*no magic, no Voldemort, no war(s)* | *Neville / Luna is secondary / background* | *Draco Malfoy is NOT a love interest / rival* | *this universe is the love-child of pride & prejudice, bridgerton, and sense & sensibility* | *historically accurate, except where it isn't* | *kudos to Aani (WhisperingAFantasy) for the cover art*
c/w: discussions of appearance body image, mild food restriction, corsets

Madam Skeeter's High Society Papers, No. 22

Bonjour, my darlings, and welcome to another riveting season here on the ton! The streets of London echo with the promising rattle of carriage wheels as the realm's finest families descend upon their summer residences, and our windows vibrate with the calls of a hundred merchants trying to catch the eye of the Empire's flashiest jewels. Like you all, I find myself sitting with bated breath, desperate to see which fresh-faced blossom will catch the Royal eye — and which sad, unaffected daisies may yet wither beneath its unforgiving stare.

Not that there is a shortage of blooms — on the contrary, it appears that this season will feature a selection unlike any other that came before it. True, like you, my darling readers, I was captivated by the diverting delights of last year's matches — who could forget the tenderfooted dance between a certain dark-haired Beauty and the quiet, beseeching Raven always hovering at her shoulder? Or, dare I say, a wedding reception that left half a crate of fresh Parisian glass unceremoniously shattered beneath the bridegroom's chair? Or Lady Plumhurst's masked ball, which had too many dark corners and not enough candles? Yes, my dears, last year's season was a cataclysmic force to be reckoned with, a delicious standard to which each coming year must be held against and appraised, like a fine piece of art.

But it seems that this coming season truly will not disappoint. Already, the ton's most exclusive tailors hurry, their thimbles catching at their gaping mouths, to order an excess of ten thousand yards of silk, muslin, and tulle to tend to the whims of their most excitable clients. Already, the ton's finest jewelers polish their new arrivals, each one desperate to outshine the other. Already, butlers and chefs order pounds upon pounds of flour, butter, and sugar pulverized into crystals finer than sand. What better reward, one wonders, than to have the Diamond of the Season place a slice of candied pineapple on her innocent, pink tongue, smile demurely, and call it delicious?

Indeed — a Diamond she shall be, and from what a variety may she emerge! A Baron's eldest daughter, with hair like spun gold and an ear for secrets; an Earl's twins, with their bottomless eyes and predilection for giggling; a Dowager's fresh-faced redhead; a certain merchant's youngest, who is perhaps more suited to a ship's deck than a grand ballroom; and even an Earl's little fairy, her hair as white as the sun and her mind as empty as air. This, my dear readers, is the wide, uncompromising variety from which we spin our futures.

But what of the opposite sex, you may ask? A young Hound, fresh from battle; a handful of nubile Lords, their ears ringing with the yells of Parliament; a fossilized Baron, a curdled Earl, a venomous Viscount, and a floppy-haired young Pup — they all descend upon our dear little ton, ready and panting for the coming weeks ahead.

And now, my dears, for the most compelling news of all — it seems that a certain Famous Recluse has been poked and prodded into the light of fine society, bringing with him a cold, closed countenance and a five-figure income. The Hound raises its head, scenting the chase; a brave Pup steps forward, sword in hand; and from the Continent, a fresh, rose-scented wind begins to blow…

Hermione glanced out the window at the trim houses and tidy parks of Kensington and let out an unrestrained, inelegant sigh.

"Ma chère," cooed Lisette, not even looking up from her mending. "There is no need to be so glum. I am sure you will find London quite diverting, in spite of your best efforts."

"It lacks imagination, Lis," Hermione replied. "Imagination and… and spark, and vivacity, and— did you see the state of the wharfs?"

"Mademoiselle will not be anywhere near the wharfs, as Mademoiselle already knows."

Hermione huffed, sitting back against her cushion, then winced as they went over a large pothole. God, she was fed up with travelling, with the noise, the heat, the dust, the endless motion, the heave-to of the tide, salt in the back of her throat, and—

This neighborhood was actually quite serene, especially in comparison to the thick, clotted neighborhoods clustered around the city center. She looked out the window again, frowning. "What do you suppose they do for fun here? Trim hedges and snort about the weather?"

"I am sure they hire servants for the hedges and find plenty more than just the weather to snort about, Mademoiselle." Lisette did look up then, her unusual amber eyes far too keen and knowing. Most people found her gaze unsettling, but Hermione did not — she found it challenging, engaging. "I am sure you will find much diversion during your stay at Lord Devon's residence, Mademoiselle. Enough that you need not concern yourself with such triviality."

