearer.”

Colin looked.

And he was out of breath.

There were eerie similarities between them. The same eyes, the same soft curve of her lips, the same way a strand of red hair stubbornly fell across her forehead.

Maybe it was Penelope's ghost.

Michaela lowered the photo, her eyes fixed on it.

“Your name, dear. What is it?”

“Anne, ma’am.”

“I am Michaela, Miss Anne,” Michaela said, her voice soft. “What part of town are you from?”

“From the tenements,” the girl replied, her gaze downcast. “I live in the alley behind the old Featherington Factory.”

Colin and Michaela exchanged a look.

“Paris… Featherington Factory…”

“It’s just coincidences,” Colin stammered, trying to convince himself.

Michaela ignored him, approaching him.

“Didn’t you once tell me that Penelope’s middle name was Anne?” she whispered, so only he could hear.

Colin turned to the young woman, his mind racing.

“Would you have another name? Or a surname, Anne?”

“Well, actually… This is going to sound crazy,” she began, twisting her hands in the brim of her hat. “I don’t know what my last name is. Not my real one. To be honest, I don’t even know if Anne is my name.” She gave a sad smile. “I call myself Anne Ginger, because of… my hair.”

“How does someone not know their own name?” Colin asked, disbelief in his voice.

“I'm an orphan. I was found in an unknown carriage, overturned, when I was about seven or eight years old. There was an accident, I think, and they abandoned me there.”

“And before that?” Michaela asked gently.

“Look, listen, I know this is weird, but I don’t remember,” Anne said, her frustration evident. “I have few memories of my past. Fragments. A scent of perfume. A lullaby. That’s all I have. My head was bleeding profusely when they found me. I hit a rock hard.”

Colin studied her, his suspicion giving way to something more.

“But why Paris?”

“Because it’s the only clue I have,” she replied, her blue eyes shining with determination. “Paris.”

He continued to stare at her, trapped in a kind of trance. It was like looking at a ghost. She's not Penelope, the phrase hammered in his mind, a desperate denial against any absurd hope that might spring to mind.

It can't be.

“Give us a moment, please,” Michaela's voice cut through the tense silence. She smiled at Anne, a smile so warm it was almost believable. “Stay put, dear.”

Turning her back to the stage, she gave Colin's coat sleeve a sharp tug, forcing him to turn around.

“This is our chance, Colin. It’s perfect!” she whispered, her voice vibrating with triumph.

“Perfect? ​​Michaela, she’s not Penelope!” he replied, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

"Does it matter?" she countered, relentless. "The girl is a blank canvas. No past, no memories. That's not a hindrance, it's an advantage! With our guidance, we can transform this orphan into the lost heiress. We just need to teach her to walk like a lady, talk like a lady, and learn other similarities to Penelope beyond the frightening physical resemblance. If she remembers the basics, we'll use her amnesia as an excuse for everything else."

That was it. The plan. Colin locked his heart and threw away the key. Penelope was a ghost, and ghosts wouldn't give him a better life. The only real thing was Michaela by his side and the opportunity before him.

“The pitt didn't last, did it, Mich? You’re back to being yourself.”

“How strange. I swore it was my treacherous and intelligent side that you appreciated most about me.”

The anguish that gripped him gave way to the familiar, comforting adrenaline of fraud.

It was his true element.

“Mr. Bridgerton? Are you going to help me or not?” Anne’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Colin turned. The earlier heat had faded from his eyes. Now they were those of a jewel appraiser examining a rough stone. He walked onto the stage, his steps slow and deliberate. Michaela followed him, her silence more intimidating than any words.

“Umm,” he grumbled.

He began to walk around the girl, who stiffened uncomfortably. Michaela was also looking her up and down.

The dress was worn, and the fit was terrible. One of her gloves had a hole in the fingertip. Her hair was tied back in a simple, inelegant updo. She wore no rouge or lip color, which made her look even younger and paler. 

Her body was curvaceous, she barely reached his shoulder, and she looked ready to give him a beating if necessary.

Nothing escaped their scrutiny.

“What is this? Why are they circling me?” Anne finally asked, her voice irritated. “Circling people like this is so rude! Were they vultures in another life?”

Colin stopped in front of her, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

"Well, I'd like to help. In fact, by a curious coincidence, we're also on our way to Paris."

Hope flooded her face.

"Serious?"

“Seriously,” Colin said. “We have three tickets right here.” He patted his breast pocket. “But unfortunately, the third one is for her.”

Anne looked around the empty stage.

“Who is she?”

Colin and Michaela exchanged a knowing look. She raised an eyebrow at him, signaling for the performance to begin. As Michaela gathered her skirts to descend the stairs, Colin's awkward demeanor faded into a charming gentleman, offering Anne his gloved hand.

“Miss Anne, please.”

Confused by the sudden change, she accepted his hand. Hers was warm and delicate. He led her off the stage, toward the Featherington painting.

"She is Penelope," Michaela said, her voice echoing in the room. She pointed to the enormous oil painting on the floor. It was a portrait of the Featherington family, with the youngest daughter beside her mother. "Colin and I are on a mission to reunite Lady Penelope with her mother, Lady Portia Featherington, in Paris."

“And you,” Colin added, squeezing her hand lightly, “are a lot like her.”

“Me?”

“The same blue eyes,” Colin said.

“The Featherington eyes,” Michaela confirmed.

“The Marquis’ smile.”

“The Marquise’s chin.”

“Look at her hands,” Colin said, turning Anne’s hand-over for Michaela to see. “Even that looks like her mother.”

Michaela nodded seriously.

“You’re the same age, the same face shape…”

“Wait, wait…” Anne yanked her hand back, her brain spinning. “Are… are you telling me you think I’m her? Lady Penelope Featherington? The heiress to the factory? The factory where women like me lose their fingers to machines?”

“I mean, I’ve met many young women in the past few days,” Michaela replied calmly, “but none resemble the Marquise’s youngest daughter as much as you do. Just look at the portrait.”

“You’ve gone mad,” Anne whispered, more to herself than to them.

“Why?” Colin argued, his voice reasonable and persuasive. “You don't remember your past. No one knows for sure what happened to Lady Penelope. You're looking for your family in Paris, and Penelope's only family is, conveniently, in Paris.”

“It’s impossible for there to be so many coincidences!” said Michaela, in support. “Have you ever considered the possibility, Anne?” She asked softly. “That you might be more than an orphan?”

Anne hesitated.

“Being the daughter of a Marchioness?” she laughed, a mirthless sound. “No. It’s hard to imagine myself as a Lady when I live in a slum and spend twelve hours a day in a cotton mill, praying my hands don’t get crushed. But…” her voice faltered, “I think any girl in my position would like to know she’s that special.”

It was the confession they had been waiting for. Colin, who had been watching silently, stepped forward, his face impassive.

"We'd love to help you, Anne, we truly do. But the third ticket to Paris is for Lady Penelope. There's nothing I can do." He paused, his tone laden with mock regret. "Good luck on your journey."

Colin turned his back and, with a nod, beckoned Michaela to follow him back to the front row seats, leaving Anne alone and desolate in front of the painting.

As they walked, Michaela leaned into him, her voice a worried whisper.

“Why don’t you tell her about our plan?”

"She just wants to go to Paris," Colin replied, without looking back. The confidence in his voice was absolute. "We're already splitting the reward three ways. Why waste a share for her?"

“You were too harsh,” she murmured. “What if she just leaves?”

“I gave her a crumb of hope and then showed her a feast she can’t have,” he explained, sitting down and picking up a quill as if to evaluate the next candidate. “Now she’s starving. Wait.”

They fell silent. One. Two. Three. Michaela chewed on her lip, Colin was unconcerned. At the eighth second, Anne's voice cut through the air, fragile but determined.

“What if... what if I could be she?”

Colin looked up, a gleam of triumph. Michaela turned, barely containing her relief. Anne descended the side stairs and approached them, her posture firmer.

“After all,” she continued, her voice gaining strength, “if I don’t even know who I am, who’s to say who I’m not?”

A slow smile spread across Colin's face. He leaned back in his chair.

“Carry on.”

“Think about it. If I'm not Penelope, the Marquise will recognize me immediately. It will all be a huge, embarrassing mistake, but by then, I'll already be in Paris.”

“It’s plausible,” Michaela said, exchanging a look with Colin.

“But,” Anne said, her gaze lost for a moment, as if she saw a dazzling future, “if by some miracle I am Lady Penelope, I will finally know who I really am and have a real family. I benefit, too.”

“She's right, Colin,” Michaela said persuasively. “Either way, the girl gets to Paris.”

"But if I am not her, that hardly seems to be to your advantage..."

Anne's hesitation returned.

"Of course it is!" Michaela laughed charmingly. "We already intended to go to Paris; we are seeking to remake our lives. Helping the Marquise is just our way of doing a good deed. If you are not Penelope... well, it will be a pity, but we shall manage."

Sensing Anne's hesitation mounting with each passing second, Colin standing up.

“Michaela’s right. Either way, this gets all us to Paris." He reached out his hand to her. “So, we have a deal, Miss Anne... Lady Penelope?"

She had to get used to being called that.

Anne looked down at his hand, then up at his face, and broke into a determined smile—the first one they'd seen her give.

“Deal.”

She squeezed Colin's hand.

"I guarantee you won't regret it."

As he watched the young woman turn to look at Penelope's portrait with a strange new sense of ownership, Colin felt a rare shiver of pity. Poor girl. You think you're in control of the game, when in fact, they've just moved you to the center of the board.

Chapter Text

She was nobody.

That's what she'd heard her whole life. That she shouldn't dream of finding out about her family, because, after all, she was nobody's daughter. 

The few images she retained from before she was seven were hazy; perhaps they weren't even real, just dreams. She was so attached to her dreams that she had frightened the other girls at the orphanage more than once when she would sleepwalk to her feet and dance between their beds. Her eyes closed, as if she were one of the graceful figures in her mind.

The same confused dreams still haunted her at night. They were fragments: the glimpse of ornate gowns swirling in a ballroom, the smell of leather and paper wafting from book-lined walls, and the warmth of a crackling fireplace on Christmas Eve.

After being kicked out of the orphanage at eighteen, her life became even more challenging. The orphanage walls at least protected her from the brutality of the slums and the exhaustion of the factories. Now her only friend, Agatha Danbury, was dead. All that remained was the promise she had made to her and the necklace bearing the inscription.‘Me, you and Paris’. 

It was an impossible mission for a girl who didn't even know her real name. But Agatha had insisted on her deathbed: ‘Don't make my mistake of settling in that factory, child. Don't settle. Don't let opportunities pass you by. Try, take risks. Promise me.’

If there was a chance to uncover her past, she should have run toward it. And, by luck or fate, she found a way: two strangers who, by some miracle, could lead her to Paris.

However, she remained cautious. The resemblance to Penelope was a remarkable coincidence, perhaps, but a coincidence nonetheless. It would take more than a familiar face for Lady Featherington to consider that she was, in fact, her long-lost heir.

The train's shrill whistle wasn't what pulled her from her thoughts.

It was Mr. Bridgerton.

"Sit up straight. Don't forget, you're a Lady."

"Colin, for God's sake, stop picking on the girl," Michaela said, her eyes fixed on the book in her hands.

When she had introduced herself again to Anne, she said her name was Michaela Stirling, but Anne wasn't sure if he and she were relatives or a couple. In the latter case, the two must be living in sin, or she had lied and was his Mrs. Bridgerton.

It seemed crazy to travel with two strangers who had given her only two days to pack her things. But Anne didn't have much; she said goodbye to a few acquaintances in the slum, quit her job at the factory, and gathered everything into a single suitcase.

The three of them were on the overnight train from Victoria Station in London, set to arrive in Paris in the morning.

"I'm not picking on her!" Colin defended himself.

"How do you know how a Lady should behave, Mr. Bridgerton?" Anne questioned, adjusting her posture.

She tried to cling to his words, but it was useless, for Mr. Bridgerton's gaze belied her. He didn't quite believe she could truly be the lady he sought. On the contrary, it was a look that assessed her, measured her, and ultimately condemned her: an imposter.

An unusual glint crossed his eyes.

“Well, I knew her. Lady Penelope. And the entire Featherington family.”

Anne felt a shiver.

Of course, the story of the lost heiress was a recurring topic at the factory where she worked. The women in the weaving mill often chattered about the marquise's search and the generous reward. The rumor, however, was always accompanied by skepticism.

Many doubted the Marquise's lucidity; after all, the poor woman had lost her entire family and might simply be clinging to a hope she herself had invented. However, Anne had never spoken to anyone who had actually known Penelope.

The young lady was not just a name or a painting to Mr. Bridgerton, but a person with her own personality, opinions, and tastes.

That was fascinating.

“Did you meet Penelope? For real?”

“For real.”

"How did you come to know her?"

He stared at her for a long moment, and in his eyes was an indecipherable mixture of anger, grief, and a sadness so deep it disconcerted her.

"I knew her," he repeated, each word coming heavily from Mr. Bridgerton's lips. "I remember how she moved, how smart she was, how she laughed, how she held her teacup. I remember what she liked and didn't like." Colin leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze holding her in place. "So, when I tell you to sit up straight, I'm not picking on you, miss. Penelope was seven years old when she died... disappeared. She was the most graceful person I knew. I just want to help you be convincing. Understand?"

Anne studied him, processing the information.

"What did she like?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“She liked to read. Can you read?”

“Of course I know!” Anne was offended. “I may not remember my past clearly, but I’m not ignorant. I can read and write very well, I just don’t remember how I learned.”

“She also wrote a lot. She loved letters.” Colin watched her, and the teasing returned to his eyes. “And when she wrote, she was always so graceful. She sat perfectly straight… not slouched in her chair.”

As far as Anne could remember, she had never been a graceful person. She was clumsy, a trait that earned her punishments from the nuns at the orphanage, whether for dropping everything she was holding or needing reminders to keep her back straight.

“Mr. Bridgerton, do you… do you really think I can be a lady?”

"You know I do," he answered with forced enthusiasm, his smile never reaching his eyes.

"Then do me a favor," she asked, her nose in the air, in a haughty tone. "And stop bossing me around!"

That the damned nuns and he goes to hell.

She saw Colin's jaw drop. The sight was enough to bring a satisfied smile to her face, and only then did she sink back into the upholstered seat, staring once more at the night scape sliding past the window.

The expression of utter astonishment that overtook Colin’s face was the final spark. Michaela collapsed into a fit of laughter so contagious that even he, for a fleeting moment, seemed to falter in his shock.

