Avebury Manor, the grand library.

Marguerite and John sat together, going through some papers related to estate management. While it was uncommon for the lady of the house to be involved directly with managing the estate, everyone knew Marguerite was no ordinary lady. With her uniqe past and rich experiences, she was skilled in finance and business matters. Her insight was invaluable. John soon discovered he had little use for an estate agent. His wife was sharper, more capable, and more effective than any agent he could hire. Their tasks naturally divided themselves according to each of their strengths. John handled day-to-day operations, overseeing tenants, land management, and strategic decisions about agriculture and infrastructure. Marguerite reviewed financial statements, tracked income, and advised on investments and business ventures. Together, they made a strong team.

Today she was wearing a khaki skirt and a floral blouse and her hair was pulled back in a half updo, with a few loose strands falling around her face. She had recently started wearing reading glasses, and they really suited her. John couldn't help but admire her. He liked how the glasses framed her eyes, how she frowned as she concentrated. She looked so beautiful. He never got tired of looking at her.

Marguerite caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing. Just… it's hard to focus on finances when my wife looks so damn… sexy while doing it."

"Sexy, huh?" She didn't even bother to hide the satisfaction in her tone. "You've really got a thing for glasses, don't you?"

"Yes, you have this... air about you. It's like you've stepped straight out of a book. The glasses make you look terribly intelligent."

"Are you saying I don't look intelligent otherwise?"

"I'm saying they add a certain charm. A certain librarian charm."

Marguerite laughed sweetly. As a woman, she loved being desired. But she also believed in decency and being mindful of where they were. This was the grand library, and their focus should be on work, not flirting. "Well, as flattering as that is, I suggest we go back to the numbers."

John smiled but didn't argue.

Marguerite flipped through a set of invoices and lifted one in front of her. "Farmer Parker's accounts are steady, but the shipments to London have slowed. The costs are higher again, and they're struggling to cover expenses."

John nodded, understanding. "I heard from Stapleton last week—his tenants are struggling to sell their grain. The mills aren't buying at the same prices they used to. People aren't spending, Marguerite. No one wants to admit it, but it's starting to show."

Marguerite tapped the page with her pen. "That explains the butcher's letter."

"What letter?"

She pushed the paper toward him. "He's asking if we'd consider taking partial payment in goods rather than cash for the livestock we supply to his shop. Credit with the gentry, he calls it."

John let out a low whistle. "That's bad."

"And speaking of unpaid bills…" She picked up another envelope, scanned it, then sighed. "The piano tuner still hasn't been paid."

John raised a brow. "The piano tuner?"

"Would you rather I ignore it?"

"I'd rather we prioritize."

Marguerite reached for another document. "And there's this—Davenport wrote again. He's asking to delay his rent payment another two months."

"That's the third tenant this week."

"What do you want to do?"

John hesitated, then decided, "Give him the extension."

Marguerite nodded and noted it in the ledger. John and Marguerite took great care to support their tenants and local businesses. They were kind but they also understood the estate's prosperity was directly tied to the well-being of those who lived and worked upon it.

Their work was interrupted by the nanny, who arrived with the girls. Marguerite and John looked up as they entered. Isabelle was dressed in a dark blue dress, long white stockings and polished shooes. Juliette, in contrast, wore overalls for the outdoors with her sleeves rolled up and sturdy boots.

Marguerite smiled, tilting her head. "Look at you two."

Juliette looked at John and asked, "Are you ready, Daddy?"

"Ready for what?" Marguerite asked.

"We have a date with the horses." John said and set down his papers.

Juliette marched over and took his hand in hers. "Come on, let's go!"

"All right, all right, I'm coming."

When the two of them left, Isabelle climbed onto chair, knelt on the seat, leaned her elbows on the desk, and grinned at Marguerite. "I guess that leaves you and me."

Marguerite smiled. "So it does. And what, exactly, do you propose we do with this unexpected time together?"

"I was thinking... that we could go upstairs… and perhaps… explore your vanity?"