In spite of herself, Hermione grinned. "Would it be terrible, to prefer triviality to parading about in a room full of bloated suitors and sneering mothers?"

Lisette bit her lip, barely restraining a smirk, and swatted at Hermione. "Mademoiselle," she said, the word tight in her throat. "You must make the best of the situation. You know all too well that there is nothing you can change, and the people you mock today may be your allies tomorrow. They are not yet worthy of your scorn, or your inattention. In fact, it may be easier to bear if you find things to enjoy, and do not decide to dislike everything as a matter of principle."

Hermione's grin had evaporated like dew in the warm spring air. "I know, Lis." Irritation simmered under her skin, and the sensation was nothing new. Well, nothing new to the last few weeks they'd spent traveling to London from the south of France. But before that, Hermione's life had contained very little irritation at all, and she still was not wholly used to its presence.

I do not wish to be here, she wanted to say. I would rather be up a tree, at the end of a cliff, dangling from a crow's nest, anywhere. Not here. Not now. But she couldn't say that, so instead, she said, "I know nothing of the Earl. I have very little idea of what to expect."

Lisette shifted, putting aside her mending, energy zipping through her slight frame. Gossip — her strong point. "An eccentric figure to be sure, Mademoiselle. He has some strange habits, but he is kind, friendly, and good to his servants. And, you forget what we ourselves already know." She swept a hand through the air, gesturing to their surroundings. "We know that he has good taste, refined taste, but not extravagant. This carriage is well-made and elegant, and its driver does not take liberties with traffic." She leaned forward now. "And there are whispers, Mademoiselle, that Lord Devon is the secret publisher of a magazine devoted to… the working man."

Hermione blinked in surprise. "Well," she managed, quickly revising her assumptions about the Earl, "I'm sure he'll provide much entertainment."

Lisette hummed, her eyes sparkling. "To say nothing of his daughter, Mademoiselle."

"Yes." Hermione's glance slid to the window once again. They were turning onto a quieter, hidden court away from the main flow of traffic. She knew Lisette was poking her for information, but in all truth, she had very little to give. She hadn't seen Luna since they were quite young, when they both had mothers and better manners. "A little more of a mystery."

Because that was what Luna was, in truth. Certainly, they had been close when they were girls, but those memories were clouded, flimsy. And it was easy to be friends with someone else when your parents threw you together, when you were the same age and ran in the same social circles. And she knew, Hermione knew, how loss could change a person. Make them shrink, make them fold a part of themselves away from everyone else. She had no idea if Luna, with her quiet, benevolent joy, would be the same now as she once was.

They had written, of course, over the years. And Luna's letters had drawn a portrait of a soft-spoken, watchful young woman with a piercing intelligence and a weakness for the unproven. Hermione couldn't even remember the number of times Luna had mentioned the "discovery" of a fantastic new species of flora or fauna in her back garden, devoting many subsequent lines to the various possible health benefits of said discovery. Hermione had somewhat suspected, and now strongly suspected, this to be indicative of her father, the Earl's, influence. Luna's mother would never have entertained or encouraged such nonsense, she was sure.

But, flaws aside, Luna had been a quiet, steadfast companion, even from afar. Enough so that Hermione was actually looking forward to arriving at the Earl's manor, to having a friend, a real friend, help her get through her first season. Because she was dreading it, and that was no secret. In fact, she was certain that half of Provence had heard her heart shatter on that night, that horrible night when she'd opened the letter from her father and read—

—we are going back to London for good, Honeybee. It's dreadful, I know, but I must be within calling distance of the Palace, and, I am afraid, it is time for you to debut.

Debut. A horrible word, even if it was French. A short word, but it held so much — weak promises, rippling anxiety, empty words, simpering looks and false starts. Immediately, her brain had spun through each and every option, but no matter how she'd looked at this equation, this balancing act called her future, each solution had ended at the gates of marriage, at the last place on this earth that she wanted to be.

She had tried to fight it, of course. To argue her way out of it as best she could using only pen and ink, her stained fingers flying like crows above the parchment. She'd overwhelmed her father with pages upon pages of treatises and debates and negotiations and, finally, outright pleas, but none of it had worked.