She let the book fall onto her lap.

“She does have a personality.”

“An irritating and overly inquisitive one,” Colin remarked, folding his arms as he leaned back. “And by the way, from now on, we’ll be calling you Penelope.”

“But I’m not sure if that’s my name!” Anne protested.

“And you’re not sure if you’re not!” he countered, the coldness returning. “It’s not my fault your head isn’t working right.”

Anne flinched, the ferocity of the comment hitting her full force. She changed the subject.

“How did you get second class tickets?”

“Isn’t second class enough for you, milady?”

“You know what I think? I think you lied to me at the theater about having the tickets in advance. You bought them in a hurry and only got an overnight trip, which is cheaper, but the risks of rough seas are greater. And I'm suspicious of how you paid for second class. Your fancy clothes don't fool me, your theater… was falling apart.”

“What are your suspicions?” The coldness in Colin's eyes was replaced by something else. It wasn't anger, but a spark of… respect? Anne seemed to intrigue him, showing him that she was quite observant and not at all foolish. “You claim I bought the tickets in a hurry. There's no crime in that.”

“The crime is not in the haste, but in the means,” Anne said, her eyebrow arched. “Your theater is in decline. You don’t have the money to buy three second-class train and boat tickets from London to Calais, France, much less three more tickets for the train from Chemin de… Chemin de…”

“Chemin de Fer du Nord, in Calais,” Michaela corrected, her French pronunciation coming out perfectly. “All the way to the Gare du Nord, in Paris.”

“Precisely.”

Anne held Colin's gaze, refusing to back down.

“You don't need to worry about that,” Michaela said, interjecting gently. Without saying yes or no to the statement, she leaned forward with a welcoming smile. “Penelope, you understood our little story during the trip, right? We'll use it if necessary. You are Colin's beloved younger sister." 

“Beloved by him?”

With a grimace of distaste, Anne looked away from Colin, seeking Michaela's face as a refuge.

“Yes,” she replied, laughing.

“But I don’t understand why.”

"Because people respect families more," Michaela explained. "We're sharing a train cabin, and we'll share a cabin on the ship. Three single people traveling together, especially two women, attract the wrong kind of attention. It's a matter of protection."

“So, you two... aren’t married?” Anne asked curiously. “Or are you just a couple?”

The look Michaela and Colin exchanged was a grimace of nausea.

“I’m not her type,” Colin replied with a shrug. “And Michaela is like a sister to me.”

"Pretending to be married is our most effective strategy," Michaela said. "We try to be siblings, but people don't buy it."

"Why?"

Michaela became serious.

"For the most obvious and stupid reason in the world: because I'm black." She let the sentence hang in the air, watching Anne process it. "Didn't you notice how the conductor treated me? He helped you onto the train, but me, he ignored. He only managed to wish me a good day when Colin called me his wife, and that was out of pure shock.”

The conductor, who was smoking outside, offered her his hand, and Anne gladly accepted. Once aboard, she looked back just in time to see Colin helping Michaela up. 

The man's kindness surprised her; in those clothes, she didn't see herself as someone who deserved such treatment, but rather as a third-class passenger who had boarded the wrong carriage. In contrast, Michaela looked like a princess, impeccably dressed, with a perfect fit.

Colin explained the mechanics of their strategy.

“People can't reconcile a blood relation between us. Their cotton-wool heads can't accept it. But a marriage? That shocks them. And while they're shocked, trying to understand, they are less attentive. The shock is our smokescreen. And it works.”

Anne looked down, overcome by a wave of understanding, shame, and irritation at the engineer's poor treatment.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Michaela, her voice sincere. “I didn’t see how disrespectful the conductor was to you, Miss Stirling.”

“Don't worry, I'll survive,” she said with a smile, setting the book aside. Anne realized, however, that it was one of those practiced smiles. “I’m going to stretch my legs. Don’t fight while I’m gone.”

Michaela stood calmly, smoothing her dress. Before leaving the gas-lit cabin, she lightly tapped Colin on the shoulder, a gesture that could have meant either ‘be nice’ or ‘don't mess this up.’

Anne was not entirely ignorant.

She knew that, as much as the pair were helping her, it wasn't out of pure kindness. They constantly exchanged glances and kept coming up with the same old nonsense. For now, she would let them think she was completely incapable of noticing. Anne needed to get to Paris before any breakup.

Now that they were alone, the tension between Colin and Anne was palpable. But him sat on the very edge of the upholstered seat and started to speak, adopting a peacemaking tone that, to her, sounded insincere.

“Miss…”

“Milady. I am Lady Penelope. Remember?”

He snorted.

“Milady, we are off to a bad start.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “But I’m glad you have the decency to apologize.”

Colin let out an incredulous laugh.

“Sorry? I didn’t apologize.”

“You’re admitting that you’re a pain in the ass.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Please, don't talk anymore. It's only gonna upset me.”

A glint of defiance appeared in his eyes.

“Fine, I'll be quiet if you be quiet.”

“Combined.”

“Perfect.”

They crossed their arms stubbornly. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the train on the tracks. Anne looked away first, fascinated by the speed with which England passed before her eyes.

The landscape outside was dark, only silhouettes and illuminated spots. Still, he felt butterflies in his stomach at the thought of crossing the country and, soon, the English Channel, heading to another country, with a different language and customs.

She was taking a risk, leaving everything she knew behind, reaching into the past in the hope of building a different future.

A question escaped before she could contain it.

“You think you're going to miss it?”

“Miss what? Of the silence you just broke?”

“No,” she said, her gaze still lost in the landscape. “England.”

The taunt on Colin's face faded, giving way to a shadow.

“No,” the answer was short.

“But it’s your home.”

He turned to face the window as well, and for a moment, it was as if they were both watching the same past recede from view. 

“It used to be,” he declared. “There's nothing for me here now.”

His vulnerability took her aback. She shared that sense of rootlessness. She had nothing left but a single clue that led to Paris. 

"What about your theater?" 

"I abandoned it. Left it all behind." 

"Then you must plan on making Paris your home."

Colin laughed, a dry, mirthless sound, the barrier back in place.

“My God, what an obsession with ‘home’.”

“It’s what normal people want!” she snapped, her voice thick with frustration. “A home. A family.”

She also harbored the hope that Paris would give her the home that London hadn't. But the word ‘normal’ seemed to hit home. Colin was silent for a moment, the sarcasm fading.

“None of us in this cabin are ‘normal.’ I’m an orphan, like you. Michaela is too.”

Anne stared at him, shocked. Suddenly, they were no longer strangers with nothing in common. They were three survivors in the same train compartment.

“Don’t you know who your parents are either?”

“Michaela met her family; they all died. And I… I remember mine. They died too.” He paused. “But I found one of my sisters in Paris. She was adopted when… we were separated into different orphanages. I want to see her again. Depending on how it goes… maybe I’ll make Paris my home or…”

A pang of envy struck her. Mr. Bridgerton had a family. Michaela and another sister in Paris.

And what about her? If the search for her origins failed, she would remain exactly as she was: alone. It didn't matter where she was, Paris or London; the emptiness would be the same.

“Or?” she prompted.

“Or not… I have no idea. Honestly, I don't have a plan if my sister rejects me too. I guess Michaela and I will just keep moving forward. Maybe get on the first ship to the Americas.” 

He shrugged, suddenly seeming young and lost. Anne felt a wave of empathy for the man she found so irritating. 

She caught the emphasis he put on the word 'too,' and its meaning was instantly clear: he had been rejected by his family before.

"You should search for your home," she said, with surprising conviction. "Because, deep down, what everyone wants is a home, a place where they can belong..." She stopped mid-sentence. His vulnerability had vanished, replaced by a bored eye-roll. Anne's empathy evaporated. Exasperated, she jumped to her feet. "Oh, forget it!"

At that moment, the cabin door opened and Michaela entered.

"Is all well here?" she inquired, feeling the tension in the air. 

"Thank heavens you have returned, Miss Stirling!" Anne exclaimed, taking her shawl. "Can you make him disappear? Or throw him from the moving train?"

“Colin! What did you do to her?” Michaela scolded him, hands on her hips.

"Me?" he defended himself, pointing to Anne. "It was her! She started giving a speech about 'homes'!" 

"That's enough!" Anne interrupted. "I'm going to stretch my legs now. If you'll excuse me."

She walked past Michaela and left the cabin, slamming the door behind her. Anne put on the shawl that had belonged to Agatha and looked both ways down the empty corridor before deciding which way to go down the carriage.

"Men are such babies," she whispered to herself.

Yet she could hear Michaela’s laughter echoing from within the cabin.

“I've never seen you get attracted to someone so fast!” 

“Me, attracted? To her?” Colin sputtered, incredulous. The shadow of his silhouette showed him standing in the cabin, pointing at the door. “To that short, ill-mannered girl with carrot hair? You're completely mad!”

She was still standing in the corridor in front of the cabin. She had heard every word, which was enough. With a sharp pull, she made the door slide until it opened with a jolt. 

Anne entered, her face red with fury. 

“What did you say?” 

Colin stiffened, and his eyes widened in desperation, having been caught red-handed. Michaela positioned herself between the two of them, taking on the role of mediator.

“He didn’t mean any of that, dear.”

“I heard exactly what Mr. Bridgerton meant,” Anne retorted, her eyes flashing. “You stupid little man. I must be the one who’s mad to have made a deal with you!”

Her late friend, Agatha Danbury, used to say that Anne was like a rose: beautiful, delicate, and inspiring kindness, but not without her thorns.

"Calm down," said Michaela, her voice appeasing. "Let's all just calm down, alright?" She turned to Anne. "Penelope, dear, aside from the nonsense Colin says, he's right about one thing... your manners. You need to improve them before you get near Madame Varley." 

The unknown name distracted Anne from her rage.

"Who is Madame Varley?" 

Michaela shot Colin an irritated look. 

"You didn't tell her? I left specifically so you could explain."

“I’m busy being offended,” he retorted.

Michaela ignored him.

"No one gets close to the Marquise without first winning over her close friend, Madame Varley. If she gives her approval, Lady Portia will grant you a chance. Madame Varley is the one who will judge whether you are 'worthy'."

The color drained from Anne's face.

"No, no." She shook her head, taking a step back. "Nobody told me anything about having to prove that I am who I might be. Showing up, having manners, that's fine. But being tested? How?"

"We'll give you the answers. The name of her first pony, her favorite dessert, the song that made her fall asleep. We will fill you with Penelope's past. All you have to do is repeat it." 

"That's a lie!" Anne exclaimed, horrified. 

Michaela looked at her, her eyes deep and compelling. 

"Is it a lie? Or is it simply rehearsing the memories that your mind has forgotten? Think about it, Anne. It could be the truth." 

"How do you know precisely what she will ask?"

It was Colin who answered her.

"My sister, Francesca. She was adopted and lives in Paris, where she works for Madame Varley as a lady's companion." 

"She even sent us a photograph," Michaela tilted her head, and a slow smile curved her full lips. "And she, I must say, is stunningly beautiful." 

Anne frowned, trying to understand the correlation. What did the beauty of Colin's sister have to do with Madame Varley's test, after all? 

"Michaela..." the warning in Colin's voice was clear. 

All the mischief on her face dissolved in a single blink. The previous expression was replaced by a mask of sweetness so well-crafted it was almost believable. 

“What?” she replied sharply, turning to face him. “It was merely an observation.”

"I can't do this," Anne's voice came out desperate. "I'm a fraud. An orphan from the slums. I worked in their factory! I have nothing of a Lady in me. I have no past, no future. I am nothing." 

Colin excused himself to Michaela so he could squeeze into the narrow space between the cabin seats and gently placed his hands on Anne’s shoulders.

“You have Paris,” he reminded her, and he truly seemed intent on calming her. “That’s all that matters now. London is behind you. Whatever the future holds, it begins in Paris — with our help. Whether you’re Penelope or not.”

Anne closed her eyes.

She saw the weary face of Agatha Danbury. Heard her final words.

Don't settle. Don't let opportunities pass you by. Try, take risks. Promise me.

She opened her eyes and looked at Mr. Bridgerton, one of her traveling companions. Her hand rose instinctively to the center of her chest, resting over the worn fabric of her dress — exactly where the necklace lay hidden.

Whether you're Penelope or not. 

London was a grave for hopes. Paris was, at least,  a chance. Anne looked down at her work-roughened hands, hidden by old gloves. Then, she lifted her gaze, a new determination shining in her eyes. 

She did not want to spend the rest of her days as a wretched orphan. 

"Very well. Teach me to be a lady,” she said, her voice steady. “Teach me to be Penelope Featherington.”

Chapter Text

Unlike Michaela, Colin was not contemplating his next steps after receiving the Marquise's reward.

They wouldn't become extremely rich, but they would have a more comfortable life and, for the first time since leaving the orphanage, they would live without having to cheat or steal from anyone.

However, all his attention was focused on Anne. Because before he could dream of a better life, he needed to be sure he would achieve it, and he needed her for that.

"What is the name of the pony Penelope got for her sixth birthday?" Michaela asked, as the train gently rounded a bend and glided along the tracks. "It's not difficult."

Passengers on the London, Chatham and Dover Railway could now see the Dover coastline. The sky was starless; it was completely obscured by a thick layer of heavy clouds.

“Penwright!” Anne replied immediately, her eyes closed in concentration. “She didn’t like it much, because she wanted a white stallion like her father’s.”

Colin, who was watching from the corner of the cabin, gave a brief nod before checking his pocket watch.

Eleven o'clock at night.

“Correct. But Penelope ended up liking him after she knocked Cousin Jack into the lake while riding him.”

Anne laughed at that detail.

"How old was she when she started riding?" Michaela asked. 

"Five." 

"Her favorite color?" 

"Green," Anne said, thinking. "Emerald green, specifically. She wanted a dress in that color, but her mother wouldn't let her. She was too young."

Colin nodded again. The answer was perfect; she was pretty good for a working imposter.

In the end, Anne agreed to be taught how to be Penelope. And, to Colin's surprise, she wasn't all that terrible. There was a tenacity he began to appreciate.

She strove to learn, not only correcting her manners with fierce concentration, but also recording every detail about Penelope's life that Madame Varley would question.

In this regard, Michaela was an excellent teacher. She had lost everyone she loved at age eleven, and yet she remembered everything about her upbringing, every detail of the life that had been stolen from her.

Maybe that's why she was so good at building a past for someone else.

“Was Penelope a snob?” Anne asked, looking at the two of them.