"And by explore, you mean rummage through my jewelry and make a complete mess of my powders and rouge?"

Isabelle nodded eagerly. "Yes! You have so many lovely things, and one day, all of it will be mine anyway."

Marguerite surrendered and extended her hand. "Very well, my little heiress. Let's go."

Once in the bedroom, they took their seats in front of the vanity. Marguerite pulled open the drawers. Inside were strands of pearls, earrings, delicate gold chains, brooches inlaid with gemstones, diamond necklaces...

Isabelle's eyes sparkled. "Oh, this is much better than stomping in the mud and smelling like horses!"

Marguerite laughed. "You and your sister truly couldn't be more different."

Isabelle looked at her curiously. "Who's your favourite?"

"You know I don't have favourites."

"But since Juliette is Daddy's, can't I be yours?"

"Your father doesn't have favourites either. It just happens that the two of them share more interests, just like you and I do. But we both love all of you equally."

Isabelle frowned. "Do you think I'm gullible?"

"I don't think you're gullible," Marguerite said as she picked up a brooch and held it in front of Isabelle, tilting her head as she admired how it would look on her. "In fact, I think you are very insightful."

Isabelle, being Isabelle, or simply a young child with a short attention span, dropped the subject and carefully lifted a pearl necklace. "This one is so elegant." Then she reached for another brooch. "And this one," she declared, pressing it to her chest, "this one makes me look terribly important."

"Hmm… yes. Very grand. A true duchess in the making."

Isabelle grinned, then caught sight of something else. She reached toward the back of the drawer, pulling out a velvet box. She flipped it open and revealed an elegant diamond necklace. "Mummy! I've never seen this one before."

"Your father bought it for me a little while ago—purchased right after one of our bigger arguments."

Isabelle inspected it carefully. Then, she looked at Marguerite. "I think you are very bribable."

Marguerite laughed. "I'm not bribable. I simply appreciate a proper apology. And if it happens to come in a velvet box… well, I don't see the harm."

"I still think you are. But I don't mind. I think it's adorable."

Marguerite shook her head in amusement. "You cheeky litte thing."

"May I try it on?" Isabelle asked.

Marguerite reached over and clasped the necklace around her neck.

Isabelle looked at the mirror. "Wow. It's divine."

"Yes, your father has a good taste. I trained him well."

Isabelle touched the necklace. "I suppose I should return it… But wouldn't it be grand if Daddy bought me my own?"

"I think your father might insist you grow a bit older before you start wearing diamonds."

"Well, that's a shame."

As Isabelle continued exploring the rest of the jewelry, Marguerite reached for a few decorative hairpins. She began pinning back Isabelle's curls, sweeping them away from her face while also arranging them into an elegant style.

"My beauty." Marguerite said, admiring her work. "I love how still you are when I do your hair—unlike your sister, who immediately starts screaming, You're pulling me! You're pulling me!"

"Well, I do like to look beautiful. And beauty requires patience."

Marguerite couldn't help but laugh. Lord help the world when she grows up. She could already see it—Isabelle, in silk, adorned with the finest jewels, charming her way through ballrooms and drawing rooms, disarming men with a single glance. She is going to be dangerous. And yet, for all her poise, there was still the child in her, who believed—completely and without doubt—that the world should be exactly as she wished it to be. And Marguerite let her.

On the way to the stables, John and Juliette came across their beloved dog, Archie—short for Archimedes. He was a two year old Rough Collie, which meant he was full of energy and mischief, which had recently led to his downfall. After chewing up one of Marguerite's shoes, he had been exiled from the house.

Juliette wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his thick fur. "Poor Archie... I feel bad that you're not allowed in the house anymore."

"Don't feel bad for him," John said. "He's living like a king out here—chasing birds, rolling in the mud, and terrorizing the gardeners. Frankly, I think he prefers it."

Archie gave an enthusiastic bark to confirm it.

"But it's so unfair. Everyone makes mistakes. I once spilled ink all over Mummy's vanity, and she didn't exile me."