You are the daughter of the Royal Physician, he'd written to her, and she could hear the apology beneath the words. Even the Queen asks after you, wanting to know details of your arrival. There is no other way. To turn your cheek now is to turn your back on the Crown.

At least he'd made her a promise. Just one season, he'd written. You need only debut once, of course, and after the season is over, we can discuss what happens next.

"What you'll do with me, you mean," she'd said aloud, her tone dripping with a venom he did not deserve. And she was correct — her father did not deserve her anger; after all, he was not the one who had invented this debuting nonsense in the first place. And the last thing she wanted to do was to jeopardize his new position at court, the very position he'd dreamt of his entire career.

So, even if marriage was the last thing in the world she wanted, even in the sense of entertaining it as one would entertain an unwelcome guest, she could do this. She could go through the motions, carry herself the way she was supposed to, and she could get through the season without creating so much as a wrinkle. She owed it to him to try.

After leaving Provence, after packing up her dearest possessions, after saying goodbye to her favorite tree in the garden, after driving away from the house that had been her winter home for the past decade, she and Lisette had spent ten days in the Paris house buying everything she would need for the London season.

"Isn't this a bit… superfluous?" Hermione had asked, her eyes huge as they skated over a dozen new dresses laid out on her bed. In the corner, the modiste was humming away over a set of elbow-length gloves.

"Not at all, Mademoiselle," Lis had said, shooting her a sheepish glance. "And this is just the beginning. This is only your daytime wardrobe, your dress for your presentation to the Queen, and a few dresses suitable for balls. Once you are in London, you will need to have a new dress made for each soirée. Every party, every picnic, every ball must have its own unique ensemble."

Hermione's eyebrows had scaled her forehead. "Surely you jest, Lisette—"

"She does not, Mademoiselle," the modiste had said, approaching her with those infernal gloves. "And we will need to fit you for a new corset."

Hermione's spine had gone rigid, and Lisette had looked away, embarrassed. Corsets were not a topic often raised in her household, and for good reason.

After that, it had been a hurried handful of days on the road — first, the carriage to the train, then the train to the boat, and finally, the boat to this carriage, and all Hermione could think about now was a pile of cake and a fresh pot of tea. Well, that, and perhaps getting to crack the spine of her new collection of Shelley's works, a conciliatory gift from her father.

A part of her wished more than anything that she would be staying at their own home, at the house that remained the fixture of so many memories, the house she hadn't seen since they'd last left England. But her father had sold that house in a fit of guilt and grief and pain — it was gone, and he'd purchased a new one just a few days before her arrival. It was older, more run-down, and would require a lot of work before they could move in, before her father could hire a fleet of servants and fill the library. There was doubt it would even be ready by the end of the summer; there was every likelihood that Hermione would get through the season and return to Provence for the winter without spending a single night under their new roof.

A part of her did not want to see the new house at all. She wanted to remember London as the hazy, warm maze of her childhood dreams. She wanted to remember picnics in their garden, fresh raspberry jam streaking across her fingers and sticking in the corner of her mother's smile. She wanted to remember quiet, snow-filled nights when she pretended to be asleep, curled up against her mother's side as they waited for the crunch of her father's shoes on the frost-covered steps. She wanted to remember afternoons lost in the British Museum, and Fortnum's tearoom, and Hyde Park, her mother's hand warm and firm against her arm as they strolled under the trees and spoke in iambic pentameter, the words falling like liquid from their lips.

A part of her worried, always worried. That the moment she crossed the threshold of the new house, those memories would crack and fade like plaster.

Now, the carriage slowed and pulled into the front drive of a large, elegant manor painted a bright, sunny yellow. An untamed, flourishing garden full of butterflies spilled from the sides of the house into the front; some wild, pink roses even hovered above the edge of the gravel drive, close enough to threaten thorns to the backs of one's ankles. The house itself had tall, forgiving windows, pale cream curtains, and a dark oak front door.

Hermione couldn't help herself — she stared as she took the footman's hand and stepped out of the carriage, feeling the gravel settle beneath her new, uncomfortable shoes. She batted a stray piece of hair out of her eyes, wondering what on earth would happen now, when suddenly, the front door flew open, and an ethereal woodland sprite descended the front steps to greet her.

Hermione blinked. But of course — this was not some fairytale creature. "Luna?"

Luna beamed, her wide blue eyes crinkling with merriment. "Hermione!" She rushed forward, appearing to skim across the ground, her long white-blonde hair flowing through the air behind her. She pulled Hermione into a close hug, forgoing every pretense of decorum, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Here you are, arrived at last!"
Utterly at a loss, Hermione hugged her back, and realized that, like her, Luna was not wearing a corset. "Indeed, Luna! And what a warm reception!"

