//CLARA//
I had never stared at a bloodstain with such genuine, religious fervor. Like a pilgrim witnessing a miracle.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the morning sun filtering through the curtains, and let out a sigh so deep it felt like my soul was re-entering my body.
There it was. A small, blooming rust-colored smudge on the white silk of my nightshift. A blessing from the heavens.
The ache in my lower belly told me everything I needed to know.
I wasn't pregnant.
The panic that had been a low-frequency hum in the back of my brain since the conservatory was gone. For weeks now, the terrifying mental image of 1879 Plan B involving blacksmiths or questionable herbs—evaporated instantly.
I was safe. For now.
But we couldn't keep playing this game. I needed a solution.
I reached for the bell pull and rang for Hattie.
She appeared a few minutes later, her eyes soft with concern before she even saw the stain.