"That's because you apologized sweetly and looked very sorry about it. Archie, on the other hand, looked your mother straight in the eye and swallowed the last bit of her shoe."

Juliette giggled. "Well... maybe he thought it was a snack. Or a very fashionable chew toy."

"Tell that to your mother. Though I doubt it'll get him back by the fireplace anytime soon."

"Maybe one day she'll forgive him."

"Perhaps. But until then… Archie, old boy, you're stuck here with us."

Archie barked again, before trotting towards the stables.

When they entered the stables, there was that familiar scent of hay and leather. Peter, the stable master, was there waiting for them. Nearby, there was a large basket filled with carrots, ready for eager hands to distribute.

"Good afternoon, my lord, young miss." Peter greeted them with a tip of his cap.

Juliette was already reaching for the carrots. She grabbed a handful and marched toward the stalls. She was just a little girl, and the horses were big—intimidating to some—but never to her. Fear had never been part of her nature. From the moment she could walk, she had been drawn to them. John still remembered the day it first happened. Juliette had been barely a year old, still wobbly on her feet. For just a moment, their attention was elsewhere. When they turned around, they found her toddling towards a horse grazing outside. John had felt his heart stop, but the horse had simply lowered its head and allowed Juliette to wrap her little arms around its muzzle.

While Juliette busied herself with the horses, John turned to Peter. "How are they doing?"

"Strong and healthy, my lord. A few have been restless with the change in weather, but nothing out of the ordinary. Duchess threw a shoe the other day, but we've already taken care of it."

"Good. What about Dante?"

"Still full of himself, as always. Kicked the door this morning because he thought we were taking too long with his feed."

"That sounds about right. And what about Bess? I heard she wasn't eating well last week."

"She's improved," Peter assured him. "We adjusted her diet, and she's been much better since."

"Glad to hear it. If anything seems off, let me know right away."

When Juliette finished feeding the horses, she called out to John. "Daddy, lift me up so I can caress Dante!"

"You know Dante isn't the most patient of horses," John said, though he was already stepping towards her.

"I know, but he likes me!"

John shook his head in amusement, then effortlessly lifted her up so she could reach over the stall door. Juliette stretched out her small hand and ran it along Dante's neck. The horse exhaled softly.

"See?" Juliette grinned. "He does like me!"

Dante was the only black horse in the stable, standing out among the rest, all shades of brown. He was also the most beautiful.

"Did you know, little one, that I bought Dante for your mother the very moment I saw him?" John asked.

"Really?"

"Yes. He reminded me of her. He was beautiful, proud, and just a little bit wild. I was in Norfolk. A breeder had just brought him in. He was too young to break yet already showing promise. The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he would do. He was standing apart from the other horses. He wasn't skittish, nor was he overly friendly. He was just... assured of himself. He didn't need to prove anything else. I bought him on the spot. The breeder tried to show me other horses, but I told him I didn't need to see them. I knew he was meant for her."

"Did she like him right away?"

"Oh, she loved him. The moment she saw him, she ran her hand along his neck and said how magnificent he was. And now, it seems he's found another admirer."

Juliette pressed her cheek against Dante's muzzle. "He's perfect."

"Yes, he is. Just like the woman he reminded me of. And now, shall we go for a ride? We wouldn't want Daisy feeling neglected."

Daisy was their beloved pony, gentle and patient, and Juliette's favourite pet.

They stepped outside and John lifted Juliette onto the saddle, making sure she was steady before taking hold of the reins. He then led them towards the open field.

"Daddy, let go of the reins!" Juliette demanded. "I want to do it myself!"

"You're still too young to ride on your own."

"But I can ride!"

"Yes, and you're getting better every day, but that doesn't mean you're ready to do it alone."

"Then why don't you hold the reins when Mummy rides?"

"Well, when you've got hers years of experience—and her ability to stay in the saddle no matter what—then we'll talk."

"But please! I do think I'm ready!"

