But dreams don't come true, do they?
Mary turned away so quickly she nearly knocked into a waiter carrying a tray of pastries.
"Pardon me," she mumbled, stepping aside, cheeks burning. Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
She winked at me. She actually winked.
Mary tried to focus on the rose bushes. The grass. Anything but the woman on the stage with the voice that made her knees weak.
"Don't look back. Just breathe. She's probably like that with everyone," she whispered to herself, half-hoping it was true.
But the truth tugged stubbornly at the back of her mind. That wink… it felt too direct. Too personal.
She kept her eyes down as she walked across the lawn, pretending to study the floral arrangements. Her mother was thankfully distracted, chatting with a group of magistrates' wives near the refreshment table.
Mary weaved through the crowd and found a quiet corner beneath a willow tree, hidden behind a wall of hedges. She exhaled deeply.
"What am I doing?"
Her fingers gripped the edge of her dress. "She's just a singer. I'm engaged. This is madness."
"You talk to yourself often?"
Mary flinched, nearly jumping.
She spun around—and there she was.
Isabelle Hart.
Up close, her presence was even more disarming. Her dress shimmered slightly in the dappled sunlight, and her expression was amused, like she knew exactly how flustered Mary was.
"I—um—" Mary's words tangled. "I wasn't—talking. I mean, I was. But not out loud. I mean—only a little—"
Isabelle laughed, soft and low. "Relax. I've seen worse conversations than that."
Mary's mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. "I didn't realize you were… here."
"Oh?" Isabelle raised a brow. "You mean here in the garden? Or here in your dream?"
Mary went pale. "What—what do you mean?"
Isabelle tilted her head, her smile growing slightly. "Nothing. Just that you looked like you'd seen a ghost when our eyes met earlier. I tend to remember faces that stare at me like I've come down from the moon."
"I wasn't staring!" Mary said quickly—too quickly. "I mean—maybe just a little. I didn't mean to. It was rude. I apologize."
Isabelle laughed again, clearly enjoying herself. "No need to apologize. I like the way you look at me."
Mary blinked. "I—I wasn't trying to look at you. I was just surprised. You sing… differently."
"Differently," Isabelle echoed, tasting the word like wine. "Is that your polite way of saying I don't belong here?"
"No! I mean—yes. I mean—" Mary covered her face with both hands. "I'm terrible at this."
"Good," Isabelle said, taking a step closer. "I prefer people who are terrible at this. Honest types."
Mary lowered her hands just enough to peek at her. "Why are you talking to me?"
"Because you looked like the only real thing in this entire painted garden." Isabelle's voice softened. "And you didn't stop staring. That always intrigues me."
"I wasn't—" Mary hesitated. "Well. Maybe I was. A little."
Their eyes locked again, and the space between them seemed to shimmer. The wind stirred the willow branches above, and for a moment, everything else—the music, the guests, the world—faded.
Mary was the first to look away.
"I should… I should probably go. My mother will be looking for me."
Isabelle smiled gently. "Let her. You're just talking to a singer, not the devil."
Mary glanced back at her. "Some would say it's the same thing."
"Well," Isabelle said with a wink, "then I suppose I'll see you in hell, Miss Whitmore."
Mary's breath caught again. "You know who I am?"
Isabelle leaned in slightly. "Of course I do. You were in my dream last night."
Mary froze.
But Isabelle had already turned and walked away, humming the melody of the very song that had undone her only hours ago.
Mary stood still under the willow tree long after Isabelle disappeared into the crowd.
Her cheeks were warm. Her heart—still fluttering. The breeze lifted her curls as if to cool her, but her thoughts spun faster than any wind.
"You were in my dream last night."
That single line echoed in her mind like a secret prayer. Or a curse.
"Mary!" a sharp voice snapped her back to reality. Her mother's voice—tight with disapproval.
"There you are," Lady Whitmore huffed, storming toward her with two gloved hands folded tightly at her waist. "What on earth are you doing lurking behind trees like a servant girl?"
Mary straightened. "I—I was just getting some air."
Lady Whitmore narrowed her eyes. "Well, you've had enough air. Your father is waiting. And so is Thomas." Her voice softened just slightly, but the words remained brittle. "You mustn't embarrass us today, Mary. Smile. Speak properly. No more of your wandering off."
Mary nodded silently and let herself be ushered away, her shoes clicking softly on the stone pathway.
The central garden was bathed in golden light. Fairy bulbs strung between the hedges began to glow as twilight set in. Guests stood in polished clusters, voices floating like bubbles in the air—gentle laughter, the clinking of glasses, the same polite conversations spun a thousand times before.
Near the grand fountain stood the mayor of Whitmore—tall, dignified, and sharp-eyed. Beside him, a young man in a charcoal grey suit stood with a glass of brandy in one hand and the posture of someone always preparing to leave.
Thomas Ashton.
Her future.
"Ah, there she is!" Mayor Whitmore boomed. "Come, Mary, we were just discussing the trade routes through Dover. Thomas has some remarkable ideas about expansion."
Mary stepped forward. "Good evening, Father. Mr. Ashton."
Thomas turned and offered a polite smile. "Mary. You look... pleasant this evening."
"Thank you," she replied with an awkward tilt of her head. "And you... look like you've recently traveled."
He blinked. "Yes, I... just returned from Kent."
A pause.
Lady Whitmore jumped in with a forced laugh. "Isn't that charming? Mary's always so observant. She notices things others don't."
Mary bit the inside of her cheek.