Colin's reaction was instantaneous and protective, as if she had desecrated a sacred name.

“And why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Anne said. “Ladies tend to be.”

“She wasn’t a snob,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Did you have a special affection for her?”

“No! Where did you get that from?”

“If you knew her, you were children. A childhood crush is perfectly normal.”

“Don't forget, she could be you,” he stuttered, unsure. “If I felt... if I had felt any affection for her, it could mean that I actually feel it for you.”

It was after the words left her mouth that she wondered if it might sound like a confession. 

Why were you nervous about her insinuation?

"And if I am her? Would you defend me, the woman I am now, with the same fervor that you defend the memory of the girl I was, Mr. Bridgerton?"

Disarmed, he faced her. Anne's question sliced through his years of cynicism, striking a raw nerve. Colin, who had been planning to profane Penelope's memory for money, was now being confronted by her living image.

He couldn't answer.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, as if celebrating a small victory. Anne took the spare pen Michaela had offered her and, with an air of closure, went back to writing her notes, using the suitcase lid as a support.

Beside him, Michaela was snickering into her hand, scribbling something with the other. Colin saw her drawing her dumbfounded face on the paper while looking at Anne.

Colin gently pushed his friend's hand, recomposing himself and making her smudge the drawing. ‘No regrets,’ he said to himself, referring to Penelope and this whole trip to Paris. 

A sound of amusement escaped Michaela's lips. 

He ignored it. 

But he continued to observe Anne, noticing her correct posture and a greater elegance than she had shown hours before. The image of the working girl was slipping away, nearly engulfed by the ghost of the girl he had known when she was alive.

A snob, he thought. The word was an easy label, but it wasn't true. Penelope hadn't been a snob; she was kind and sweet.

He remembered the sound of Penelope's laughter echoing through the rosebushes as she pulled him by the hand, fleeing from her mother. With him, she wasn't a lady. She was just a girl who liked to play games and discover secrets she shouldn't know.

But the truth was, as soon as she came back indoors, she became what Lady Featherington had molded her to be: her favorite, and she smothered her with so many pampering and whims that she could barely breathe.

Away from her mother's eyes, in the gardens where they played, she was different. She was lighter, freer.

“Where was Penelope born?” Michaela continued with the questionnaire.

But Anne's answer didn't come immediately. She frowned, as if searching for something in a distant mist.

“In a carriage… on a track on the Devon coast. Near one of Dad’s properties.”

“Oh, Anne, I’m sorry, I don’t…”

Michaela stopped talking, looking down at her notes and then at Colin. Colin, who had been leaning back, sat up abruptly. He realized with a chill that they hadn't given him that information.

It was a detail Penelope herself scarcely recalled—a story the Marquis told late at night, after several glasses of wine. A story that he and only a handful of others knew.

The Marquise was averse to talking about the carriage birth; the experience was so difficult and painful that she refused to have any more children after it.

“How do you know that?” Colin’s question was sharp, almost an accusation.

Anne blinked, confused by their reaction.

“From you two. Where else?” 

Michaela shook her head.

"No, dear. Neither I nor Colin told you that story. I asked before I realized it."

“Of course one of you told,” Anne insisted, now on the defensive. “How else would I know something like that?”

Colin's face was one of disbelief and suspicion. Michaela looked lost. The train gave a final lurch, approaching the platform with a long hiss of steam.

“The train is stopping at the station,” Michaela announced.

Colin and Michaela were still staring at her suspiciously. Anne flinched under the weight of their gazes.

“Okay,” Colin broke the silence, as if the awkward moment had never happened. He stood, straightening his vest, and pointed to the overhead compartment. “I'll get the bags. You two go ahead. The London, Chatham and Dover Railway stops right near Admiralty Pier.”

She was nothing more than an imposter, it was just a coincidence.

Anne and Michaela put the papers full of notes and the quills inside their bags. Then, they left the cabin, joining the flow of passengers disembarking onto the Dover platform.

The air was salty and cold, and passengers were greeted by a strong, biting wind coming in from the sea at night. 

Iron rails ran along the pier, and the dark, choppy waters of the English Channel lapped against the structure's pillars.

Colin was soon beside them, three suitcases in hand. He handed one to Michaela and one to Anne. Then, elegantly, he offered his right arm to Michaela, who accepted it with a small smile.

He didn't come from a wealthy family, but he still remembered the good manners his mother had insisted on in her children. So he turned to Anne and offered the other.

She stared at him.

“Lady Penelope.”

It was part of the charade. She was Penelope now. And Lady Penelope, had she lived, would have accepted a gentleman's arm without a second thought. But Anne hesitated before linking her arm through his.

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton." 

"Head high," he said, his voice low, meant only for her. "Look to the horizon, not your feet. Remember who you are." 

"I don't know who I am," she hissed in return, but she obeyed, forcing her chin upward. 

"You are Penelope Featherington. Do not forget that," he insisted. 

"In this attire?" Anne countered, pulling the shawl tighter around herself, feeling insecure. "Compared to you two, I look more like a third-class passenger, not a lady."

She was right.

The platform was dimly lit at night and was filled with gentlemen in top hats and ladies in elaborate dresses, standing out from the simpler people in third class.

The air vibrated with the anticipation of departure. Several porters hurried to unload the baggage cars. 

Trunks, suitcases, and boxes were moved toward the ship's hold, with a steam crane assisting in the work.

“We have a dress for you,” Michaela interjected with a reassuring smile. "We were going to make you wear it earlier, but we ended up starting lessons early."

The pair of con artists asked one last favor of the assistant dressmaker at the Delacroix Atelier: a dress for Penelope in less than three days.

Genevieve almost jumped on their necks, but, giving in to blackmail again, she stole a client's half-finished outfit, adjusting it to what they assumed were Anne's measurements.

"Seriously? How could you know my measurements?" 

"Observation and attention, my lady," said Colin, sounding superior. "I analyzed your entire body very carefully. But if it's a bit snug, you'll just have to hold your breath." 

Only after he said it did he realize how strange it sounded to say he had analyzed her body so thoroughly the day they met.

The train at Admiralty Pier stopped just a few meters from the vessel, an iron colossus whose hull was marked by rust from the salt water.

The tall funnel belching smoke and the hissing of steam gave the impression that the ship was a great living beast, preparing to depart.

Anne had to tilt her head back to see the top.

"I suppose this is also your first time aboard something like this?" Colin asked, his lips close to her ear. 

"Oh, it's not bad," she said, her voice sounding distant, as if it belonged to someone else. "But I felt a little sick the last time I was on board... I was a child."

Colin felt the ground drop away from beneath his feet. That memory wasn't hers. He clung to the only rational explanation, turning to his partner.

“Did you ever tell me about Penelope and her mother’s trip to Paris for her birthday?”

“Ah…” Michaela seemed to think for a second. “Yes, I did. I mentioned it in passing.”

Colin let out a breath, visibly relieved. Of course, he thought. She's not Penelope. She couldn't have known that by herself.

"Great," he said. But then his sharp mind noticed another flaw. He turned to Michaela again. “But how did you know that Penelope felt seasick? I didn't even tell you that.”

Michaela stared at him, confusion now on her face.

“Then how…?”

The two turned to Anne, who was watching them, intimidated.

“What?” she asked.

“How do you know Penelope got seasick on the trip to Paris?” Colin asked, his voice low and dangerously calm.

“I…” Anne hesitated, searching for an answer. "I deduced it. Children get carsick in carriages; they probably get carsick on ships too. It was just a hunch.”

Before he could press her further, the ship's whistle sounded, a low note that vibrated across the dock, signaling the imminent boarding.

“We have to go,” Michaela said, breaking the tension.

Colin gave a curt nod, his jaw still tense. He turned and led them toward the boarding ramp. The wooden gangplank was wide but swayed gently with the tide, and it was crowded with eager passengers.

England would be left behind.

<<< O >>>

As they left the shelter of the Dover harbor, the ship rocked gently in the waves. The middle deck tilted sharply.

Anne stumbled, being steadied by Colin's arm.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the receding shore. “The last view of England for a long time.”

The English coast was saying goodbye like a collection of distant lights. The glow of Admiralty Pier and its train station, along with the city's soft glow, began to shrink on the horizon.

The Cliffs, now just a mass of darkness, and the silhouette of Dover Castle against the starry sky were replaced by the rolling waves of the English Channel.

The feeling of being entirely at the mercy of the ocean was immediate.

"It's... vast," she managed, her voice nearly carried away by the sound of the wind and waves. 

"The ocean always is," Colin answered, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon. "It reminds us who is truly in command."

“And since it's not us, we should go to the cabin," Michaela said, holding on to the ship's railing. She turned to Anne. "You and me, Penelope. I can help you with your new dress before we go to the Second Class Lounge."

“Sure… sure, I’ll go straight to the saloon,” Colin said, eager to escape the open deck. “I think it’s going to rain.”

“Okay. We’ll take the bags,” Michaela agreed. She pulled Colin’s suitcase. “Come on, Penelope.”

At the name, Anne's face twitched slightly, but she followed Michaela, her head bowed.

She still resisted being called Penelope.

Colin cleared his throat, a low, authoritative sound that made her pause. Anne turned. They met eyes, and he raised a single eyebrow. She rolled her eyes, a gesture far from discreet, but then returned to him and performed a graceful curtsy.

As a lady should be.

“Mister Bridgerton.”

Colin tilted his head, as theatrical as hers.

“Lady Penelope.”

Satisfied, he watched from a distance as two women walked arm in arm across the deck, asking a crew member for directions to the cabin the three of them would share.

As soon as they were out of sight, a fine, icy rain began to fall. Colin looked up at the dark sky, fearful. Ever since the train had entered Dover, he had noticed the coastline in turmoil.

Half an hour later, Colin was seated at a table in the Second-Class Lounge. A noisy space filled with merchants, families, and travelers less affluent than those in first class, but still respectable.

He ordered a whiskey, watching the rain begin to smudge the saloon windows and the ship's increasingly pronounced rocking.

He saw her first. Before she could find him, her brain short-circuited.

The orphaned Anne Ginger had disappeared, and in her place stood a young Lady. Her dress was an emerald green, simple yet elegant, a classic Victorian design. 

Michaela looked at her with pride.

The hair, previously tied up haphazardly, was now styled in a more elaborate hairstyle.

She walked with a delicate uncertainty that betrayed her nervousness, her eyes sweeping over the tables in the room. When their eyes met, a smile appeared on her lips. Suddenly, the distance between them seemed to disappear, and she walked toward him again.

It was frightening how Penelope's image superimposed itself on hers.

And at that exact moment, the ship lurched violently, plunging into a particularly large wave.

The atmosphere in the room changed. Conversations ceased, replaced by frightened screams. Glasses, silverware, and plates slid off the tables and shattered on the floor.

Anne was thrown to the side, losing her balance, but her quick reflexes had her grabbing the back of a velvet chair, her nails digging into the fabric.

Before another wave could knock her off her feet, Colin was already on his feet, his body moving on pure instinct. He grabbed her curvy waist, pulling her firmly against him as the ship creaked and slowly righted itself.

For a second, they stood like that, very close. He could feel her rapid breathing against his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied, her voice trembling, still holding his arms to steady herself. “Damn heavy dress.”

“Welcome to the English Channel,” Colin said, sounding completely unfazed. He gestured to the table. “Come sit down, before the ship sits down for you.”

He released her and looked at Michaela, who was clinging to a pillar, frightened. With a nod, he beckoned her closer. Anne sat stiffly in the chair he pulled out for her, her hands clasped in her lap.

"Is this normal?" 

"For a storm that's brewing? Apparently so," he answered, taking a sip of his drink. He observed her for a moment. "The dress fits. Green looks good on you." 

"It's a bit snug," she admitted. "I feel as if I'm wearing a suit of armor."

Colin pulled out a chair for Michaela.

“Well,” she said, coming to the table and sitting down. She looked at Anne seriously. “That’s exactly what it is. My Aunt Janet used to say a dress is like armor for a lady. Get used to it.”

The three tried to stay put with the other crew members to ride out the storm, but the three-hour crossing to French waters off Calais promised to be a long one.

In the Second Class Lounge, with its paneled walls and wildly swinging gas lamps, the rain outside intensified.

The ship wasn't just rocking; now it was giving wild, unpredictable lurches.

All around them, hell was breaking loose. Seasickness, the 'curse of the Canal,' began to claim its victims. The smell of vomit mingled with the salty air, and flight attendants rushed about with metal basins.

Michaela succumbed. She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with nausea. Anne was the first to notice. The strong woman who had guided the young woman now looked incredibly vulnerable.

“Colin,” Anne called his attention, nodding toward Michaela. “I think we should take her to the cabin.”

“No… I'll be fine.…” Michaela tried to protest, but a stronger jolt made her lean over the table. “We're going to die!”

“It’s not our time, Michaela,” Colin said, his voice firm but gentle. He supported her, slinging her arm around his shoulders. “Keep your mind on Paris. You just need to lie down.”

He stared at Anne for a moment, seeing the genuine concern on her face. For a second, the resemblance was so strong that Colin thought... if it weren't for the missing bangs, maybe she might actually be... He shook his head, forcing the dangerous thought away.

It was no time for delusions.

“I’ll help you carry her,” said Anne, already standing up.

“No need. I can handle it,” he replied, his voice controlled again. “Just go ahead and prepare the way.”

Leaving the salon was an ordeal.

Anne walked ahead, excusing herself, dodging staggering passengers and the poor souls hunched over their pelvises. Behind her, Colin practically carried Michaela through the narrow, swaying aisles, shielding her from the misery that surrounded them.

When they reached the cramped cabin, the relief was immense, but the walls seemed to sweat, and the sound of the waves against the hull was like a giant pounding the ship. 

Colin settled Michaela on the bed, and she immediately curled up, her back to them. Anne was already at the bedside, offering her a glass of water. Michaela shook her head, refusing.

“Try to get some sleep, Mich,” Colin said softly.

They moved aside, giving her space. Without ceremony, they sank down onto the cabin's only other bed, their shoulders touching in the cramped space. They didn't speak for a while. They just listened to the sound of the storm outside and Michaela's soft breathing, fighting back seasickness.

“I hate traveling by ship,” Anne said, more to herself than to him.

Colin's voice was tired, devoid of any emotion.

"Think of it as a necessary evil. Maybe the last one. If all goes well, you and the Marquise will put down roots in Paris, and you'll never have to board one of these again." 

"Would she stay in Paris forever?" 