"Of course!" Luna pulled away but linked her arm with Hermione's. "The least I could do for my dearest friend. How was your journey? I hope the roads and the seas were not too rough."

Her mind still stuck on 'dearest friend,' it took a moment for Hermione to reply. "Not in the least, we had very good weather."

Luna gave her an elegant, leisurely nod. "As I suspected. I saw it predicted, you know, in the chestnuts. From the garden. But they are very rarely wrong."

Oh my Lord. "Of course," said Hermione, offering a smile.

Luna's gaze drifted to Lisette, who had been waiting patiently by. "Oh, you must forgive my manners!" She offered her free hand to Lisette, who just stared at it. "I am Luna, and you must be Lisette, of course! Hermione's steadfast ladies' maid and constant companion!"

"Ah," said Lisette, recovering a little, "yes, Miss Lovegood—"

"I can see the reception proceeds without me!" barked an imperious, officious voice, and to Hermione's surprise, an older woman in a terrible brown dress with a square jaw and a no-nonsense bun marched out of the house and onto the drive. Her bosom was heaving with disapproval. "And I can see the young Miss has forgotten her manners, once again!"

"Not forgotten them, Ms. Randolph," said Luna, smiling her enigmatic smile. "Just temporarily put them aside in the face of long-standing familiarity and friendship."

Ms. Randolph appeared to swell. "Might I suggest we move this touching reunion to the drawing room? It does not do for young ladies to cluster in the drive."

"Very well," said Luna, turning to Hermione. "Will you take refreshment?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Perfect." Luna gave her a gentle tug, guiding her towards the house. "I've had our cook prepare your favorite, honey cake with strawberries."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. How on earth did Luna remember something like that? "Oh, really, you've gone to far too much trouble—"

"Not at all!" Luna sang as they crossed the threshold into a bright, tasteful foyer. "And this is only the beginning, of course—"

A loud, incredulous sniff came from Ms. Randolph, who had followed them inside. "You will both be following a moderate diet over the coming months, Miss Lovegood. Best not to become too attached to certain items that are more of an indulgence than a necessity."

"Yes, Ms. Randolph," said Luna, unruffled, "but I believe cake to be an absolute necessity after such a long and tiring journey."

Hermione was having a very hard time trying not to laugh as a cheerful young footman took her traveling cloak. "Thank you," she murmured, and he inclined his head in return.

"Come," Luna continued, guiding her to the right. "We'll take our tea in the Blue Room. The drawing room is so stuffy, even on lovely days such as this one. And you must join us, darling Lisette," she added, and Ms. Randolph seemed to swell again. "The tea has already been laid for three, after all."

"I would be honored, Mademoiselle," said Lisette, dropping into a quick curtsy. Hermione could've sworn she flashed Ms. Randolph a smirk before following them into the next room, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from doing the same.

The Blue Room was light, airy, with its gauzy drapes fluttering in the breeze. Its furniture was simple, tasteful, and, much to Hermione's relief, looked like it had actually been used at some point. An open book had been abandoned on an end table; a chess board showed a game mid-play; and a box of ribbons was spilling its contents across half the sideboard. Between the sofas, a low table was filled with all the makings of an excellent tea.

Unfortunately, Ms. Randolph had followed them in like the creeping shade that she was. Hermione wondered if this was her habit. "Well, Miss Granger," she said, flashing an insincere smile, "Lovegood Manor is considered to be one of the better examples of high-end residences here in London. I do hope our furnishings are suited to your more… cosmopolitan tastes. Though I must admit…" She cast a shrewd, sharp glance up and down the length of Hermione's body. "You look a tad more provincial than I'd expected."

Hermione felt Lisette bristle beside her, but she kept her expression flat, pleasant. "Perhaps, Ms. Randolph. You forget it has been many years since I've found myself in such highly esteemed company like yourself. Perhaps I am simply unprepared."

It took a moment for the sarcasm to land, then Ms. Randolph's cheeks flushed an ugly shade of puce.

"You may leave us now, Ms. Randolph," came Luna's calm intonation. "We have much to discuss, and I'm sure such trivialities will only bore you."

Ms. Randolph gave her a curt nod. "Miss." And with that, she marched out of the room, closing the door behind her.

