A Brazen Maiden (#1 BRAZEN series-part of the GOLDEN universe) ✔

•F O R T Y - S E V E N•

♪ Standing in crowds I'm feeling alone
Looking for maps to show the way home ♪
{Emma Charles—Vertigo}

On November thirtieth, Harriet woke with a sour taste in her mouth, several knots in her stomach, and millions of doubts in her brain.

Her patched-up, barely presentable white gown hung from her open wardrobe door. Her heeled slippers rested on the floor, her simple white rose and silver pins sprawled across her vanity. So much white, so many expectations; and a father to impress.

With a yawn, she stretched, got up, and removed her night-wear. She'd taken a bath the evening prior, half-considered drowning herself, then spewed through the water's surface coughing so much she roused serving girls nearby to check if she was all right.

She wasn't. But it was too late. Graduation day had arrived.

Pulling on a flimsy school-dress and running a brush through her tangled tresses, she swallowed the pungent acidity coating her tongue. She pinched her cheeks, desperate for color, for a hint of cheer, for her pallid flesh to disappear. Graduating was stressful enough; she'd have to curtsy before the Duke of Serese for hours while he rambled on about the year's events and the girls' grades and the parents in attendance. While he mentioned the royals' recent travels or laws and whatever King Antoine—the young King—expected of ladies of Totresia.

She'd heard his speech before, spying at the doors while other girls endured the ceremony. Today, it was her turn.

Her clock ticked—nine o'clock.

The pre-meeting.

The moment where Sir Knowles rounded the Seniors up, went over the schedule, gave them the document sealing their fate. And where Miss Bertillon would inspect their gowns, order any last-minute touches, remind them how to cover their faces in layers of powder and how much perfume they were allowed to spritz.

Her gown over one arm, the strap of her bag of accessories and make-up over the other, and her heels in her hand, she hurried down the steps, not wanting to be late. With her luck, someone would stop her on her way, delay her—

Oh, how she wished someday she'd be wrong.

Because there was no mistaking him, towering at the foot of the main stairs, his back to her. He would interfere in her daily activities more than she'd anticipated. "Father?"

He didn't move. He'd grown out his hair, but its peppered raven-and-chestnut hue remained unchanged. Hands clasped, he glared at something—or someone—in front of him.

"Father?" She repeated, louder. She hesitated on the last step, wary if she arrived at his level, it would anchor her in reality all too quick. That it wouldn't be a dream. It would be real.

Sir Thatcher whipped around, no warmth in his gray-green eyes, but a snide smirk forming. "Ah, Harriet; there you are."

"You... are early," she said, voice low as she descended and winced as she meandered up to him. His belly sucked in, he almost appeared a different person, though he wore his usual suit and his comfortable shoes.