"I don't dare. Your mother would be furious at both of us. She might even punish us like Archie."

"You mean… exile us from the house?"

"Exactly. I don't fancy sleeping in the stables, do you?"

"I would love to sleep in the stables! On the hay and with Archie!"

John laughed. "Of course you would. But I'm not sure your mother would approve of that arrangement."

In the end, John allowed Juliette to ride on her own—for five minutes. Daisy was a reliable and gentle, and Juliette truly was remarkably talented.

When John and Juliette returned inside, they removed their boots in the little side room meant for just that purpose and then, they made their way upstairs. Upon entering the bedroom, they found Marguerite and Isabelle on the bed. Scattered across the blanket was a dazzling assortment of jewelry.

Marguerite looked up as they entered. "Straight to changing, you two! I won't have the smell of the stables brought into the bedroom."

John obeyed without protest. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Isabelle's head before heading into the adjoining room to change.

Juliette, however, had other plans. She launched herself onto the bed, landing right in the middle and sending a few pieces of jewelry tumbling.

"Juliette!" Isabelle shrieked. "You're ruining the display!"

"And you cannot jump onto the bed in the clothes you wore outside." Marguerite said. "Straight to the nursery to change."

Juliette looked at her with the cutest eyes and with the sweetest voice she said, "I want a cuddle first. I missed you while I was outside."

Marguerite's heart swelled and she gave in. She pulled her into an embrace. "Oh, you little fox." She pressed a kiss to the top of Juliette's head, inhaling her hair, expecting the sharp scent of hay and horses. But instead, she only caught the pleasant smell of dry clover.

The week past by quickly, the weekend had arrived and William changed his mind, of course. He telephoned home, but he didn't manage to reach his parents. The butler picked up the phone call and he was instructed to refuse his request. His parents weren't coming. Of course they weren't—he'd told them not to. Yet somehow, he'd hoped... He slumped onto the bench beside the phone, feeling utterly defeated.

At that very moment, someone's footsteps approached down the hall. William glanced up and saw Professor Carnahan, the philosophy and ethics professor, who taught the older boys. William knew him only by sight and reputation.

Carnahan paused mid-stride. "Roxton, isn't it? Bit unusual to see you here at this hour."

William looked down to the floor and replied, "My parents didn't come for me this weekend."

"Don't most families send the chauffeur?"

William lifted his gaze. "Well, they didn't send him either."

"Very interesting. Could it be that they simply forgot?"

"No. I told them not to come, and they took me at my word."

"And why did you ask that of them?"

William looked to the side. "It doesn't matter now."

"Well, since we're here and since we're talking… I can't help but be curious—what made you send them away?"

William looked at him again, hesitated for a moment, then answered. "I wanted to stay home a few more days to work on something important, but my father refused."

"What was it so important?"

"A puzzle of sorts. A riddle we were trying to solve."

"I see. So, rather than openly defy him, you attempted persuasion, an argument, a negotiation?"

"Well, yes. I thought if I laid out my case logically, they'd listen. But no. Father sees any deviation from routine as a slippery slope. And my Mother—well, she was almost convinced, but then he overruled her."

"But you still very nearly swayed her?"

"She was considering it. If I'd had more time, I might have won."

"Ah, a strategist, then. You don't simply accept the rules, you test them. You want to see how far they bend before they break."

William shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess."

Carnahan regarded him for a long moment. Then he smiled and said, "Well, since it seems you have the entire weekend to yourself, I see no reason for you to spend it idly. I have a rather tedious task ahead—sorting through some correspondence from my colleagues. Research discussions, philosophical debates, dry matters of academia. I could use an extra pair of sharp eyes. Would you care to assist me?"

William hesitated for only a second before standing up. "Why not?"

"Good. Come along, then. I assure you, it'll be more stimulating than staring at the floor in a deserted corridor."

