They walked slowly down the winding garden path, gravel crunching softly underfoot. The noise of the party dulled behind them, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant hum of violins.
Mary folded her hands tightly in front of her, unsure where to begin. Isabelle walked beside her with an easy grace, as if she belonged in this strange place despite everything.
"You don't like him, do you?" Isabelle asked softly.
Mary blinked. "Thomas?"
Isabelle smiled sideways. "No, the man trimming the hedges. Yes—Thomas."
Mary hesitated. "He's... respectable. Intelligent."
"And duller than cold tea," Isabelle added. "You barely smiled once."
Mary lowered her gaze. "I'm not supposed to smile too much. My mother says it makes me look unserious."
"Do you always listen to what your mother says?"
She thought for a moment. "Usually. She says that's what good daughters do."
Isabelle looked at her for a long moment, then said gently, "And what do you say?"
Mary didn't answer right away. The question lingered between them like fog in the evening air.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I've spent so long trying to be good, I'm not sure I ever asked what else I could be."
Isabelle's eyes softened. "You could be someone who sings at the top of her lungs without caring who listens. Someone who doesn't let cold tea men decide what love is supposed to look like."
Mary let out a quiet laugh—soft but real. "You make it sound so easy."
"It isn't," Isabelle said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "But it's worth trying. Even just once."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
"Do you ever wish you were someone else?" Mary asked, almost in a whisper.
Isabelle shook her head. "No. I just wish the world didn't ask me to pretend so often."
Mary stopped walking.
She turned to face Isabelle fully, the lamplight painting gold across her skin. "You're brave," she said. "You speak like you've never been afraid."
"Oh, I'm afraid," Isabelle replied. "All the time. But I've learned that fear doesn't vanish when you hide. It only grows louder. I'd rather face it head-on and say, 'Fine, then shake me. But you won't move me.'"
Mary stared at her, caught between awe and longing.
"I've never met anyone like you," she admitted.
"I know," Isabelle said with a gentle smile. "That's why you're looking at me like that."
Mary flushed and turned her gaze to the rose bushes. "I shouldn't be."
"But you are."
And then, for a brief, breathless second, the silence between them brimmed with something neither dared name—but both felt.
Until—
"Mary?"
Her mother's voice—crisp, sharp, far too close.
Mary turned in alarm. Through the vines, she saw her mother searching near the main path, gloved hand shading her eyes.
Panic surged in Mary's chest.
"I have to go," she said quickly, stepping back. "She can't see me with you."
Isabelle didn't look hurt. Only understanding.
"I'll see you again," she said, calmly.
Mary nodded—just once—and turned.
She walked quickly at first, then faster, her heart pounding like it had something to confess. As she rounded the corner and stepped back into the warm light of the party, she plastered on a soft, composed smile—like nothing had happened at all.
But her fingers still tingled.
And behind her ribs, something strange and dangerous and beautiful had begun to stir.