Chapter 9: The Sketchbook
The rain didn't stop.
It tapped the windows all morning, as if trying to wash the house clean of everything unsaid the night before.
Florida stayed in her room.
She hadn't eaten breakfast.
No one asked why.
She sat on the floor by the window with a thin blanket around her shoulders. Her sketchbook rested on her lap — opened to a fresh page.
The pencil in her hand moved slowly.
Lines curved into fabric.
A sleeve. A waistline. Pleats.
She drew not from joy — but survival.
This was the only part of herself that still felt untouched.
She shaded in the folds of a gown, light and careful. Her mind softened. Just a little. Just enough.
The door creaked.
She jumped and shut the sketchbook quickly, hugging it to her chest.
A maid stood there, holding a folded bedsheet.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "Didn't know you were in here."
Florida nodded.
The maid hesitated. "You draw?"
Florida didn't respond.
But her arms tightened around the sketchbook.
The girl smiled faintly. "I used to stitch dresses before coming here. My mother was a seamstress."
She stepped in slowly and placed the sheet down.
"I won't tell anyone," she added quietly. "You don't have to hide it from me."
Florida looked at her.
It was the first kindness she'd heard in days.
She said nothing. Just nodded once — slow, cautious.
The girl gave a small smile before turning to leave. She paused by the door.
"Your designs," she said, "they might change things someday."
Then she left.
Florida looked down at the sketchbook in her lap, her fingers still pressed to the cover.
No one else had ever seen her designs before.
And just like that… someone had.
> Not with judgment.
Not with mockery.
Just quiet recognition.
She opened the sketchbook again, heart still racing.
And kept drawing.
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End of Chapter 9