Two o'clock arrived with its usual certainty.
The silver tray was placed precisely where it had always been placed. The porcelain cups gleamed faintly in filtered sunlight. Strawberry pastries — her favourite — rested in neat rows, sugared tops catching the light like frost.
For years, this hour had belonged to them.
Unquestioned. Untouched. Sacred.
Sophia entered the drawing room exactly on time.
Her ribbon had been chosen with ruthless deliberation that morning — pale cream, understated yet refined. Her curls had been brushed until each wave lay obediently along her shoulders. Her dress — a soft pale blue — was pressed without flaw.
She had risen earlier than usual to ensure this.
Because if Florian so much as passed a window, she intended to be ready.
She sat across from Laurence.
Back straight.
One hand on teacup the other on saucer.
Breathing measured.
But she was not there.
Her mind was not in the drawing room.
It was replaying the previous afternoon in relentless detail.
The wind lifting her parasol.
His stride across the grass.
The way sunlight struck his hair.
The ease — the impossible ease — with which he had returned to her side.
She saw it again and again.
Florian bending gracefully.
Florian smiling gently.
Florian offering to shield her from the sun.
He had looked, she thought, like something from her childhood storybooks — not the crude woodcut knights with exaggerated shoulders and rigid expressions, but the illuminated figures painted in margins of psalters.
Bright. Composed. Chosen.
She had never known such a creature could exist in real life.
Laurence watched her.
She did not reach for her favourite pastry.
That alone was alarming.
Sophia never neglected strawberry pastries.
Instead, she lifted her teacup, set it down again, then lifted it once more without drinking.
Her gaze drifted toward the window.
Her lashes lowered in thought — not concentration, but recollection.
"Sophia." His voice was even.
She blinked. "Yes?"
Her tone was distant.
"You have not touched your favourite pastry." Laurence pointed out with concern.
She looked at the pastry as if surprised to find it there.
"Oh."
A pause followed by a sigh.
"I feel quite full..." she didn't allow herself to finish the sentence, what would Laurence understand about a young maidens heart.
This, too, was unprecedented.
Laurence leaned back slightly.
He knew this mood.
He had seen her thoughtful before — after reading poetry, after losing an argument with Fredrick, after being scolded by Charlotte.
But this was different.
She seemed… undone.
She sighed once more.
A long, theatrical, almost tragic sigh.
"How," she began slowly, "does God decide?"
Laurences brows furrowed but he did not interrupt.
She continued, gaze unfocused.
"How does He choose which men to make so…" — she searched for the word — "perfect?"
His free hand which rested on the arm of the chair tightened slightly, fingernails digging into the fabric.
She did not notice.
She was lost in the swell of her own thoughts.
"I thought," she went on, voice soft and aching, "that boys were universally unpleasant."
She ticked them off on her fingers.
"Too loud. Too muddy. Too… coarse."
She frowned faintly.
"I was content with this knowledge. It made the world simple."
She looked up briefly, eyes wide with something dangerously close to despair.
"And then yesterday—"
Her breath caught.
Laurence remained silent.
She leaned forward slightly, as if confessing to something scandalous.
"The way he moved," she whispered. "As though the wind obeyed him."
Her cheeks flushed faintly.
"I have never seen anyone move so… beautifully."
There it was.
The word.
She did not know what she was doing.
She only knew that something inside her had shifted so abruptly it felt like the ground beneath her feet had tilted.
"I cannot understand it," she murmured, fingers tightening around her sleeve. "It is as though I have been walking through life believing I understood it — and now I realize I do not."
Laurence's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
She continued, voice growing softer, almost tremulous.
"How can one afternoon alter everything?"
She pressed her palm lightly against her chest.
"It feels… strange here."
Her heartbeat had been unsettled since yesterday.
Too quick when she thought of him.
Too slow when he left the room.
"And he does not even try," she added, a note of genuine anguish entering her voice. "He does not try to be extraordinary. He simply is."
She shook her head faintly.
"It is unfair."
Unfair.
Laurence's eyes darkened slightly.
Unfair to whom?
She went on, the words spilling now.
"I thought I was composed. I thought myself sensible."
Her tone turned almost accusatory — toward herself.
"I had no intention of… this."
She gestured vaguely.
"This nonsense."
She paused.
Then, almost reverently:
"He held the parasol as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though shielding me from the sun were his appointed duty."
Her lashes lowered again.
"And when he spoke…" She exhaled slowly, "His voice sounded like that of an angel, I believe I can listen to such a voice for hours and never tire."
