The Yellow Bedroom on the Third Floor || Margate, Kent || 3 o’clock in the morning || July 1800
In sleep, Lucy took twelve breaths a minute.
She had started with twenty, but her breathing had slowed as time passed and she sunk deeper into dreams.
Frances sighed along with exhale number nine. It was late, the only noise in the darkness of the room was the distant shore, the taunting tick of the clock and the shared breath of the Scotswomen tangled in bed together.
Counting sheep had been dull. Counting breaths much the same, though with an additional layer of aggravation (it was just like Lucy to be rudely well-rested when Frances couldn’t stop her racing thoughts.)
She squirmed best she could in the cradle of Lucy’s arms. The thought of Mr. Ackerley was needling at her again.
Should he follow in the-the footsteps of his predecessor – you would be the one left exposed.
Frances frowned into dark, feet cricketing restlessly underneath the blankets, only pausing when Lucy gave a snuffled huff. Her fidgeting moved to her hands, her thumb rubbing idly at her ring finger.
He had meant it. He had agreed without argument to be discrete. A person only proposed once they were certain, he wouldn’t change his mind.
Lucy changed her mind, a cruel voice quietly whispered, twice.
Frances’s feet hit the floor.
He was likely asleep, she reasoned silently as she tugged on a robe and slipped from the room, much like everyone else. She would knock, it would go unanswered and she would return to bed. Really, in a way, it wasn’t about doubt at all. A walk was good to settle the mind.
Her shadow stretched along the wall as she crept down the hall, the carpet muffling her footsteps. This would be fine. There was no need for anyone to be any the wiser.
A warped floorboard creaked underfoot just as Frances made it to the third floor landing.
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