"Mon Dieu," Lisette swore under her breath. "A dragon, if I ever saw one."

"Yes," said Luna, her expression still infuriatingly enigmatic. "One must be careful, or one finds oneself burnt by her mere proximity."

"She's beastly, Luna!" said Hermione, sinking onto one of the couches and immediately toeing off her detestable shoes. "Wherever did she come from?"

"A recommendation from an old governess of mine," Luna replied, sitting down beside her as Lisette took the seat opposite. "She is a social coach, of sorts, specializing in difficult cases. Apparently, there were some concerns about my ability to comport myself in public."

"Were there," said Hermione, biting the inside of her cheek once again. A glance told her that Lisette was doing the same. "I can hardly imagine. And where is your father? I cannot see him approving of the dear old Dragon."

"She is quite saintly in his presence, I'm afraid. And business has kept him in town today, but he shall return for supper, along with your father."

Hermione groaned. "Oh, excellent. And I'm sure Ms. Randolph will have something to say about our attire this evening?

"Does the mockingbird sing?" Luna replied, leaning forward to uncover a platter full of sliced honey cake with chunks of strawberry baked into the top. "I'm afraid she is to be something of our chaperone this season, especially when Papa cannot attend the events."

Hermione's stomach, which had jumped at the sight of the cake, now began to sink to her knees. Her dismay, she was sure, was written plain on her face. "Luna…"

Luna shot her a sympathetic look, then began to pour the tea. "She's really not all that terrible, especially if you listen to her once in a while. But apparently, given that you and I are poor motherless whelps, we cannot be expected to know how to behave like proper young ladies, and therefore require her constant tutelage."

"Constant?" Hermione repeated, sharing a look of horror with Lisette.

Luna shot her a mischievous glance. "Only when she can find us, that is. Milk or sugar?"

Hermione found herself smiling in reply. "Both, please." This was shaping up to be a most diverting season, indeed. "Pray tell in what areas, precisely, do we require improvement?"

Luna handed her a cup of tea. "Dancing, curtsying, wooing, simpering, and…" She reached under the sofa and unearthed a small basket. "Memorization." She dropped the basket of miniature portraits next to the tea service, and the china rattled with fright.

Hermione stared, the tea still hot in her mouth, at the piles of eligible, mostly-young men, their faces glazed and frozen in the diffused sunlight. "Oh my," she managed. Lisette put her hand to her mouth, her shoulders trembling with suppressed giggles.

"Quite. Milk or sugar, Lisette?"

"Just milk, Mademoiselle, thank you."

"She will also see to our appearances, of course," Luna went on. "Not a single hair can be out of place." She passed Lisette a cup of tea and considered Hermione. "But I quite like your hair as it is. All wild and untamed."

Lisette's giggles turned into hiccups, and Hermione fought off a blush. "Would you believe," she said, "that it was quite tame, this morning?"

"Was it?" said Luna, fixing her own cup. "What happened to it? Was there an accident?"

"Mademoiselle's hair swallows its own pins," said Lisette, wiping at her eyes. "It is quite beyond the reproach of any hairdresser in Paris."

"Lisette," said Hermione, her cheeks now flaming. "You exaggerate."

"I am not sure she does, my dear." Luna smiled. "Fair warning, Ms. Randolph will certainly consider it her main project."

"How delightful," Hermione replied, reaching for the cake. "Now, Luna, tell me what you've been reading."

"It just," Ms. Randolph gritted out, her mouth pursing blood-red around the pins between her teeth, "refuses to cooperate—"

Hermione swallowed a yelp as Ms. Randolph gave another fearsome tug, sending a bolt of pain across her scalp. Tears threatened to spring from her eyes but she gripped the edge of the vanity, trying not to move an inch. This was the one area in which her new corset was actually quite helpful — she could hardly breathe.

"Madame," Lisette said, for the third time in as many minutes. Her voice was hard but low, unrelenting. "I have been attending to Miss Granger's hair since she was a young girl, I am sure I can offer some assistance—"

"Tenure does not speak to ability, you impudent thing." Ms. Randolph huffed, reaching for a brush. "The state she was in when she arrived this afternoon! She looked fresh out of a barnyard, an association we should dispel at all costs, given her… complexion."

A cold, seething anger rose in Hermione's belly and she gritted her teeth. She could hear the meaning beneath the words. A black, Ms. Randolph wanted to say. Who would think a high-born lady would ever marry such a tar-rag of a man? And now look at their offspring, this burnt offering—

Ms. Randolph attacked, dragging the bristly brush through Hermione's hair, pulling it back into a fearsomely tight handful, then let out a squawk as the hair seemed to expand in size.