"They say it's her favorite place in the world. Lady Portia hasn't been back there since she lost her family, afraid that Penelope might return, and she wouldn't be in London to receive her." 

"But she's not in London now." 

"Exactly. Because her hope is dying."

The finality in his voice was a punch to the gut. The conversation faded, and the ship continued its monotonous, indifferent rocking, just as it had learned to be.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” she asked.

“No. And you?”

“I'm exhausted.”

He nodded.

“Lie down. I'll sit in the corner. I need to take care of Michaela." He looked around the cramped cabin. “Forgive the lack of luxury, my lady."

The mockery in his voice was soft, without malice. Anne didn't take it as a provocation; she laughed, a genuine, relieved sound. To her surprise, he laughed too. They settled in, Colin sitting in the corner and Anne lying down, curled up to give him space.

“Can you sleep in that dress?”

“I’ll survive,” she replied, settling into the narrow bed.

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the storm outside and Michaela's soft breathing.

“Colin,” Anne began, her voice now wary, breaking the truce. “I don’t want you to be upset, but I’m curious. How did you meet Penelope?”

He didn't respond immediately.

“What do you know about her disappearance?”

“I heard there was a fire at the Featherington family country house.”

Colin took a deep breath. 

Without a word, he removed his coat and the leather gloves I'd never seen him without, unbuttoned the cuff of his white shirt, and slowly rolled it up, revealing his forearm in the flickering light of the lamp.

“My God,” Anne gasped, horrified. “You were there?”

The fire had left a permanent mark on his arm. 

The skin in that area was taut and wrinkled, smooth and shiny in some places, deeply scarred in others.

“My parents worked for them,” he said, his voice monotone, as if telling someone else’s story, but it was to shield himself from the pain. “My parents died in that fire. My father took me out of there, then went back to save my mother. They both died. That’s when I became an orphan.”

“The Marquise… she did nothing for you?”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh, hurriedly covering his arm in embarrassment.

The long-sleeved clothing and gloves he wore were his armor, hiding the scars the fire had left on his skin. 

This defense was forged at the orphanage in the weeks following his survival. There, his scarred skin made him a constant target of ridicule, and Michaela was the only person who didn't see him as a monster.

The Sisters of Mercy themselves, in a cruel irony, used him as an example of what happened to disobedient children.

“She was too suffocated by her own grief to notice an extra servant without a family.” He looked into the distance. “I have other siblings besides my sister in Paris.”

“Where are they?”

He couldn't look at her.

“Happy. Without me.” The confession left him naked, exposed. He needed to end this. “Sleep, Penelope. I'll wake you up when we get there. I'm not going to sleep.”

Anne hesitated, he could see her mind spinning, but she nodded. Curled up on the simple bed, rocked by the violent motion of the ship, she closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep.

Colin fought exhaustion, determined to keep watch, but the combination of the ship's rocking and the weight of his memories overcame him. He fell asleep, his head lolling forward.

His dreams took him back to his last trip to Kent. He saw six of his seven siblings gathered together, happy, celebrating, and making speeches. 

Yet, amidst all the celebration, neither his nor Francesca's names were mentioned. It was as if both had been completely forgotten.

He woke up with a stinging slap in the face.

“Ouch!” he grumbled, blinking back at Michaela, who was glaring at him. “Michaela? What’s wrong with you?”

“You wouldn’t fucking wake up!” Her face was inches from his, her eyes wide with panic. “Where’s Anne, Colin?”

He looked at the bed.

The crumpled sheet, the empty space. The warmth of her body was gone. A chill ran down her spine.

She ran away.

“She was here. I swear.”

“Well, it’s not anymore.”

“I’ll find her,” he said, already pulling on his boots.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No,” he cut her off, seeing that his friend still looked like she was about to vomit at any moment. “No way. The storm is still raging, and you’ll end up sick again. I’ll find you. Stay here.”

He threw on his coat and ran through the ship's corridors. The lamps flickered, and the urgency made every rocking of the sea a frustrating obstacle.

Foolish, he thought. Foolish, scared girl. She must have regretted the deal, panicked. But where would she go? They were in the middle of the English Channel. The thought made him quicken his pace.

As soon as he set foot on the deck, the wind assaulted him furiously, forcing him to bend over. Freezing rain immediately assaulted him, thousands of ice needles stinging his face.

Every step was a battle not to be swept away by the storm as he searched for Anne's shadow on the darkened deck.

And then he saw her.

Anne stood on the rail, her back turned. Her loose red hair whipped in the wind, and her body leaned dangerously over the raging black waves.

No. Not again. 

The thought hit him with the force of a punch. 

I was losing her again.

"Penelope!" his shout was an act of desperation, almost swallowed by the storm.

He braved the wind, clinging to the icy, slippery railings, the deck swaying beneath his feet. Every step was a struggle. Finally, he reached her.

With a sharp tug, he turned her around, forcing her to face him.

Her eyes were closed.

“What are you doing here?” she said, her voice sleepy.

“Saving your life!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with terror.

The sound seemed to penetrate her fog. A slow, radiant smile spread across her face.

“I'm glad you're here with me.”

Before Colin could process it, she threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly, as if he were the boy from years ago and they were still friends.

Chapter Text

The storm raged outside, but in Anne's mind, the sound was of an orchestra in a ballroom.

“Hey!” A red-haired girl, vibrant as a flame, appeared to her in her dreams. “Come with me.”

The girl's face always appeared blurred. Sometimes there were two of them, and she couldn't tell them apart except for the difference in height.

Anne felt herself sit up. This was not the hard bunk from the ship, but a mattress of down. She was dressed in a long, white nightgown of a material so soft, she had never felt its like. 

She rubbed her eyes, the sleepiness from the dream was real and heavy. The other red-haired girl stood next to the bed.

"But it's late," said Anne, and the voice that came out was a child's. "Doctor Charcot* said I should have good nights of sleep to control the hysteria."

“Don’t be a buzzkill. Put on your robe. We’ll watch the ball from the ballroom balcony,” the other girl insisted, tossing her a velvet robe. “It wasn’t fair of Mom to let Prudence stay and not us. Come on.”

“Calm down! I’m coming!” Anne said, laughing, as her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor.

They tiptoed down dark corridors, the music growing louder. On the balcony of a ballroom, she looked down and saw a world of silk and lights, couples twirling beneath the light of crystal chandeliers.

It was magical.

“I love balls,” said Anne’s voice.

“When I grow up, I’ll marry a prince and give a thousand balls,” sighed the other girl.

“A thousand balls? And a prince?” Anne laughed. “Do you really think you’ll find one?”

She leaned over the railing to get a better look at the tiara shining in one of the guests' hair.

“Get down!” the other girl hissed, pulling her down as a guest looked up.

They huddled in the shadows, chuckling softly.

“Do you think Prudence will get married?” asked the girl.

“She’s only sixteen.”

“Mommy got married at sixteen,” the other replied, her tone suddenly serious. “Sometimes I think she resents you because you're Mommy's favorite. I'm afraid she'll accept any marriage just to get out of the house and get revenge.”

A wave of inexplicable sadness hit Anne in her dream. 

A guilt that wasn't hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling the hot tears on her face.

“Don’t cry,” the other girl hugged her. “Dance with me.” She pulled her to the center of the dark balcony. “Be my prince!”

And in the darkness, to the muffled sound of the orchestra and the distant roar of a gathering storm, the two girls danced, spinning and laughing.

“I love balls!” Anne’s voice rang out in the dream, filled with a pure, childlike joy she couldn’t remember ever feeling.

The dancing made her dizzy. She pulled away from the other girl, staggering toward the marble balustrade. The world below was a blur of color and light. She leaned in, closer and closer, trying to focus on the dancers' faces, feeling the melody of the music. 

The marble was slippery under her hands. She leaned too far.

The scream caught in her throat as her feet left the ground. But she didn't fall. Strong hands grabbed her around the waist, jerking her back to safety.

“Penelope!” The voice was a boy’s, panting. “You almost fell.”

She turned, her heart pounding, and stared at a boy her own age, with worried blue eyes and soot on his cheeks. He wasn't wearing the clothes of a guest.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised.

“I was trying to steal candy from the dance tables,” he admitted with a mischievous smile. “And I saw you here.”

A slow, radiant smile spread across her face.

“I'm glad you're here with me.”

Without thinking, she hugged him tightly. He hesitated for a second, surprised, before returning the hug, his thin but comforting arms around her.

"Penelope." The other red-haired girl's voice sliced through the moment, her hands on her waist, her disapproval plain. "Servants belong downstairs. He ought not to be here." 

The boy recoiled from Anne as if burned, his face crimson with shame. 

The magic of the moment shattered. The balcony suddenly felt cold and unwelcoming. The orchestra's music started to warp, blending with the howl of the wind, the groaning of wood... 

"Wake up." 

His voice was different. Older. Rougher. 

Anne blinked within the dream, unsettled. 

"What?" 

The boy's face dissolved, the balcony melted... 

“Wake up!”

The hands holding her were no longer those of a boy, but of a man, strong and desperate. He shook her shoulders. The icy rain lashed her face, and the deafening sound of the storm replaced the music.

She opened her eyes to find Colin Bridgerton's face, drenched and terrified, inches from hers on the swaying deck of the ship.

“Why are we here?” Anne’s voice was a frightened whisper, lost in the roar of the wind.

“You tell me! You were about to jump!” Colin shouted back, gripping her waist tightly. “You were talking and… sleeping.”

The accusation seemed to break the spell of the dream. Reality hit her, and she began to cry, sobs racked by cold and fear.

She thought it had stopped. She shouldn't have slept.

“Oh, Colin,” she hugged him, burying her face in his sodden chest. “I hate it when my dreams get out of hand.”

He held her, confused.

"What do you mean?" 

“My dreams... they feel so real that I walk and talk in my sleep,” she confessed, sobbing. “Agatha used to take care of me.”

Realization dawned on him. She wasn't trying to jump. She was sleepwalking. He relaxed his grip, and his arms, which had previously held her, now comforted her.

“It’s okay now,” he said softly, shielding her with his body in the midst of the storm. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

​At that moment, the ship tilted violently. They were thrown against the rail, but Colin spun, taking the impact and keeping Anne safe.

“Come on, let’s go in,” he shouted.

Returning to the cabin was a battle against the wind and the slippery floor. The Second Class Lounge was still packed with seasick people vomiting into steel basins.

When they finally opened the cabin door and entered, Michaela jumped to her feet.

"Thank heavens!" she exclaimed, seeing them both drenched. "Where have you two been?" 

"On deck. She went for a walk," Colin lied smoothly, sharing a look with Anne. "She got sick, just like you." 

"This is just hell, isn't it?" Michaela said, steering Anne toward the bed. "You're freezing. You need to get under the blankets immediately."

An uncontrollable shiver shook Anne's body. The weight of her dress clung to her skin like a cold shroud, stealing all her warmth.

Colin shivered too as he shrugged off his own wet coat, worry creasing his face in the flickering lamplight. The ship continued to rock and groan under the fury of the storm, and the sound of the waves crashing against the hull was like a constant thunderclap.

“She’ll catch pneumonia,” Colin’s voice sounded deep over the sound of the rain.

Anne looked at Michaela, who was holding onto the compartment wall, her eyes closed, fighting her own nausea.

“We need to find a way to warm it up,” she said weakly.

“Take off her dress.”

Colin's suggestion was so abrupt and shocking that it made Michaela open her eyes. Anne gasped, her face flushing violently despite the cold.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me!" Colin insisted, his patience gone given the urgency of the situation. He started unbuttoning his own wet shirt. “She was out in the cold rain for too long. She'll freeze to death if she stays in those clothes."

“You’re being dramatic,” Michaela retorted, though her eyes were filled with concern.

"If she gets sick, all our effort will have been in vain!" he said, stripping off as many of his wet clothes as he could. "She needs body heat. The dampness on this ship won't help." 

"This is completely inappropriate!" Michaela protested. 

"What's inappropriate is letting her freeze." 

"Mr. Bridgerton! You can't be undressed!" Anne's voice came out trembling, the difficulty in speaking caused as much by the cold as by the shock. "I can't be undressed!" 

"Since you're seeing me practically naked, Anne, you can call me Colin," he said, without irony, his face deadly serious.

In the flickering light, Anne saw with shocking clarity what he had hidden beneath his clothes. It wasn't just Colin's arm. Half of his torso was a map of wrinkled skin scarred by the flames that had burned him as a child.

Below that, he was without pants, only in his undergarments... Heavens! Anne shut her eyes and shivered harder, but she doubted it was from the cold, for she felt something simmering within her.

He turned to Michaela.

“Go on, help her take off her dress. She’s freezing!”

Michaela hesitated for a second, but Colin's logic and Anne's condition convinced her. She reached over and, with surprisingly gentle fingers, helped Anne removed the buttons and the wet dress, until she was left only in her thin, damp undergarments.

Unceremoniously, Colin got onto the bed and offered her his hand. 

"Come on." 

Anne glanced at his hand, then at his body, and felt her face heat up. But the cold was agonizing. She took his hand and lay down, stiff as a board. 

"This is so improper," Michaela groaned, fighting back her nausea. "I really think I should be the one..." The ship gave another violent jolt, and she covered her mouth. "Never mind. Carry on."

She threw herself onto the other bed, stomach churning, giving in to her own misery.

On the cramped bed, Colin settled behind Anne, wrapping his arms around her from behind. The heat emanating from his body was electrifying, a relief so intense it was almost painful.

His arm, bearing the scars she now recognized, was firmly around her waist. His breath was hot on the back of her neck. 

Anne's brain screamed that this was a scandal, a situation no self-respecting woman would ever be a part of.

But her body, starved for warmth, betrayed her mind.

She tried to think of the dream, of the red-haired girl, of the boy on the balcony, but the images dissolved in the face of the overwhelming reality: the sound of the storm, the rocking of the ship, and Colin Bridgerton's body warming hers.

“Sleep, Penelope. I'm here,” Colin whispered. “I'll take care of you.”

Slowly, muscle by muscle, she began to relax in his arms. For the first time in a long time, she felt… safe. There, in the middle of the English Channel, embraced by a man with a past as broken as her own, Anne fell asleep.

And this time, there were no dreams.

Around two in the morning, the sight of the yellow lights of Calais harbor appeared in the darkness like a beacon of salvation.

Slowly the ship entered the protected waters of the breakwater, and the violent motion that had plagued them for hours subsided, replaced by a gentle, weary rocking.

A collective sigh of relief ran through the ship.