As the conversation swirled around her—Dover, taxes, the shipping lanes—she felt herself drifting.
Her gaze, unbidden, slipped past the mayor's shoulder.
Across the lawn, under the warm orange lights, Isabelle stood with a small crowd, a wine glass in hand, laughing at something someone said.
Her dress gleamed like red wine, and her curls caught the light like ink in motion.
She didn't look at Mary.
But Mary couldn't look away.
Her heart jumped when Isabelle suddenly leaned close to a guest and whispered something. The guest chuckled, but then Isabelle's eyes flicked—only slightly—in Mary's direction.
Their gazes met again.
Just for a second.
Then Isabelle looked away.
But it was enough to unravel everything inside Mary all over again.
"Mary?" Thomas said.
She startled. "Sorry—what?"
"I asked if you've ever been to the coast. My family owns a house near the cliffs. Beautiful views."
Mary forced a smile. "I like the sound of that."
He nodded. "We could ride horses there in the spring."
"Lovely," she said, though her stomach twisted with guilt.
She should be trying harder. She should be grateful. She was lucky—wasn't she?
But in that moment, all she could think of was a different ride entirely—through fields of wildflowers with wind in her hair, her hand tangled in another girl's.
She shifted slightly to the side, pretending to sip from her glass, just to catch another glimpse of Isabelle Hart.
This time, Isabelle raised her own glass in a silent toast—so subtle no one else would notice.
Mary's lips parted, her heart now echoing the word she'd buried all day:
Impossible.
Moments Later –
Lady Whitmore glanced between Mary and Thomas with a composed smile. "If you two would like a moment alone, there's a walking path by the roses. It's quite peaceful this time of day."
Mary's stomach tensed. She didn't want to walk with Thomas. But she nodded anyway, out of duty, and let him offer his arm.
They walked side by side, the air growing cooler under the canopy of trees lining the garden path. Birds chirped faintly in the distance. Crickets began their evening hum.
Thomas cleared his throat. "I must say, your estate is lovely. It's rare to see such attention to detail in countryside properties."
"Thank you," Mary murmured, eyes on the gravel.
"I've been to places far more lavish, of course," he continued. "My father took me to Italy last summer. Florence. I studied art—purely for leisure, of course. But one must be well-rounded."
Mary hummed. "Of course."
"I speak some Italian. I could teach you. 'Bella donna'—that means beautiful woman." He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with himself.
She managed a polite smile.
"I've always said women flourish best in structured environments," Thomas added. "When they are protected, guided. Left to their own, things can go rather… messy. Don't you think?"
Mary blinked, unsure what to say.
Protected?
Guided?
She felt like a doll someone had placed on a shelf.
Is this really what the rest of my life will sound like?
Thomas was still talking. "My mother says I'll make an excellent statesman. I'm not easily swayed. I know what's right and how to lead others there. In fact—"
"Are we discussing greatness?" came a voice—smooth as velvet and sharper than champagne.
Both of them turned.
Isabelle Hart stood a few paces away, a playful smile on her lips, holding a glass of red wine. How long had she been standing there?
"Miss Hart," Thomas said flatly, clearly disapproving. "We were having a private conversation."
"Oh, I could tell," Isabelle said with a wink toward Mary. "It looked fascinating. I simply couldn't resist."
Mary looked down quickly, biting her bottom lip to suppress the smile rising.
Thomas narrowed his eyes. "I was just explaining the value of structure and tradition."
"Mmm," Isabelle sipped her wine. "And here I was thinking people flourish when they're allowed to break the mold. Or even—heaven forbid—choose their own path."
"Structure brings discipline," he replied stiffly. "Freedom breeds chaos."
"Freedom breeds life," Isabelle corrected gently. "Real art, real music, real living—it's messy, yes, but honest. I think I'd take a little chaos over a life of tidy rules and empty perfection."
Mary glanced up at Isabelle. Her chest ached with unspoken agreement.
But she said nothing.
She couldn't.
Thomas laughed humorlessly. "I suppose that's why some end up in smoky clubs singing to drunken men."
"I'd rather sing with soul," Isabelle said, her eyes never leaving his, "than speak without one."
The silence that followed was thick.
Mary's heart was racing again—only this time, from admiration.
Thomas turned to her. "Surely you agree, Mary. There's merit in structure, in legacy?"
Mary hesitated. Her lips parted.
But the truth—a wild, beautiful truth—sat on the tip of her tongue like a spark waiting to ignite.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to say I like her words more than yours. She wanted—
"Mary?" he prompted.
She swallowed. "I… I think there's more than one way to live," she said softly.
Isabelle's smile deepened, but she said nothing else.
Thomas exhaled sharply. "Perhaps. But some ways last, and others fade."
He straightened, clearly done with the conversation. "If you'll excuse me, I must greet your father again, Mary."
He turned and walked away, leaving the two women in the glow of the garden lights.
The silence returned—but it was lighter now.
Warmer.
Mary finally looked at Isabelle. "You didn't have to do that."
"I didn't do anything," Isabelle said, swirling her glass. "I just said what I believe."
"You said it very boldly."
"I tend to do that," Isabelle replied. "It scares half the room. But you… you looked like you wanted to say the same."
Mary's breath caught. "Maybe I did."
They stood there—alone, yet surrounded by people who would never understand this moment.
"Come," Isabelle said softly, nodding toward the willow path. "Walk with me?"
Mary hesitated.
Then she nodded.
And for the first time that day, she didn't feel like a puppet on strings—but a girl stepping into her own story.