"Madame," said Lisette again, sharp as a knife. "You must not use a boar's hair. It will only unravel her curls, and—"

"I will listen to your opinion when I ask for it!" Ms. Randolph spat, giving another fierce tug. Pain rippled down Hermione's back and she bit her lip to keep herself from whimpering. In the mirror, she could see Mattie, Luna's ladies' maid, watching with an expression of unchecked horror.

"Ms. Randolph." Luna stepped in, her expression demure. There was a cold fire burning in her eyes that was not betrayed in her voice, and she reached for a loose section of Hermione's hair. "Perhaps two pairs of hands would be better than one. I shall assist you."

"I assure you, Miss," Ms. Randolph replied, now attempting to twist the hair. "I do not require any such assistance, which is inappropriate for you to offer in the first place—" She lashed out suddenly, snatching the section away from Luna and yanking hard enough to bring a fresh wave of tears to Hermione's eyes. "Mattie! See to Miss Luna's hair, at once. Ensure that it is brushed properly and pinned into a bun. I don't want to see a single flower anywhere near that child's head."

Hermione had a sudden recollection of Luna as a six year-old, running through the garden with daisies braided into her long, untamed hair, and almost smiled, in spite of the pain.

Ms. Randolph took a deep breath and straightened, squaring up to Hermione's head. "Now," she said. "To war."

An hour later, Hermione picked at a plate of chicken and potatoes, her neck aching with the dual weight of her hair and the effort of not turning her head. Her hair had been so tightly pinned — "There must be two pounds of metal hidden in there," Lisette had whispered — that it felt as if it had been drilled into her skull, and the slightest movement sent white-hot bolts down her back and shoulders. Her skull throbbed, ached, and she had no idea how she was going to make it through this dinner, let alone the season, if this was what awaited her each night and day.

They were in the dining room, seated at a relatively informal table. She'd been laced into one of her more formal dresses, a light turquoise that stood out in this austere room made of dark wood. Luna was beside her, dressed in pale pink; Lord Devon sat at the head, and across from her, her own father looked at her with a careful eye, his expression one of bemusement and amazement.

Their reunion had been somewhat muted, considering her relative inability to move. He'd given her a kiss and a hug, demanding details of her trip, and she'd been so relieved to see him she'd almost forgotten how angry she was at him for forcing her to do this, to leave the only home she'd known for almost a decade and succumb herself to torture by hair pin.

"I do believe," her father said now, his gaze sparkling with mirth, "that my daughter has been replaced by a young lady."

Hermione tried to take a deep breath, her ribs pressing against the boning of the corset.

"Quite," said the Earl, in that hazy, dreamy way of his. "I cannot help but express the same sentiment regarding my own daughter."

"How odd," Sir Ian went on, "to find our daughters replaced by strangers."

"Is that not a natural part of growing older?" said Luna. "That one can no longer recognize one's own children?"

Sir Ian looked at her in surprise. "How apt. It seems that you share my Hermione's keen eye for the evident but unstated."

Luna gave a delicate laugh, and for a wild, absurd moment, Hermione hated her, hated that she could be so good at this, at putting up with the corset and the hair and the dress, at putting aside part of herself to become someone else entirely. "I can only aspire to share an ounce of Hermione's intellect, Sir Ian. That would certainly be more than enough for any one person, I am sure."

"Again, most aptly put." Sir Ian leaned forward, smiling. "And I do believe a certain philosopher had quite a bit to say on the topic of children, did he not?"

The corner of Hermione's mouth twitched. This was one of their oldest games. Quotes and mottos over dinner. "Plato," she said. "Do not force your children into your ways, for they were created for a time—" In her excitement, she moved her head, and let out a small gasp as pain ricocheted down her neck.

Then, she was aware of a small, warm hand on her leg. Luna's.

Her father's smile had melted into a frown, and the Earl was looking at her with an expression of mild concern.

After a lengthy pause, her father spoke. "My dear, are you… all right?"

"Yes," she managed, feeling a little dizzy. "Yes, of course."

"Hermione has a headache," said Luna softly. "Her beautiful hair is a heavy crown to bear."