Pale and exhausted, the passengers disembarked on French soil, staggering onto the stone pier. The delay caused by the storm meant they missed the last overnight train to Paris. 

They would have to wait at the station until the morning return.

Anne caught Michaela and Colin exchanging worried glances above her head. She had hardly said a word since waking to the arrival announcement, and she was wrapped in a dark, quiet withdrawal. 

Like most of the first and second-class passengers, they decided to find lodging at Hôtel du Terminus, a small building adjacent to the station.

"Are you a family?" asked the hotel clerk, a middle-aged man whose English was heavy with a French accent. His curious eyes passed from Colin to Michaela and back. 

"Yes, my husband and I are on a family trip to Paris," Michaela replied, her voice surprisingly steady, taking charge. 

The man hesitated, staring at the couple. 

"You are... married?" 

"I fell for my Mrs. Bridgerton at first sight," Colin cut in, sliding his arm around Michaela's waist with a devastating charm. He then motioned to Anne. "And this is my beloved little sister, Penelope. She's a bit rattled from the journey. We'd like one room with two beds, please.”

Their performance was so enthusiastic and confident that it contrasted painfully with Anne's shrunken figure.

“Uh…” the clerk stammered, stunned and unsure how to react. "Very well, I... right. Here's your room key." 

"Thank you," Colin said, taking the key. He turned to the two women. "Shall we go, darling? Sister?" 

"Yes," Anne muttered, her voice barely audible.

They were starving, but exhaustion won out. In the clean, impersonal room, Michaela and Colin collapsed onto their respective beds, instantly surrendering to exhaustion.

But for Anne, sleep did not come.

Lying beside Michaela in the darkness, she lay with her eyes open, terrified of her body betraying her again, of getting up and wandering around a strange hotel in a foreign country.

Without Colin's warmth, without his sturdy arms around her, nothing seemed to calm her.

Besides, the dream… the memory… swirled in her head. She'd had strange dreams before, but none of this solidity.

It hadn't felt like a dream. It had felt like a window into a place, into a life that wasn't his, but that his soul seemed to recognize.

Was there really a possibility that she wasn't an impostor?

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. Colin's body shifted on the bed next to her, and she immediately squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her breathing to become deep and regular.

The spring bed made a loud noise, and Colin seemed to freeze, probably noticing the sound.

When he moved again, it was slow.

Anne felt the light touch of a finger slide over her hand, which was flat on the mattress beside her. A test.

Her heart raced, a wild drum against her ribs, but she remained still, as if she were sleeping like a log.

Satisfied, Colin walked away.

Anne heard bare feet on the polished wooden floor of the room.

"Michaela!" he whispered. 

"What?" she whispered back, her voice thick with sleep. 

A few seconds later, Anne's bed dipped slightly. Michaela had stood up from where she'd been sitting on the edge. 

"Shhh," Colin insisted. "I don't want to wake her." 

"Are you sure Anne's asleep?" 

"I checked. I think so." 

"So," Michaela yawned. "What is it this time?" 

The silence lasted for a heartbeat. 

"There's a possibility," Colin said, his voice so quiet Anne had to struggle to hear, "that she is actually Penelope." 

Anne held her breath. 

"Of course," Michaela laughed softly. "That's why we're bringing her to the Dowager Marquise." 

"No, Michaela. I'm serious," the intensity in his voice was new. "I think she's her."

“I thought you were the most convinced person in the world that she was dead.”

“I know, but…” he hesitated. “Penelope had a… condition. When she was a child.”

“What condition?”

“I can't explain it... sometimes she would walk and talk in her sleep. Sleepwalking, I think they called it.”

Anne's blood ran cold. What she had confessed to him in the storm...

“And?” Michaela asked.

“And this girl,” he said, and Anne knew he was talking about her, "left the ship's cabin for that reason. She was asleep when I found her on the railing, about to throw herself into the sea. Penelope used to walk around the house; they thought it was fake, some servants said it was demonic possession, and she... she hated it. I think only her mother took it more seriously, but she kept it a secret so no one would know." 

Anne felt a wave of dizziness, as if the room were swaying again. Sleepwalking. Hated it. Kept it a secret. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Michaela asked. 

"She seemed ashamed when we got back to the cabin; I didn't want to make things worse." 

"Are you sure?" 

"No, my head can't be absolutely sure," Colin admitted, frustrated. "Maybe it's a coincidence... another one." 

"Wait, you woke me up to claim that Penelope is her, and now you're saying you're not sure?"

"I'm... I needed to share this with someone. This is something very specific, and she has it too. I remember that, years ago, Lady Portia's trip with Penelope to Paris had another reason besides vacation; it was related to them seeking a solution here, in France. With a French doctor named Charcot*, but they returned home without much. I heard the Marquise call what Penelope had 'hysteria'." 

Anne could barely breathe, let alone process. 

Hysteria. Doctor Charcot*. Paris. 

"If you're not sure, Colin, I'm even less so," Michaela yawned again. "I know this messes with you, Penelope was your friend, but... let's go to sleep. Anne seems fine, sleeping deeply."

"She was not my friend." 

The denial was so absolute it made Anne catch her breath. 

"Oh, please, Colin," Michaela responded, her voice filled with a weary, gentle knowing. "You know that's true. I know what you endured, too; it doesn't change the affection you held for her one bit." 

The room fell silent. 

Anne could only hear Colin's deep exhale before he spoke: 

"Sorry to disturb your sleep. The sun is almost rising." 

"It's fine. Oh, I thought of something for myself in Paris," Michaela's voice suddenly brightened. "I could be a dancer! The artistic world in France is much more full of possibilities for black people than in London."

"A dancer, Michaela? Really?" Colin's tone was mocking. "We are going to receive a generous reward, we can be respectable, and you want to dance?" 

That confirmed one of her theories: they were indeed counting on the marquise's reward; it was more than a good deed. Anne then heard a familiar, unladylike sound—a raspberry, exactly like the first time she met them. 

"Boring!" Michaela laughed, her voice muffled by the pillow. "I'm not staying home knitting for you. I'm going to find out what to do with my life, I must have some talent! Good night!" 

"Good night."

The room grew quiet again, and the sun came up. Anne, however, remained awake, lost in thought.

With each passing moment, the thought became more real: the moment that would change her life was imminent, and she could be the long-lost heir of a marchioness.

They descended to the hotel dining room at 7:00 a.m., a room flooded with natural light streaming through the windows and the lively hum of French conversation.

But the coffee in Anne's hands, now cold, was a reminder that she wasn't there. Her mind was still stuck on the night before: the warmth of Colin's arms, the smell of rain, Colin and Michaela's late-night conversation, and the terror of a solid dream that might or might not be a true memory.

"Penelope, eat a little more," Michaela insisted gently, pushing a bread basket toward Anne. 

Anne looked at the untouched toast on her plate, her mind miles away. 

"I've eaten enough, thank you."

Colin, sitting to her right, hadn't said a word about the hours they'd spent holding each other during the storm on the ship.

Even after the cold had passed, they didn't let go. She didn't know why he'd held her like that; perhaps he was afraid she'd escape and throw herself off the ship again.

If he lost her, he would lose his golden goose.

Anne looked at his gloved hand on the table. 

The glove was a reminder of what it hid underneath: the map of scars that the fire at Penelope's house had left him. Colin's gaze followed hers. She saw shame harden his features the instant he realized. The hand was withdrawn to his lap, hidden beneath the table. 

"We should return to the lessons," Colin commented, ignoring her lack of appetite. "She needs to study as much as she can." 

"Colin, we just woke up," Michaela protested. "My stomach still feels turned upside down." 

"And we only have a few more hours before we arrive in Paris and go straight to Madame Varley's house."

The mention of the name made Anne focus on the conversation. 

"Doesn't she live with the Marquise?" 

"No," Colin explained. "Besides being the Marquise's secretary, she functions as a type of watchdog. From what we've heard... Lady Portia has grown used to solitude and doesn't live with anyone besides the servants, who avoid disturbing her." 

"And Madame Varley is really going to listen to us right away?" 

"I'm afraid not," Colin admitted. "But my sister, Francesca, will help us get an evaluation. And you, Penelope, have to be ready for when that happens."

The sound of Michaela's knife on fresh bread stopped. She looked up, her eyes narrowed, and the question came like a test.

"Penelope, do you know how to dance?" 

Anne blinked. 

"Dance?" 

"Yes. Waltz? Quadrille?" Michaela pressed. 

Anne thought of the balls in her dreams, but reality was different. Her gaze fell on her hands resting on the table. 

"I've never been to a ball." 

"Ah. Well, that's fine. Madame Varley isn't going to ask you to waltz in the middle of her parlor," Colin said with a dry laugh.

"No, but..." Michaela's voice cut through his disdain. She turned to Anne, her voice calm and precise, "And what if Varley requests it? You would have been at the age to start your first dance lessons when you disappeared. She will watch how you walk, how you sit, how you move. Dancing isn't just about the steps; it's about the grace that becomes part of your body. It's something a Lady would have in her blood.”

"I don't know how to dance," Anne confessed. 

"Lucky for you, I do," said Michaela, smiling, with unshakable confidence. "But you'll need a partner."

His gaze fixed on Colin.

"No. Absolutely not," he said, reclining in his chair. "I dance like a duck with gout. I'll only do more harm than good." 

“I know. But you're the only duck we've got," Michaela argued. "You have to help Anne... Penelope.”

“Why don't you dance with her?”

“My stomach’s still churning, you know?” she said, pouting, one hand on her stomach. “I think if I keep shaking it too much, it’ll all come back up.”

“And you intend to teach her to dance on a moving train?” Colin challenged skeptically.

“No. The train will take an hour to arrive. We'll use the station platform while we wait. She doesn't need to learn any choreography, just the basics. We'll blame the rest on amnesia.”

“Or… I’m not her,” Anne hissed, her voice weak. “And I shouldn’t know any of this.”

“Penelope, we've already explained,” Michaela reassured her, touching her hand to hers. “We have to go through Madame Varley before confirming anything with the Marquise. It's the only way.”

Caught between Michaela's logic and Anne's saddened gaze, Colin realized he was outnumbered. He sighed, tossing his napkin on the table in surrender.

With a final act of rebellion, he grabbed the basket of bread, stuffed three into his coat, and stood up.

“Fine! I'll dance! But if I step on her foot, it's your fault.” He looked from one to the other. “Now I'm going to the station to buy the damned tickets and make time to… dance.”

And he left the hotel dining room in an indignant march.

Anne's eyes widened in surprise before she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Michaela just rolled her eyes, the corner of her lips curling into a victorious smile.

Chapter Text

The Gare de Calais-Maritime station in Calais was buzzing with morning activity. While passengers awaited the Chemin de Fer du Nord train, french porters, identifiable by their blue jackets, maneuvered the luggage.

The atmosphere was filled with the shouts of vendors and the pungent smell of charcoal mixed with strong coffee.

And in the midst of all this, in a corner of the platform, Colin was living his own personal hell.

“One, two, three. One, two, three,” Michaela sang, clapping her hands softly to keep the rhythm.

He held Anne—or rather, Penelope—awkwardly. The formal closeness was somehow more intimate and uncomfortable than the warmth they shared in the narrow ship's bed. He felt like a bull trying to herd a sparrow.

“No, no,” Michaela snapped her fingers. “Colin, you have to guide Penelope, not the other way around. You lead, she follows. You know that.”

He knew, in theory. In practice, his feet weren't sure what to do, and Anne's concentration on getting the steps right caused him to lose his own rhythm.

She was trying so hard. For Paris. For a past that didn't even belong to her.  

Or perhaps it did.

“Again,” Michaela ordered. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

He forced himself to focus. One step, one turn. She followed him, stumbling once, but recovering quickly.

This time, something clicked. Perhaps it was her determination or his fear of being reprimanded again, but they began to move with a fluidity that hadn't existed before.

She was light in his arms, and for a moment, Colin forgot they were on a busy train platform.

“Look at that, Penelope!” Michaela exclaimed with a triumphant smile. “You even make Colin look like he can dance well.”

He simply rolled his eyes, but for the first time, ignored Michaela's comment. He focused on Anne, who now moved more confidently in his arms. The morning light of Calais illuminated the coppery strands in her hair.

The dark green dress, though still damp, accentuated the color of her eyes. The words came out before he could stop them.

“That, uh, that dress looks really good on you,” he said.

She looked up, surprised by the unexpected compliment.

“Do you think so?”

“I think so,” he confirmed. “Y-you, you should wear it.”

“I am wearing it.”

“Oh, oh yes, I was just, um, trying to give you a... a...", he stumbled over his words and his feet.

“A compliment?” she finished, a mischievous smile appearing on her lips.

“Exactly,” he admitted, and they shared a smile.

“I can still feel the dress is a little damp,” she confessed. “But I’m glad it dried most of it in time for us to catch the train.”

Her mention of the dress still being damp brought him back to the previous night – the biting cold, the dread of losing her to the waves, like the last time he lost her to the fire. Her warmth in his arms.

He had slept clinging to her on the ship under the pretext of keeping her warm, but the truth was he was terrified. The image of her, sleepwalking on deck, disturbed him, and he feared she would get up again and, this time, actually throw herself off.

And in the hotel, even in separate beds, fear didn't leave him. 

He remained with his back turned, but awake all night, and after the conversation with Michaela in the early morning, he monitored the slightest rustle of the sheets.

Colin tried to calm his own heart, repeating that she wasn't Penelope. It was madness. Penelope was dead. This is Anne. But the similarities between them didn't help.

“At least he didn't catch pneumonia,” Colin said, as they tried to get the rhythm right.

He spun her around. The awkward waltz movement transformed into something momentarily graceful.

Anne laughed.

“Thanks to you.”

They hadn't spoken about the cabin, and Colin intended to keep it that way. What happened there was a necessity. It hadn't been right, embracing her like that, but he didn't regret it.

He would do it again.

When she turned back to face him after the turn, they were very close. The noise from the station seemed to disappear.

The two stopped dancing, but remained there, standing on the platform, looking into each other's eyes. Colin's question came next, full of curiosity, and without any intention of taking advantage of her.

Anne's sleepwalking unsettled him.

“What was your life like as an orphan?”

“After they found me, I was taken to an orphanage run by nuns,” she recounted, her gaze distant. “I stayed there until I was eighteen. They arranged a job for me at the Featherington factory, and I moved into the slums. I met a friend, an older woman, Agatha Danbury. She... she passed away recently. It was after her death that I decided to follow my only lead. I realized I had nothing left to lose.”