Laurence felt something begin to burn beneath his carefully constructed composure.
She had never spoken like this about anyone.
Never.
Not one of his companions.
Not even about him.
He thought, sharply, that he himself was just as handsome — if not more so. Taller. Stronger. More disciplined.
He did not rely on ornament or theatrical grace.
He embodied command.
Yet she spoke of Florian as if heaven had handcrafted him.
A quiet fury coiled.
Not explosive.
But territorial.
She belonged at this table.
At two o'clock.
Her mind belonged here.
With him.
Not wandering toward a man who had been under this roof scarcely a fortnight.
Sophia leaned back again.
"I do not know what to do with myself," she admitted faintly.
Her voice trembled just slightly.
"I wake and think of him. I walk and think of him. I attempt to read and find myself wondering whether he prefers roses to lavender."
She laughed softly — embarrassed.
"I have become ridiculous."
Laurence said nothing.
She continued, spiraling deeper into her own dramatics.
"What if I speak too much? What if I speak too little? What if he finds me childish?"
She straightened abruptly.
"I must not be childish."
She looked down at her hands.
"I cannot barrel into rooms anymore. I cannot laugh too loudly. I must be… measured."
Her voice softened.
"Worthy."
Worthy.
That word struck something inside Laurence that he did not anticipate.
She had never needed to be worthy before.
She had simply been.
She stared suddenly toward the window.
"I wonder what he might like—"
Sophia stopped mid-sentence.
Outside, Florian crossed the garden again — book in hand, sleeves rolled slightly, hair bright beneath the sun.
Sophia fell completely silent.
Her breath slowed.
Her entire body seemed to lean subtly toward the glass.
Laurence watched her watch him.
And something darkened.
She did not even attempt to conceal it.
Her expression softened in a way he had never seen directed toward anyone else.
Almost worshipful.
When she spoke again, it was barely audible.
"Look at him."
She did not mean to say it aloud.
But she did.
Laurence's jaw tightened.
Time stretched.
Her eyes remained glued to the window long after the pastry had gone stale.
When two o'clock ended, Laurence rose first.
"I shall see you at dinner," he said evenly.
She nodded, still half-entranced.
He left the drawing room into the garden and walked in Florian's direction who was beneath the elm tree reading.
Sunlight filtering through leaves in fractured patterns across his coat.
Florian looked up easily when Laurence approached.
"You have escaped your sacred hour," he observed lightly.
Laurence's tone was controlled.
"Come. I shall show you something of interest."
Florian closed his book without suspicion.
"What marvel do you hide from me?"
"A prized musket," Laurence replied.
They walked.
Out of sight.
Out of her view.
Inside, a maid entered to clear the untouched pastries.
She paused when she saw Sophia gazing out the window without movement.
"Miss Sophia?"
Sophia turned slowly.
Her eyes were bright.
Distressed.
Almost wounded.
"It is not well," she confessed.
The maid approached gently.
Sophia clasped her hands together as though appealing to a higher authority.
"How is it possible," she demanded softly, "for someone to be so entirely different from every other boy?"
The maid hid a smile, "In what way, miss?"
"In every way." Sophia's voice grew urgent.
"He is not coarse. He is not loud. He does not stomp or shout or fling mud." She leaned closer, "He is… polished."
She swallowed, "He is kind without effort. Gentlemanly without instruction. And when he smiles—"
She stopped.
Her cheeks burned.
"I thought all boys were rather… dreadful," she admitted. "I had settled the matter long ago."
She looked almost betrayed by her own heart.
"But he is not dreadful." She lowered her voice dramatically. "He is an angel."
The maid could not suppress a soft laugh. "And what troubles you about angels, miss?"
Sophia's eyes shimmered faintly. "Because I do not know what to do with myself now."
There it was.
The true confession.
"I do not know where to place this feeling. It is too large. It makes my chest ache." She pressed her hand over her heart again, "And when he leaves at the end of summer, what shall I do then?"
Her voice trembled, "Will I simply return to believing boys are dreadful?"
The maid softened, "First loves often feel like angels," she said gently.
Sophia blinked.
"First?"
The maid smiled knowingly.
"There will be others."
Sophia's expression grew scandalized, "There cannot possibly be another like him."
Outside, two figures disappeared beyond the hedgerow, their destination the hunting hut.
While in the quiet drawing room, beneath fading sunlight and untouched pastries, a ten-year-old girl sat in the throes of her first impossible devotion —