Carnahan's office was different the others William had seen at school. Most professors kept their spaces neat and formal: rows of leather-bound books, dark wood furniture, and maybe a framed photograph or a globe. Carnahan's office was cluttered, but with a sense of purpose. Books and papers were scattered among strange objects: old coins, small statues, rolled-up maps. At the large desk, there were some letters and documents, but what caught William's eye was the deck of playing cards. They were arranged as if someone had stepped away from the game only moments ago. He recognized the game instantly.

"You play poker?" He asked.

"Just as a pastime. If I really want to make money, I play blackjack. Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, my Grandmother plays."

"Sounds like a lady after my own heart. Have you ever played it yourself?"

"No. I don't like games of chance. I prefer strategy—like chess."

"I thought you might say that. But did you know blackjack has a strategy as well? That you can beat the game using applied mathematics?"

William stared at him curiously, intrigued despite himself.

"Professor Harris tells me you have quite a talent for numbers. If we have the time, I'll teach you. But first, let's deal with these letters."

He gestured toward the neatly stacked correspondence on his desk, motioning for William to take a seat.

Marguerite and John lay nestled together in the warm bed. John was already drifting off, but Marguerite had no intention of sleeping just yet.

"I decided I want to be angry with you again," she announced.

"Very well. That is your wifely prerogative." John said, acknowledging her feelings, but not arguing. He heard her, understood her, but made no concessions.

It only added to her irritation. "That's all you have to say?"

He cracked one eye open. "What else would you like me to say?"

She shifted onto her side to face him properly. "At the very least, I'd like you to actually consider what I'm saying, instead of brushing it off."

"I do consider what you say, Marguerite. I always do."

"Then why do you refuse to acknowledge the double standards?"

"What double standards?"

"You treat your son and your daughters differently. You hold William to impossible standards. You expect him to be disciplined, responsible, and to never step out of line. But with the girls? You shower them with love, indulgence and act as if they could do no wrong."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? Becasue it looks like that to me."

"You make it sound as if I have been cold and unfeeling toward William his entire life. As if I haven't loved him just as much. Do you really believe that?"

Marguerite hesitated, but before she could speak, John pressed on. "Who was the one who spent hours teaching him chess when he was barely old enough to sit still? Who took him out to the woods to watch the stars, just because he wanted to? Who spent years answering every question—no matter how exhausting—about history, about the estate, about the world? Who let him stay up far past bedtime, just to talk about books, about science, about all the things that fascinate him?"

Marguerite watched him, silent.

"And when he wanted something—really wanted it—have I not given it to him? He has more freedom than most boys his age. He has every resource to thrive. More patience from me than most fathers would ever give. I have let him argue, challenge, question every rule—until now. But now, Marguerite, he has crossed the line. He was disrespectful, he cursed at us, and he refused to take responsibility for his own behavior. If he does not face consequences now, when will he? What kind of man will he become if he learns that words have no weight?"

Marguerite found herself staring at him. For all her irritation, she couldn't deny that he was right. "Alright, I admit it. What you're saying actually makes sense."

"Does that mean you're no longer angry with me?"

Marguerite turned onto her side, away from him. "I'll think about it by morning."

John smiled but wasn't concerned. After all these years, he had come to know her completely, to understand the secret recipe that made her happy and content.

It was simple. He let her have her way in many things: how the house was arranged, what modern conveniences they acquired. She had a taste for the latest technology, and whenever something new appeared, she wanted it, and he made sure they got it. She decided how they spent their free time, where they traveled, and other such pleasures. She loved luxury, so he ensured there was no shortage of gifts. But when it came to the crucial matters: their family, their estate, their future—he was the one who made the final decisions. And in moments like these, when they argued, he always let her speak, let her express every thought and feeling. He heard her, understood her, but if he believed he was right, he would not yield. No matter how long the discussion lasted, he would hold his ground.

And every time, the same thing happened. By morning, Marguerite would relent. Not in word, but in the way she would curl into his arms as she woke. She would stroke his hair, lay close, kiss his cheek. It was her way of telling him that she liked his firmness, that it pleased her, that it even drew her to him. She would never say it aloud, of course. But he knew.