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he lamented, and the empathy in his voice was genuine.

The last loss he had suffered was that of his brothers. Even though they were alive.

“I feel it too.”

“And your lead? What led you to look for a ticket to Paris?”

Colin watched her hand move to her chest, an instinctive, protective gesture. Anne was protecting something. After a moment of embarrassment, as if deciding whether she could trust him, she pulled a thin chain from under her dress.

The pendant was round, like a sturdy coin, made of a matte metal that could have been antique silver. There was a delicate butterfly embossed on the front.

The air seemed to get trapped in Colin's lungs. The design... it was familiar. Terribly familiar.

“It's beautiful,” he managed to say, his voice controlled.

“It has an inscription on the back,” she pointed out. “The nun who translated it said it means ‘You, Me, and Paris’.”

He took the pendant gently. The metal was warm from the contact with her skin. He turned it over, seeing the three words engraved in French.

Moi, toi et Paris.

“Do you... by any chance recognize it?” her question was full of hope

Colin looked up from the pendant to her.

The truth was on the tip of his tongue. For a moment, he wanted to tell it. That impulse, that flame of honesty, frightened him more than any lie.

He deleted it.

“I've never seen it in my life,” he lied. 

Suddenly, the shrill whistle of an approaching train broke the spell. Colin stepped back, putting a safe distance between them. That's when Michaela appeared beside them, a smile on her lips. 

“I think class is over,” she said, her gaze darting from one tense face to the other. “And it was very, very productive, wouldn't you say?”

<<< O >>>

The train to Paris was not very different from English locomotives, except perhaps for the padded seats, which were covered in leather instead of red velvet.

They found the cabin and settled in: Colin and Michaela sat on one side, while Anne chose the seat opposite them, by the window.

With a sharp whistle and a controlled jolt, the train set itself in motion.

Through the window, the view of the Hauts-de-France region began to unfold. It was a largely flat area, revealing plowed fields, endless rows of poplars serving as windbreaks, and stone farmhouses with slate roofs. 

In the distance, the bell tower of a village church pierced the horizon.

The French landscape rushed past the cabin window, a blur of vibrant greens and stone villages, but Colin could barely see it. His eyes were fixed on the girl sitting opposite him.

He looked at her as if she were a ghost from his childhood, a flesh-and-blood phantom that had decided to return. Anne. Penelope. The similarities, the coincidences, the impossible memories… everything piled up in his mind until he no longer knew what was real.

He stared at her, trying to find an answer, but looked away towards the window every time he realized she had noticed him.

“All right,” Michaela continued the lessons, oblivious to Colin’s drama. “You remember the names of all the Featheringtons, right? The Marquess, the Marchioness, and their daughters?”

“Portia, Archibald, Penelope, Philippa, and... Prudence.” As she said the last name, she paused. She frowned and brought her fingers to her temple, massaging it. “I've heard that name before. Prudence. But where?”

"Colin exchanged an alarmed look with Michaela. 

Of course, she heard, he thought, his heart racing.

“Right. Now, on to the close relatives,” Michaela continued cautiously. 'Who is the current holder of the Marquess's title?'

“Lord Jack Featherington,” Anne replied at once, her voice flat. “I know this because he is my owner.”

Colin raised an eyebrow.

“Your owner?” he asked.

“Sorry, it's just an expression,” Anne corrected herself with a small, nervous laugh. “He's the owner of the cotton mill, my employer... former employer. I heard he was quite unhappy about not inheriting everything from the old marquess as he'd imagined.” She frowned, genuinely curious. “Why didn't he inherit?”

"Lord Archibald considered himself heirless and did not bind all his investments to the title," Colin explained, his tone becoming practical. "The original lands and properties, monies from the Crown, the factories... yes. But other personal investments, no. He divided those as an inheritance for his daughters and his wife. Since the daughters died, everything went to Lady Portia.”

“But the factories were also divided into shares,” Michaela added, as if reciting from a manual. “The majority belongs to the titleholder, and a minority share to Lady Portia. When the heiress is found, she will inherit half of the marchioness's fortune and, eventually, all of it.”

Colin watched Anne. This was the moment when anyone else would show greed, when a poor orphan would dream of wealth.

Instead, Anne's face tightened into an expression of anguish. She seemed to be thinking of everything she could have, and the idea, rather than exciting her, seemed to terrify her.

Her anguish, coupled with sleepwalking, fragmented memories, a reaction to the name 'Prudence' and, above all, the butterfly necklace... the symbol of the Featherington family.

Anne is the one without her memory, Colin thought, feeling a chill of uncertainty, and I am the one no longer certain of anything I remember.

He could no longer keep it to himself. He needed Michaela, her logic, her outside perspective.

He straightened up, interrupting Michaela's next question.

"Michaela, can we have a moment?"

"But we are studying...", she protested.

“Please, just a moment,” he insisted, forcing a smile at Anne, who seemed relieved by the interruption. “Let’s leave Anne… Penelope… to study the Featherington family tree.”

“Okay,” Michaela conceded, sensing the genuine urgency in his voice. “We’ll be right back, dear.”

They exited the cabin, closing the door behind them. The train corridor swayed and creaked. Colin pulled her into a small recess near the window, where the noise of the tracks would drown out their conversation.

"She has a necklace, and I think I've seen it before," Colin began, getting straight to the point.

"A necklace?" Michaela frowned. "You didn't tell me about any necklace."

"The one she showed me on the platform. The butterfly one." He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. "I don't know how I could have forgotten, but I believe it's the key to the jewelry box."

Michaela stared at him, confusion giving way to shock.

"Her necklace opens your jewelry box?"

The jewelry box did not belong to him; he was merely in possession of it. He had first seen it through a crack in the library wall, and that had been the last time its rightful owner held it.

"I don't know what it is!" he hissed, frustrated. "I've tried to open it a thousand times, you know that. The lock is a mechanism. And the pendant she showed me... I think it's the key, Michaela. I'm almost certain."

"Almost?" She raised an eyebrow. "You're not sure?"

"No!" he admitted, the confession coming out angrily. "Is it just another damned coincidence?"

“There are too many coincidences,” she said, her tone now more serious. “We need to know. We’re going to steal the necklace and find out.”

“It’s not that simple,” he retorted. “She keeps it inside her dress. She never takes it out.” Colin stared at her, the meaning of her words hanging between them. “But you… you have nimble hands. Light hands. A woman’s hands. It’s never been a problem for you.”

They spent two years roaming the upscale areas of London after leaving the orphanage.

While Colin created the distraction, Michaela's nimble hands did the work, stealing items far more valuable than a wallet containing a few pounds. It was better than succumbing to factory exhaustion.

But Michaela didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea.

“We can ask.”

Her suggestion caught him by surprise.

“Ask?” 

“Yes. Ask to see it.”

“She would demand explanations,” he argued impatiently. Colin looked away at the landscape, his expression sad. “And I don’t want to… give her any more false hope.”

Michaela examined him, a slow, amused smile forming on her lips. She crossed her arms.

“Colin Bridgerton, you're getting soft.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe it,” Michaela laughed, shaking her head. She hugged herself, as if clinging to someone. “Sleeping cuddled up with her last night was enough to make you so worried about her feelings?”

“I knew it!” Colin pointed a finger at her. “I knew you’d use that to mock me at some point.”

“And am I wrong?”

“I was protecting our plan, Michaela!” he defended himself. “If she got sick, it would be terrible. I was being practical!”

“So, are you telling me that you don't have any kind of affection for the girl?”

"I've known her for less than a week!"

Michaela's smile disappeared.

"Or… you may have known her for years. As a friend for whom you felt immense affection and consideration."

The accusation hit him hard. He looked away, feeling exposed in the swaying train aisle.

“I don’t understand,” Colin sighed, turning to her. “Do you want me to fall in love with her?”

"Not necessarily," her friend replied calmly. "But I'd like you to stop running away from your feelings, whatever they may be. You try to hide behind this mask of a clever and selfish con man, and... I do the same. But we're more than that, Colin. We both know that."

An awkward silence settled between them, broken only by the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks.

Colin was the first to break eye contact. He composed himself, adjusting his travel coat, his mask sliding back into place.

“Penelope or not,” he said with a forced smile, “I still want to con the Marquise.” He stared at her. "Is that being soft?"

Michaela shook her head, her gaze serious.

"It's not quite like that. If she is Penelope, we wouldn't be pulling a con. We would actually be reuniting a mother and daughter." The idea was so strange, so... clean, that Colin didn't know what to say. "Imagine it, Colin," she continued, excited. "For the first time, we wouldn't be deceiving anyone. When was the last time we didn't have to swindle, steal, cheat, or lie to get something?”

Colin thought.

He even lied to the nuns at the orphanage. To keep his gold-plated jewelry box, he pretended to be dying, even when he was already standing and walking around the room, recovered from his burns.

Then, fearing that the object would be confiscated, he buried it in the orphanage's backyard and faked a theft.

“I don't remember,” he admitted.

“Honesty is not our strong suit.”

“Finding her… the real one… would truly be a stroke of luck,” he murmured, more to himself. He glanced back at the closed door of the cabin where Anne was. “I’m looking at her now as if I’m seeing a ghost. As if my childhood has come back to bite me.” He tried to make a joke. “We should stop at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris and get some holy water.”

“Silly,” she said, giving him a light tap on the arm. But her face turned serious, her gaze meticulous. “Give me the jewelry box.”

Colin blinked, surprised.

"Why?"

“We’ve been suspicious since yesterday because of the things Anne says without any of us commenting on them,” she explained. “The sleepwalking, the carriage, the necklace. What if she has a reaction when she sees the jewelry box?”

A strange chill ran through Colin.

He hadn't thought of that before. He considered miracles and ghosts. But there was another alternative.

“Or,” she said, her voice cautious, “what if she’s studied Penelope very well and is pretending? Being just as much of a swindler as we are?”

Michaela absorbed his paranoia. She pondered for a moment. A slow, admiring smile spread across her lips.

“So, the three of us should form a trio of crooks. Because, if that's the case, she's very good.”

She held out her hand, palm open.

Colin hesitated for a moment, but he reached into his coat pocket and placed the object in her hand.

“Let me talk to her alone,” she pleaded, closing her fingers around the box. “You’re making her nervous. Stay outside.”

Michaela turned and went into the cabin, closing the door behind her.

Colin lagged behind in the narrow corridor. 

He leaned forward, trying to press his ear against the wood, but the swaying of the train threw him off balance.

A passenger coming from the opposite direction nearly tripped over him. Colin straightened up abruptly, forcing a smile and nodding. The man looked at him strangely and continued on his way.

Colin tried listening again.

"Colin will be right back," he heard Michaela say.

"Any problem?" Anne asked.

"No, you know how he is," Michaela replied, and Colin rolled his eyes upon hearing her. "Annoying. Wanting to have a say in everything."

"What is that?"

"Oh, this?" Michaela's voice sounded light, casual. "A jewelry box. It belongs to Colin."

Colin held his breath.

Come on, Pen. Recognize it. Say something.

"Are you sure it's a jewelry box?"

"I am."

"Hmm. I don't know..." Anne sounded interested in the object. "It looks like something else, something special."

Colin's heart leapt.

Does she know? Does she remember?

"What?"

"I don't know."

His disappointment was immediate.

"There's an opening underneath, can you see it?" Michaela continued to press.

"I see it. And?"

“Oh. Nothing. Let's get back to the lessons."

Colin let out his breath. Michaela was good. She had tested the waters without revealing the bait. The box, apparently, meant nothing to Anne.

He heard Anne's voice again, now laced with anxiety.

“And what if Madame Varley doesn't let me near the Marchioness? What will you do?”

"She will be convinced. She will see Penelope in you. Colin and I believe in you."

"This is so strange. Until a few days ago, I had no past, and now I'm trying to remember an entire life."

"That's why we're here. Now, pop quiz: what was Penelope's favorite dessert?"

“Éclair?”

"Correct!"

Colin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the train wall.

Another coincidence.

The uncertainty was driving him mad.

After several hours, the landscape outside the window changed. The green fields gave way to the gray suburbs of Paris: small factories with smoking chimneys and endless rows of workers' houses.

The train began to slow, the sound of the tracks changing as it passed over the complex switches of the station. Finally, with a long, weary sigh from the steam brakes, it glided into the monumental Gare du Nord.

The trio's destination had been reached.

As soon as they stepped onto the platform, the noise of hundreds of people talking, shouting, and running, the echo of voices under the high ceiling, and the unmistakable energy of Paris hit them.

It was a vibrant chaos.

As they looked up, they saw an arched ceiling of glass and cast iron rising to a dizzying height, allowing the pale daylight to flood the station.

"Paris!" Anne exclaimed, her voice thick with admiration, her eyes fixed on the architecture.

"Hmph," Colin grumbled, grabbing everyone's bags. "I don't see what the big deal is so far."

"If it's less dirty than London, it'll already stand out," Michaela commented, smiling.

Colin ignored them both.

“I hope the letter I sent to Francesca from Calais arrived before us, as they promised.”

His eyes scanned the bustling platform. In the sea of ​​strangers, composed of men, women, and children, he anxiously searched for a familiar face he still hoped to recognize.

“Colin?”

The voice, with a soft timbre and a clear French accent, came from behind Colin.

He turned around.

The woman standing in front of him was identical to the one in the photograph she had sent him, but her eyes... her eyes were the same as her sister Francesca's.

She wore a charcoal-Grey wool dress, impeccably tailored to convey elegance but not wealth, and a small hat covering her pinned-up hair. It was a fine outfit for a respectable lady's companion: discreet, professional, and of good quality.

Beside him, Colin sensed Michaela and Anne silently watching the scene, witnesses to a moment that didn't belong to them.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

A shy smile lit up her face.

"I saw you. And… I just… thought, 'it's him'."

Her English was perfect, but her French accent was so present it could almost make her pass for a native, and not a foreigner like him.

"You're not a child anymore," Colin said, marveling at the woman she had become. "My God, you remind me of our mother."

"I'm not that old, either," his sister laughed, her eyes filling with tears. "I missed you, Colin."

Neither the years of estrangement nor the hardness Colin kept around himself was enough to contain him at that moment. 

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her shoulder, the scent of lavender and starch transporting him to a simpler time.

"I missed you, Frannie."

"Oh, my brother," she sighed, hugging him tightly. "I think it's been ages since anyone called me that."

The two siblings pulled apart, both their faces emotional, laughing and crying at the same time.