Something flashed in her father's eyes — understanding. She could only watch in surprise as he placed his napkin on the table, stood up, and made his way to her side. "A common malady, to be sure," he said, reaching for her hair. "A condition I have seen amongst the finest of ladies, both old and young."

Hermione felt a peculiar grinding sensation, then a wave of startling relief as a large chunk of her hair fell out of her bun. She barely had time to recover before it happened again — a grind, a clink, then another section of hair cascading down in her peripheral vision. The relief was acute, unlike anything she'd ever experienced, and she had to keep herself from closing her eyes in bliss.

"May I ask," her father said next, steadily building a pile of hair pins beside Hermione's plate. "Who tended to my daughter's hair this evening?"

"That would be Ms. Randolph, Luna's tutor," said the Earl. He was watching, unperturbed, his expression showing only the faintest interest.

"I see," Sir Ian replied, his tone still friendly, nonchalant. "Can she be fetched?"

The Earl gave a nod, and Hermione heard a door behind her open and close. Mere moments later — she must have been standing outside the room — Ms. Randolph came in, still flushed from her battle with Hermione's hair. Hermione's stomach flipped and she forced herself to swallow, unable to guess what would happen next.

"My Lords," Ms. Randolph said, dipping her head. Her gaze fixed on Sir Ian's hands. "How can I be of assistance?"

"Ms. Randolph," said Sir Ian. "I hear you insisted on doing my daughter's hair this evening. Is this correct?"

"It is, sir," she replied, clearly thrown but trying to hide it. "May I ask—?"

Sir Ian pulled out the last hair pin, dropping it on the table with an ominous finality. "You will find, Ms. Randolph, that her hair — our hair, since she inherited it from me — does not respond well to your more traditional methods."

Then, he did something he had not done since Hermione was very, very young — a hazy time, between maids, perhaps. He pushed his fingers through her hair, shaking it out into its full, astonishing size, then took the top section of hair, his fingers gentle against her tender scalp, and divided it into three strands. Hermione felt a soft tug, then, he began to braid. "It responds best to braiding. Brushing will only make her curls frizz and expand, whereas braiding will keep them tight and neat."

Hermione could practically hear the servants' jaws hitting the floor. Ms. Randolph looked as if she'd been hit by a train. She could only stare as Sir Ian braided his daughter's hair at the Earl's dining table, an event that, at any other moment, would surely have been beyond the imaginable. But it was happening, much to Hermione's hidden delight.

"I can understand your confusion," Sir Ian went on. "You are not the first to be stymied by this particular beast. But it is perfectly possible to tame, given the time and the correct effort." He separated the next section of hair and immediately began integrating the strands into the main braid, guiding it in a slant across the back of her head. "My sisters had the same hair, you see, and my mother had very little time to see to it. I learned how to do this before I learned how to write. Hours spent in front of our little fireplace, and my hands would ache afterwards. I had four sisters, so it was a lot of hair. A lot of happy memories." Hermione could hear the smile in his voice and her heart gave a twinge of sympathy — she knew these recollections were bittersweet.

He moved onto the final section, twisting a few of the strands before he worked them into the main braid. "I can assure you that once you look for it, you can find infinite variety. For example, when Hermione was younger, she wore it braided on one side, like this, but loose at the ends. Now that she is older, perhaps it would be more appropriate to pin it up." Accordingly, he gathered the end of the braid, gave it a twist, and spun the whole thing into a low bun just behind her left ear. He reached for a pin, then slid it through the bun, just barely grazing her scalp, and did this again with a second pin.

"And there." Sir Ian stepped away, and Hermione couldn't keep herself from smiling. Luna was beaming at her, her face glowing with delight, and Hermione blushed, giddy with relief and something akin to victory.

Her father was still looking at Ms. Randolph, his expression one of mild distaste. "I'm sure," he said, "that what you just witnessed was nothing short of what you may call shocking and inappropriate. So before you spread incessant gossip, allow me to remind you that I only braid my daughter's hair because my wife cannot. And she would have been deeply insulted by the treatment you succumbed our daughter to this evening. Take care to ensure it does not happen again."

Cowed, Ms. Randolph ducked her head. "Yes, sir."

"Try braiding," he added, going back to his seat. "Lisette is more than able to assist you."

"So am I," said Luna at once, still beaming. "I wear braids all the time, so I will consider it my next great challenge."

"Excellent!" Sir Ian took his seat and replaced his napkin.

"You are dismissed, Ms. Randolph," said the Earl, with just a hint of amusement.

