Harrow’s face reddened. His papers rustled like nervous birds. He cleared his throat, trying to dress up disaster.
“Now, Miss Bennett here,” he began, voice suddenly less confident, “she’s experienced in household management—”
Someone shouted, “Experienced? Sure, just can’t close the deal!”
Laughter rolled through the crowd, ugly and satisfied. The kind of laughter that needs a victim to feel alive.
Clara’s knees, I saw, wanted to fold. Her throat tightened. But she stayed upright, face smooth as churned butter. She’d practiced, that expression. I could tell. The look that says, You can’t see me bleed even if you try.
Then the sound came.
Boots on wood.
Not hurried. Not performative. Steady as a heartbeat.
The laughter faltered, then died as if someone had pinched off its air.
A man stepped through the crowd, and the people moved aside like water parting around a rock. Everyone in three counties knew him, though most folks only knew his sorrow from a distance.