"I received the letter an hour ago and came running," Francesca said, wiping her tears. "You timed your arrival perfectly." She held him by the arms, as if to make sure he was real. "How was the journey? Did everything go well?"

"There was a storm in the Channel, but… Yes, everything went well, we're all fine," Colin said. He remembered the expensive second-class tickets she had paid for. "You helped with that. I tried to make the money last, Frannie, but I couldn't. I'm sorry."

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

"Silly. I wouldn't let my little brother arrive in Paris traveling third-class like a vagrant. I'm glad you traveled comfortably."

"Little brother?" he teased, the familiar, affectionate tone instantly coming to him. "I'm older than you."

"Sorry," Francesca laughed, happiness radiating from her. "I can't even believe we're really seeing each other again."

"Me neither," he replied, and for the first time in years, the smile on his face was completely genuine and happy.

But the joy of a reunion can only last a few seconds. Suddenly, the emotion gave way to a shared sadness, the shadow of the past falling upon them right there on the crowded platform.

"Do you think they really forgot about us?" Francesca asked, the happiness fading from her eyes.

“I do,” he replied, honesty a weight on his chest.

“I sent a letter to Kent, to Anthony, but he didn't answer. No one answered me.”

"I know, you told me."

"You looked for me and found me. Why didn't they do the same for us? Why, Colin?" The anguish was stark in Francesca's voice. “Why were we the only ones placed in distant orphanages? Why was I adopted and they weren't? And the worst part… you almost died, and you lived on those filthy streets of London. There's no reason they would want you gone.”

Colin wanted to share with her the thought that haunted him every night: that perhaps his other siblings blamed him for their parents' death. Just as he himself had blamed himself for so long.

The image of the fire returned. His father carrying him out of the burning house, the heat on his skin, and then watching him turn and run back into the smoke to save his mother.

Neither of them made it out alive.

It was too heavy a burden to share in a train station. He needed to change the subject. Now.

"Let's talk about better things." He forced a smile, gesturing to the two women waiting patiently. "Francesca, this is Michaela Stirling, my good friend."

Francesca turned, her face still marked by the sadness of the previous conversation, and her eyes met Michaela's for the first time.

And the world stopped.

Colin watched, confused, as a strange and immediate connection passed between the two. They stood paralyzed, staring at each other as if they were the only two people in the Gare du Nord.

It was Francesca who spoke first, her voice shy, as if she were introducing herself to a queen.

"I am... I am Francesca."

"I... I am... I am Michaela."

Colin and Anne glanced at each other, both clearly sensing they were in the middle of something they didn't understand.

"I just introduced you," Colin said, breaking the spell.

Michaela seemed to awaken from a trance and extended her hand. A blush crept up Francesca's neck as she accepted the handshake.

"It's a pleasure."

"Likewise."

"And don't listen to anything Colin says about me," Michaela told Francesca, with a splendid smile. "The truth is far worse."

Francesca gave a slightly silly smile.

“Frannie,” Colin intervened, his serious voice bringing everyone back to the purpose of their trip. He placed a hand gently on Anne's back, guiding her one step forward. “I present to you Penelope Anne Featherington. The Marchioness's lost daughter.”

Anne, feeling the weight of all eyes on her, performed the curtsy they had practiced. It was a little stiff, but correct.

“It is a pleasure, Miss Bridgerton.”

“Deveraux. Francesca Deveraux. I no longer use the Bridgerton surname since I was adopted,” Francesca corrected, and then gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “My God, Colin… she is so…”

"Similar to Penelope?" he completed. "Very."

It was surprising that Francesca remembered Penelope as well as he did, since she was very young and their mother hardly allowed her to go out into the Featherington house.

Colin, however, mostly went in hiding, sneaking through the gardens or using the mansion's secret passages.

Francesca reciprocated, returning the courtesy with grace:

"The pleasure is all mine, milady." Her gaze measured Anne from head to toe, laden with a challenge. "Are you sure you can face Madame Varley?"

Anne lifted her chin and straightened her spine, an imitation of confidence that Colin recognized from their lessons.

“I am ready.”

Francesca broke into a genuine smile of approval.

“I like her!”

“What are we going to do?” Colin asked.

She bent down and picked up an elegant, ribbon-tied box that was resting at her feet.

"I used the excuse of fetching a delivery from the modiste to come to the station," Francesca explained. "That means Varley knows I left and is expecting me back." She glanced toward the station exit. "We'll all take a fiacre* to the corner of her street. We get out. I'll go first, to announce that the order for the opera gown has arrived. You wait exactly ten minutes, then knock on the door."

"We're just going to show up and introduce her?" Michaela asked, skeptical.

"Put her front and center when you knock," Francesca instructed, her gaze fixed on Michaela. "Let Varley open the door and be startled by the resemblance. For the rest, do as I said and leave it to me." She turned to Colin. "Did you train her?"

Colin glanced at Anne, who blushed slightly, and then turned back to his sister.

"She was very intelligent and quick."

"Perfect!" The adrenaline of the plan shone in Francesca's eyes as she clutched the box. Gesturing toward the exit, she pronounced, “Bienvenus à Paris!”

Colin and Anne looked at each other, confused.

Michaela smiled and translated:

“Welcome to Paris!”

And she followed Madame Varley's lady's companion.

The foursome proceeded on their course, moving past the platforms to the grand atrium of the station, known as the Salle des Pas Perdus. 

It was a monumental hall, notable for its ornate ticket counters and polished marble floor.

As they passed through the main doors beneath the triumphal facade of statues, they were immediately immersed in the Parisian atmosphere. A new cacophony of carriage and omnibus wheels on the cobblestone traffic, and the sight of a vast, vibrant city opened up before them.

Paris had begun.

Chapter Text

The square in front of the Gare du Nord was a whirlwind of vehicles: omnibus*, private carriages, and carriages for hire, painted dark green and black.

Francesca signaled to a coachman. The driver, robust and wearing a leather hat, brandished his whip in response.

Colin tied the luggage to the back of the carriage. After everyone had squeezed into the cabin, which smelled of leather and straw, Francesca gave the address of the 8th Arrondissement to the coach through a small hatch.

With the crack of the whip and the cry of ‘Hue!’, The horse bolted, causing a jolt in the cabin.

The carriage descended Boulevard de Magenta for a moment before turning onto the long, straight Rue La Fayette, a veritable spectacle of Paris, with its six-story apartment buildings.

The sidewalks were wide and crowded with people: businessmen in top hats, women in dresses with bustles, and workers in caps.

The carriage crossed the Opéra intersection. To the left, they had an overwhelming glimpse of the Opéra Garnier, a palace of marble, gold, and statues that seemed like the center of the universe.

They followed the Grands Boulevards toward L'église de La Madeleine, a luxurious area where the ground-floor shops displayed dazzling windows of gowns, jewelry, and pâtisseries.

When the fiacre turned off the main axis of Boulevard Malesherbes and entered the quieter streets of the 8th Arrondissement, near the Champs-Élysées area, the noise changed drastically.

The mass traffic was replaced by the more refined sound of private carriages, with polished leather harnesses and crests on their doors. The streets were cleaner, and the buildings were no longer apartments, but rather what Francesca called hôtels particuliers*.

The carriage dropped them off at the corner.

The quiet almost startled Anne, and she found herself missing the bustle: there were no shops, no cafés, no boutiques with their window displays.

“Stick to the plan,” Francesca directed, once the fiacre had vanished. “I'll go first. Colin, time ten minutes on your watch. When there’s a knock at the door, keep Penelope in front. Let Varley open the gate and get a shock when he sees her. That in itself makes our case promising.”

Anne observed the interaction between them... the way Francesca led and Colin and Michaela nodded, like soldiers receiving orders from a general.

She realized she was no longer dealing with a duo. This was a trio, a team with a well-thought-out plan, and she was the central figure.

“Has the Marchioness not given up yet?” Michaela asked.

Francesca shook her head, her face serious.

“No, but she’s been sad and disheartened. Varley visited her this morning and came back looking gloomy. She didn’t even want to talk to me about the visit.” She looked at Anne, and a glimmer of hope appeared in her eyes. “I think you arrived just in time.”

“It's time to put on your show, Penelope,” Colin said, his tone softer than usual.

“I'll do my best,” Anne replied, her voice trembling.

“You won’t be alone, chérie. I’ll help you,” Francesca reassured her. She then turned to her brother, her gaze suddenly critical. “Come here, Colin. You can’t present yourself to Madame Varley with that crooked tie.”

He stopped, surprised, allowing her to adjust the knot with quick, efficient fingers, a gesture of familiarity that seemed out of place on that otherwise polished Parisian street.

“You should have gone. To England,” he said, his voice low so only she could hear. “To Kent. To see them. Maybe you would have had better luck than I did. Maybe the problem isn't with you, maybe I'm the problem.”

Francesca's smile was sad, her eyes focused on the fabric.

“Do you know what this puts me in mind of?” she said, attempting to shift the topic while straightening his lapel. “It reminds me of Mama, helping Papa with his cravat before Sunday mass.”

“Was she cruel to you?” Colin pressed, his voice serious. “The woman who adopted you. I… I have been afraid to ask.”

“No, I guess,” she replied, finishing the knot. “But she only adopted me because she was getting old and had no one. I was more of a caregiver than a daughter. In fact, she never treated me like a daughter. When she died, she left all her money to charity, and I was left with nothing.” She finally met his gaze, utter vulnerability. “I don’t want to disappoint myself again, Colin. Not if our brothers have forgotten about us both too.”

Colin swallowed hard, her pain mirroring his own. Before he could respond, Francesca took a deep breath, putting on her professional lady-in-waiting mask.

“Well, I’ll see you in ten minutes,” she said, picking up her dressmaker’s box. She started to walk away toward one of the mansions.

But Francesca stopped, turned around, and winked at them.

“Oh! And do pretend it is the very first time you have ever seen me.”

As she watched Francesca walk away, Anne's mind drifted to the future. She hadn't yet reached the point of what to say when she spoke to the Marchioness for the first time.

What if Lady Portia confirmed that Anne was Penelope? How would she react to that whirlwind of emotions?

But Anne had one thing in mind: she would question her. She would question why she hadn't done anything for the Bridgerton siblings, especially Colin, who had more than half his body scarred by the fire.

I wouldn't condemn the Marchioness's pain, but I also didn't think it was fair that children should lose their parents and, moreover, be separated and abandoned without any support.

Anne sighed.

“Another lie,” she murmured, referring to having to pretend she didn't know Francesca.

“Let’s tell a little white lie or two so that a big truth can be revealed,” Michaela said pragmatically. “That seems fair to me.”

Anne glanced apprehensively at Michaela and then turned to Colin, who was checking his pocket watch.

“Why doesn't your sister accept that you're her brother?”

Colin put the watch away, his face tense.

“She was adopted by a very rich Frenchwoman. But when the old lady died, she cut Francesca off without a penny. She managed to get the post with Madame Varley by naming Madame Deveraux as her mother, but she had the misfortune of being a woman and thus inherited nothing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Madame Varley showed her compassion. She is English herself, but she despises England. All her staff must be French. She has no idea Francesca is English, she just assumes she had a good education that allowed her to speak multiple languages.”

“Very well,” said Anne, her voice soft with understanding. “Let us hope the old Deveraux has gone to hell.”

A small smile appeared on Colin's face. He approached, his voice suddenly affectionate.

“All will be well.” He offered his arm. She took it, and he placed his hand over hers… a gesture of reassurance and protection. “You will do well.”

They waited on the corner of the deserted street.

The ten minutes dragged on as if they were hours. Colin looked at his watch every thirty seconds. Anne tried to control her breathing, her heart pounding erratically, clinging to Colin's arm as if he could protect her from whatever came next.

Michaela, for her part, kept her eyes fixed on where Francesca had disappeared, an expression of admiration and something else on her face, as if she could still see her.

The wait was interrupted by Colin, who put his watch in his pocket with a click.

“It's time.”

They walked from the corner to the address.

The urban mansion stood before them, an imposing three-story facade of light limestone, with elegant wrought-iron balconies and a steep slate roof. The property was protected by a tall hedge and a black iron gate.

Colin positioned Anne in the center, directly in front of the gate. He and Michaela stood a step behind, flanking her like guardians. 

Anne felt her knees tremble. Colin reached out and pulled the bell chain. The sound echoed, sharp and distant.

Moments later, the front door of the house opened. Francesca stepped out, crossing the small stone courtyard. She stopped on the other side of the gate, her face a mask of professional indifference.

“Bonjour, que puis-je pour vous?” (Good morning, how can I help you?), she asked.

However, as his eyes swept over the three of them, she pleaded: ‘Say something and continue with the charade.’ A servant was pruning the hedges in the garden of the house.

And Michaela stepped forward.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Pourrions-nous parler à madame Varley?” (Good morning, miss. Could we speak with Madame Varley?)

“Bien sûr. Laissez-moi juste une seconde.” (Of course. Just give me a second.)

“Merci.” (Thank you.)

Francesca turned and went back into the house, slamming the door shut, leaving them alone in the street. Immediately, Colin turned to Michaela, his face a look of outrage.

“My little sister is an innocent lady!” he hissed.

“As am I!” Michaela retorted, rolling her eyes.

“But you are hardly innocent!” he insisted.

Anne looked from one to the other, utterly lost in the undercurrent of their argument.

Michaela paused for a moment, thoughtful, not the least bit offended by the insinuation regarding her virtue.

“That is true,” she admitted with a proud smile. “But your sister winked at me when she left us at the corner.”

“She did not!” Colin protested. “She winked at all of us.”

“Oh, she did. She looked directly at me!” Michaela laughed, mischievously. “Do stop being so jealous!”

“I am not jealous!”

He then proceeded to pout jealously.

“What is the harm in Francesca winking?” Anne asked, confused by the drama.

Before they could reply, they heard the metallic sound of the front door being unlocked. Standing on the threshold was an older woman, stiff-backed and dressed entirely in black.

“Madame Varley?” Colin called out from the gate.

The woman merely stared at him, her eyes suspicious.

“Oui?”

Colin took a deep breath, moving to stand slightly beside Anne, who was frozen in place.

“Good day, ma'am. I am Colin. This is Michaela. And this...” he gestured to Anne, who felt the woman’s gaze sweep over her from head to toe. He spoke in English. “... we firmly believe is Lady Penelope Featherington.”

The elderly lady betrayed no astonishment. Indeed, her face, etched with deep wrinkles, seemed tired, as though she had heard the same tale countless times.

Supported by her walking stick and Francesca's arm, she made her slow way the few feet to the gate, pausing at a close, yet daunting, distance.