Ms. Randolph curtsied and left the room. Hermione fancied that she could almost see steam coming out of the woman's ears, then hoped that there would not be a price to pay later.

"So remind me, Xeno," Sir Ian said, slicing through his piece of chicken. "What is required of us poor, humble fathers, tomorrow?"

"The girls' presentation is scheduled for one o'clock," replied the Earl. "We should arrive at the palace no later than two thirty, I believe."

"Then a brief break," Luna chimed in, "before the opening ball at Whitehill Manor."

"Ah, yes. Lord Johnson's home, is it not?"

The Earl nodded. "Correct. Then, as they say, it is off to the races."

Everyone laughed, and Hermione dug into her potatoes, feeling much more content than she'd expected to.

"Altogether," murmured Lisette, "a rather interesting day, was it not, Mademoiselle?"

Hermione smiled, her eyes skimming over the pages of her Shelley. "Perhaps an understated characterization, Lis. I think that might have been the most overwhelming day I've ever had."

Except the funeral, neither of them said.

The air was thick with the clean, light scent of the rosehip oil Lisette was working through Hermione's curls, and Hermione let her eyes fall shut for the briefest moment, allowing herself to imagine that they were in her bedroom at the old house in Provence. It would be a midsummer night, one of her favorites, and the scent of jasmine would drift in through the window, mingling with roses, sage, and lavender, as well as something darker, earthier. She could almost hear the crickets and the cicadas, the lulling splash of the pond in the garden and the low, throttling grunt of its amphibian residents. She would be hazy from a bottle of wine she and Lisette had snuck out of the kitchen, and Lisette would be singing while she crocheted, a book open on Hermione's lap as she curled into the window seat and looked out into the smooth blue night, content to sit in the stillness of the moment, but waiting, yearning, for something—

Her breath caught and her eyes opened. She heard the faint, distant clatter of late-night carriages on the road, smelled the musty, coal-laced bitter air of London, and felt, for a brief, startling moment, that she was lost, adrift.

Lisette's hands stilled, then continued their work, twisting oil into hair. A fresh wave of roses spilled over Hermione's shoulders and she shivered. "You are tired, Mademoiselle. It will be easier, tomorrow."

Hermione gave a brittle smile, not that Lisette could see it. "Will it? I fear it will be much the same, just with royalty and every eligible man and woman within fifty miles crammed into a single room. I am hardly a physicist, but even I would consider that a risk of explosion."

"You know the rules, Mademoiselle."

Hermione sighed. "I do. I just can't believe I have to spend my whole summer doing this."

Lisette's finger, poking her waist. "But perhaps you will find something to help you pass the time. Something… or someone."

Heat flooded Hermione's neck and she ducked her chin. "Do not be ridiculous."

"I am not ridiculous," Lisette said. "I am a romantic. I believe, Mademoiselle, that every person is given a chance at love, and a young woman? Three chances. So you, my darling, are well past your due."

"Oh, hush," Hermione mumbled, pulling her comforter up over her knees.

"I am almost finished, Mademoiselle." Lisette's voice was smug, pleased. She separated Hermione's hair into two sections and began to weave them into two loose, simple braids. "Your father. He has much courage."

"Yes," Hermione said at once. She played the image over in her mind again — a black man, braiding his daughter's hair in one of the finest dining rooms in all of London. Even though they'd been in the company of old friends, it had been quite a risk. Rumor was likely flitting through town on her winged chariot, spreading whispers of the audacious new Lord. "He did not have to do that."

Now finished, Lisette's hands came to rest on Hermione's shoulders, and she gave a light squeeze. "Yes, Mademoiselle, he did." Lisette slid off the bed and picked up her candle. "And now, you must rest. I have something spectacular planned for your hair tomorrow."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, Lis. Thank you."

Lisette smiled back and dipped into a small curtsy. "Of course, Mademoiselle. Sweet dreams." With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Hermione sitting in relative silence.

Hermione glanced down at her book and shut it with a sigh; if she didn't stop now, she'd be up all night from sheer nervousness. She tucked it under her pillow, then slid beneath the warm, luxurious covers, and paused with her nose in front of her candle.

Every night, she did this. It felt strange, facing a different nightstand, a different wall. But a tradition was a tradition.

"I wish," she breathed, making the flame flutter, "to survive tomorrow, regardless of what may come. And," she added, thinking of what Lisette had said, "I wish to have fun."

With that, Hermione blew out the candle, plunging herself into darkness.

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