With her free hand, she lifted the pince-nez suspended from her neck by a black cord and perched them on her nose.

Varley then truly focused on Anne’s face. She blinked, just once. The fatigue on her face was suddenly replaced by a gleam of genuine shock.

“Well, the resemblance is striking,” Varley’s voice was as dry as old paper. “But I have seen resemblances before. How am I to trust your certainty regarding her?”

“If you will allow us inside, Madame,” said Colin, respectfully, “perhaps we can prove we have more than mere similarity.”

Madame Varley was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on Anne, appraising, comparing, deciding.

Anne felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure.

“Very well,” she said at last. “I will allow you to enter.”

Francesca stepped forward and opened the iron gate with a low creak. They were led into the house.

The marble of the entry hall echoed their footsteps. They were shown into a formal sitting room, impeccably tidy, with furniture covered in a pale brocade that looked seldom used.

“Francesca?” Madame Varley called, lowering herself with a groan into a straight-backed armchair.

“Oui, madame?”

“Speak English, Francesca,” she ordered. “Apparently, not all of our guests know French, although,” she cast a quick, respectful glance at Michaela, “Miss Michaela’s pronunciation is impeccable.” She settled in her chair, her bony hands crossed over her cane. “Bring a tray with tea and biscuits.”

A tense, heavy silence filled the living room. Michaela smiled at the compliment on his French, seated impeccably in one of the seats, with the posture of a lady.

Colin stood near the fireplace, his arms crossed, his face a mask of neutrality.

Anne, for her part, was almost in a trance. She admired the luxury of the room: the carved furniture, the silk upholstery, the pattern of the wallpaper.

Everything was incredibly, frighteningly familiar, like a dream she couldn't remember having.

“You must understand,” Madame Varley’s brittle voice broke the silence, “that you are not the first to come to my door in recent weeks with the same tale.” Her gaze swept over them, one by one. “Saying they had found the lost daughter of the Marchioness. And in every instance, they were proven to be impostors.”

“Even so, you allowed us entry,” Colin pointed out.

“Not one of them, until now, looked so very much like Penelope,” Varley conceded. Her sharp, steel-like gaze locked onto Anne, who felt a chill. “You,” she said, addressing her directly for the first time. “Do you, yourself, believe you could be Penelope?”

She laced her fingers tightly in her lap.

“Yes, ma'am,” she said, her voice shaking, but earnest. “What I want most in this world is to find my family. To not be so very alone.”

Madame Varley regarded her for a long moment.

“Tell me your story, child.”

Anne took a deep breath and recited the story she had already told.

The overturned carriage, the amnesia, the nuns, the factory. She concealed the part about exactly how she had met Colin and Michaela, making it seem like a chance encounter.

When she had concluded, Varley snorted, a mirthless sound. 

“That is quite a tale. Amnesia... it conveniently covers the gaps for what you cannot answer or prove, does it not?”

“She may not remember everything about her life before the accident,” Colin intervened, taking a protective step forward. “But she does remember some things.” He met the old woman's gaze, issuing the challenge. “Test her. Ask her questions and allow her to answer.”

“Test her?” Varley repeated. “Very well.” A cold, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She seemed to savor the idea of exposing them quickly. “Let us begin with the basics, then.”

She settled into the armchair, her bony hands still crossed over her cane.

“What was the name of the pony Lady Penelope received for her seventh birthday?”

Anne gathered her thoughts, exactly as Michaela had taught her. The answer came, clear and rehearsed.

“Penwright,” she said, lifting her gaze to meet Varley’s. “But I wanted a white stallion, like Father’s.”

Varley’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second.

“What was her favorite dessert?”

Anne felt a ping of confidence. This one she knew.

“Éclairs.”

The old woman showed no reaction.

“Favorite color?”

“Green,” Anne answered immediately. “Emerald green.”

“What was the name...” Madame Varley leaned forward, “...of your favorite doll?”

Anne frowned, not in doubt, but in certainty.

“I never had a favorite doll,” she replied, with total conviction. “First, I was given a porcelain tea set, which I broke. And then, my father gave me a writing set.”

Another correct answer. 

A detail so specific it made Varley blink.

The two continued like that for several minutes, a tense back-and-forth of questions and answers. Anne held firm, answering every question correctly.

Colin and Michaela, famished and forgetful of any etiquette, discreetly attacked the tray of tea and biscuits Francesca had brought, the clink of porcelain the only sound besides their voices.

Until Varley, seeing her arsenal of standard questions had failed, took a deep breath and played her last and most powerful card.

“How,” she said, her voice penetrating, “did the Marchioness and her daughter escape the burning house?”

Panic seized Anne. She did not know. 

She shook her head, defeated.

“She has answered perfectly until now,” Colin interjected quickly, trying to save the situation, “her mind still has limitations. The trauma of the accident...”

“That is most unfortunate,” Varley interrupted, her eyes suddenly sorrowful. “Because that answer... only three people in the world could possibly know: the Marchioness, Penelope and me. It would prove, beyond all doubt, that she is Penelope Featherington.”

“Are there no other questions?” Michaela ventured, watching their plan unravel.

“Certainly. But the answers to the pony’s name or her favorite color were printed in the papers… Anyone could have learned them.” She gestured dismissively. “I am sorry, but I cannot permit you access to Lady Featherington.”

“But you had no problem presenting other girls who were blatantly lying, did you?” Colin shot back, anger flaring in his voice. “She answered every question but one. That is a fairly good record, I should think!”

“It is not the same!” Varley banged her cane on the floor, her voice suddenly filled with anguish. “I erred with other girls... errors that cost me greatly. I will not raise Portia's hopes again, only to see her shatter when the girl is a fraud!”

“I just want the opportunity to discover who I am,” Anne got to her feet, despair in her voice. “I am not here to fool anyone!”

“We traveled from London for this chance,” Michaela said, also on her feet.

“And I am deeply sorry for your lost journey,” Varley said, her face cold once more. She sat up straighter. “Good day. Francesca, show them out.”

Francesca, who had been standing quietly by the door, glanced at her brother, at Anne’s stricken countenance, and then at her employer.

“But, Madame...” she ventured, her voice unsteady.

“Francesca. The door.”

“The girl’s likeness is remarkable, is it not?” Francesca pressed, taking a bold step forward. “You remarked upon it yourself. She is deserving of a chance. A conversation with the Marchioness.”

As they talked, Anne's mind wandered. Madame Varley was right. She should know. If she was Penelope, if that life was truly hers, she should know how she escaped the fire.

Her hand instinctively went to her chest, over the hidden medallion. She had just arrived in Paris. It couldn't be the end.

What did she remember when she thought of fire?

A house on fire. The smell of smoke. The heat.

She thought of a space... books everywhere... a library. She thought of someone guarding her from the flames. Suddenly, a wall of books moved, showing a hidden passage. 

A boy stepped out from behind the wall. 

Everything was a muddle. The faces were unclear. 

The same boy pulled at her hand. She pulled him back, trying to get him to follow. But he thrust her into the dark passage and sealed the wall. 

After that... nothing but darkness.

“We were holding this back for the Marchioness,” Colin began, his hand already seeking something in his coat pocket. “But we possess something that might persuade you…”

“That is not true.”

Anne’s voice sliced through the discussion. Everyone in the room paused and turned toward her.

“What is not true, child?” Varley demanded, her tone impatient.

“What you said. That the Marchioness and her daughter were the only ones who would know the answer.”

“I would know as well,” Varley said, puzzled.

“No, that... that is not true,” Anne said, her mind grasping at memories… or perhaps figments of her imagination. “There was a boy. A boy was there that day. He opened a wall.”

Madame Varley, who had been leaning back, suddenly straightened up. She gripped her cane tightly and placed it on the floor, using it to slowly rise from the armchair, her eyes fixed on Anne.

“And?” she urged, her voice taut.

Anne tried to grasp more, but the image was dissolving. She shook her head, in despair, tears of frustration springing to her eyes. She no longer knew what she was saying.

“It is senseless... a wall of books that... opens?” 

She appealed to the others, seeking help. Francesca and Michaela both stared at her in utter confusion, as if she had destroyed their last chance with a fit of madness.

But not Colin. He was astonished. Pale. He was staring at her as if she were a ghost.

The shrill sound of porcelain shattering on the marble echoed through the room.

“Pardon me!” Colin said, his voice rasping. The teacup had fallen from his hand. “Madame Varley... my apologies!” 

He dropped awkwardly to his knees, starting to pick up the fragments, his hands shaking.

“Colin, do not. You will…” Anne scurried to his side. “Cut yourself.” 

Too late. A sharp fragment pierced his palm. 

“Damn!”

“It is fine,” she said, kneeling next to him. Anne took his hand steadily, watching the blood bead on his skin. 

“Here, a kerchief!” Francesca rushed over, offering a linen square. 

Anne accepted it. Her gaze was fixed on the injury, and then on Colin’s stunned expression. 

“Will you allow me?” she whispered.

Colin said nothing. He merely nodded, his eyes wide, still staring at her as if she were an apparition.

With a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tension in the room, Anne gently tied the handkerchief around his hand, stopping the bleeding.

When she finished, their eyes met and, for a long second, they remained there, kneeling. Anne felt a new yet familiar connection to him, a pang of déjà vu, as if she had tended this very wound, on this very man, before.

CLACK.

The sharp sound of Madame Varley’s cane hitting the marble floor broke the moment. 

The two scrambled to their feet. Colin stepped away, and Anne smoothed her hands over her dress, suddenly self-conscious.

“I am sorry to have wasted your time,” Anne said, disappointed.

“No,” Varley’s voice was harsh, but there was no anger in it. She moved closer, Colin’s astonished face now mirrored in her own, but with a layer of desperate emotion. “How did you know that? About the boy?”

“You… you might truly be her,” Varley breathed, her eyes blinking fast, bright with unshed tears. “I scarce believe it…”

She had answered correctly? It was not a delusion? Hope rose in Anne’s breast, fierce and aching. 

“Will you take me to the Marchioness?”

“Oh, my dear,” Varley sighed, her agitation fading into sudden exhaustion. “It will not be nearly so simple.”

“Why?”

“Portia has given up all hope,” Varley said, her face a mask of devastation. “She means to make a public announcement, to retract the reward. She is… resolved. She is tired of charlatans and false hopes.”

“But I am certain you can convince her to receive me,” Anne insisted, holding fast to that hope.

“She will not have it,” Varley shook her head, her own hope gone.

“Tomorrow night,” Francesca’s voice cut through the despair. Everyone turned to her. “The Marchioness will be at the Grand Opéra to see Les Huguenots. It is one of the rare occasions she leaves her house.” She looked at Anne, and her eyes shined. “It could be the perfect moment for Lady Penelope to go as well. With Madame Varley ensuring access, an unexpected meeting in her box would force Lady Featherington to hear her.”

Anne grasped Francesca’s logic and, at once, felt hope return.

“So, if I arrive unannounced, the Marchioness would have no choice but to speak with me,” Anne turned to Varley, needing to hear her say it. “Do you... do you truly believe I might be her daughter?”

Madame Varley looked at Anne, and the tears she had been holding in at last spilled over.

​“So many girls have tried to trick me. So many others I believed, with my mind, could be Penelope. But you, my dear...” She took a step forward, and with a tremulous hand, touched Anne’s face. “You are the first one my heart... my heart knows.”

The emotion was too much for Anne. The unexpected kindness of that stern woman, the confession of faith... reminded her of Agatha Danbury.

In a sudden impulse that shattered all the etiquette she had spent the last few days learning, Anne hugged her. She embraced the madam tightly, relieved that the chance of seeing her family was still real.

Varley, initially stiff with surprise, relaxed and awkwardly patted Anne on the back.

Francesca watched the scene with a smile, waiting for the right moment to intervene.

“Shall I have a room made ready for her, madame?” she asked.

“Oui, Francesca,” Varley answered, letting go of Anne but still clasping her hands. “That will be required.”

“And my friends?” Anne asked at once, glancing at Colin and Michaela, who stood quietly by the hearth.

“Ah, well...” Varley started, her formal manner returning.

“They may stay with me,” Francesca cut in, offering a bright smile to her brother and Michaela. “In my dépendance*. It is not grand, but we shall manage. I do not mind.”

“You have my permission,” Varley consented.

“Madame,” Francesca pressed on, her tactical brain at work. “Shall we all be attending the opera tomorrow?”

“You may give your admittance ticket to Penelope, Francesca,” Varley settled. “She and I shall attend together.”

“Madame Varley, I do not wish to presume, but…” Anne ventured, shyly. “I would greatly prefer if Colin and Michaela were with us. They brought me all this way. I appreciate your faith in me, but… I would wish for their presence.”

Varley hesitated.

Three unexpected guests, one a man she did not know, and a single Black woman with no good connections... it was a complicated request. 

But she looked at Anne’s pleading face, a face she now regarded with immense affection and consideration, remembering the girl she had known years ago. 

The joy of the moment outweighed any protocol.

“I will get tickets for everyone,” she affirmed. 

“Thank you!” Anne smiled, relief flooding her. 

“Lady Penelope will need a dress,” Francesca pointed out. 

“That is true. A good dress,” Varley agreed. Her gaze swept over Anne's dress, the same one that had been soaked the night before, and she made a face of disapproval. “And for the other guests as well. We cannot arrive at the Palais Garnier looking like… foreigners.”

“I can take them shopping at Le Bon Marché myself, Madame,” Francesca offered. “We cannot get custom-made gowns in time, but we will certainly find suitable clothes there for a night at the opera. I insist on helping.”

“Perfect!” Varley’s delight was a complete transformation; the stern madame vanished, giving way to a joyful woman. “My carriage is yours. And spare no coin, Francesca! Buy her everything. Gloves, shoes, a shawl... I want to see boxes upon boxes!” she said, with a soft clap of her hands. “I want her to be lovely when her mother sees her for the first time after all this time.”

“Thank you, Aunt Varley!” Anne exclaimed, caught up in the excitement. She froze, her hand to her mouth, appalled at what she had said. “I… I don't know why I called you that.”

Madame Varley stared at her, and the tears she had banished welled once more. A tremulous, loving smile spread across her face. 

“I know, my dear,” she said. “I know why.”

In the midst of this wave of happiness and acceptance, Anne turned, seeking Colin’s eye to share the triumphant moment. 

But he was not smiling. He was not even looking at her. 

He had moved away to the fireplace again, his back to them, and his face, reflected in a mirror above the marble, was somber.