Upon crossing the threshold of the parlor, Penelope stopped dead in her tracks, her breath hitching at the sight before her.

Seated upon the velvet settee was her aunt, Beatrice.

The middle-aged woman was twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, anxiously scanning the opulence of the room until her gaze finally locked onto Penelope.

In an instant, Beatrice rose to her feet, her chest heaving as her eyes widened in profound disbelief.

With a tentative, deferential tilt of her head, Beatrice began to sink into a formal curtsy.

"Your Ladyship..."

"No—hush, please," Penelope cried softly, scrambling forward to catch the older woman by her forearms before she could sink any lower. She gently forced Beatrice to stand straight, looking deep into eyes that mirrored her own. Penelope wanted her to see, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the grand estate and the heavy title had changed nothing of the girl who had missed her so terribly.

"Aunt Beatrice, since when have we grown so formal?" Penelope’s voice cracked with emotion, a warm, reassuring smile breaking through her tears. "Look at me. It is still me. It is your Penny."

Beatrice stared at her, the rigid tension of the aristocratic parlor dissolving in a single heartbeat. Her eyes welled with tears, overflowing down her weathered cheeks as she lifted a trembling, sun-warmed hand to cradle the side of Penelope’s face.

"Penny... my sweet girl," Beatrice whispered, her throat tight with a sorrow she had carried for years. "I pray to the heavens you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I left you behind in that wretched house... at the mercy of those cruel people. I should have fought harder to take you with me."

Penelope shook her head fiercely, covering her aunt’s trembling hand with her own and pressing into the familiar warmth of her touch. "You had no choice, Aunt Beatrice. The law, the title—everything was stacked against you. I never blamed you. Not for a single day."

She pulled the older woman into a fierce, desperate embrace, burying her face in Beatrice’s shoulder. "I am just so profoundly grateful you are here now."

Beatrice stayed frozen for a second before embracing her in turn, her tears slipping free.

Later, once the storm of emotions had subsided, they sat side-by-side upon the velvet settee. Penelope found herself completely taken aback when her aunt reached into her modest reticule and presented a neatly wrapped parcel.

"I... I know it is a humble thing," Beatrice murmured, her cheeks flushing with a touch of self-consciousness as she placed it in Penelope’s hands.

"But I pray you will accept this as a belated blessing for your nuptials, seeing as I could not stand by your side on your wedding day. My husband and I had this commissioned some time ago, yet we could never find the means nor the opportunity to deliver it to you."

A lump rose in Penelope’s throat as the engraving blurred beneath a fresh wave of tears. In the dark, hollow months following her mother’s passing, it had been her sweet aunt who had refused to leave her side.

Beatrice would sit with her for hours by that drafty windowsill, quietly brushing Penelope’s hair while the young girl spoke endlessly of the briar roses. To a grieving Penelope, those stubborn, blooming vines had been a living piece of her mother, as her mother loved them first, and Beatrice had remembered. She had remembered every word, while she herself had forgotten all about the good little times.

Surprise and pure, unadulterated delight lit up Penelope’s face.

"Aunt Beatrice, it is magnificent," Penelope whispered, tracing the silver engraving. "It is more than I could have ever asked for. Thank you so much for this gift."

Beatrice offered a tender smile, happy that she liked it, but as the moment settled, her anxiousness returned.

She cast a wary glance toward the grand double doors of the parlor before leaning closer, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "Tell me truly, Penny... are you well here? I mean to say... the Marquis and his household. Rumors of his coldness span the entire kingdom. You are being cherished and cared for, are you not?"

Penelope’s expression softened, a genuine, radiant smile replacing any lingering shadows of her past. She reached out to squeeze her aunt’s hand, eager to soothe her fears. "Yes, Aunt. Truly, I have never known such contentment. My husband and his people have been exceedingly kind to me."

"The heavens be praised," Beatrice exhaled, a massive weight visibly lifting from her shoulders as she smiled warmly at her niece. "When word reached our province that you were to wed the Marquis, I prayed night and day that it would mean your deliverance from that wretched house. I am so deeply grateful that my prayers have been answered."

"Yes, Aunt, and that is precisely the other reason why I dispatched that letter to you," Penelope said, carefully resting the locket back within its velvet-lined box and setting it gently upon the mahogany table.

She turned back to her aunt, her expression hardening with the resolve of a woman who had finally taken control of her own destiny.

"My father and his wife have been placed under strict house arrest," she revealed quietly. "It was discovered that his debts are vast, and many are tied to highly illicit enterprises. In the process of dismantling his affairs, I was able to legally recover the inheritance Mother left in my name. Wait here, I shall go fetch the deeds."

"Penny, wait—" Beatrice began, reaching out a hand.

But Penelope had already risen to her feet, moving with a swift, purposeful grace out of the room to retrieve the documents.

Left alone once more in the vast, luxurious parlor, Beatrice looked around the room, a profound sense of awe washing over her. She could scarcely believe this was her niece’s reality now. A heavy, genuine relief settled deep into her chest. To have traveled all this way, harboring such terrifying anxieties about the Marquis, only to find her sweet Penny living so magnificently, cared for, and utterly unbroken by the past—it was a miracle.

It was not long before the heavy double doors opened again, and Penelope returned, bearing a thick leather portfolio filled with official documents.

Penelope set the thick leather portfolio onto the table between them and unbuckled the heavy brass clasps.

As she began to sort through the crisp, wax-sealed parchments, her fingers caught on the edge of a loose folio. The paper slipped from the stack, fluttering quietly through the air before landing face-up at Beatrice’s feet.

"Oh, let me, dearest," Beatrice murmured, leaning forward to retrieve it before Penelope could reach down.

As the older woman straightened, her eyes naturally drifted over the elegant, faded ink. It was a formal household extract from the Viremont parish registry, a consolidated record detailing the births within the estate alongside the official dates of the Baron’s marriages.

Beatrice’s gaze traced the lines smoothly at first. There was the date of her late sister’s holy matrimony to the Baron, followed by Penelope’s official birth record. Beneath all of that lay the entry for Lady Genevieve, noting the exact date she was finally brought to the Viremont estate and wed to the Baron, the record explicitly citing the birth of his newly delivered daughter, Mirabel, as the reason for elevating the former mistress to a legal wife.

But as Beatrice’s eyes flicked back and forth between the dates, her thumb went entirely still against the parchment. Her brow furrowed in deep confusion.

According to the sacred parish log, Mirabel’s birth date was recorded a full two months before Genevieve had ever set foot on the Viremont estate, and nearly a year after the Baron had been stationed away on the King’s winter campaign in the northern marches. Yet, the document distinctly noted the baby as a perfectly healthy, full-term delivery.

Beatrice stared at the ink, her mind racing as she tried to force the dates to align.

The Baron had famously rushed to marry Genevieve the moment she presented him with a daughter, convinced it was the flesh of his flesh. But looking at the church’s own immutable timeline... the numbers refused to match the Baron’s pride.

"Aunt Beatrice?" Penelope asked softly, noticing the sudden, rigid stillness in her aunt’s posture. "Is everything alright?"

Beatrice blinked, a chill running down her spine as she quickly looked up. She smoothed her features into a tight, reassuring smile, gently handing the parchment back to Penelope.

"Have you... have you truly gone through this record, Penny?" she asked, her voice dropping to a hesitant, strained whisper.

Penelope paused, a stack of ledgers frozen in her hands. She looked up to meet her aunt’s gaze. "Is there a problem with it? It is the official parish log from the estate, so I didn’t feel the need to dive deeply into it. It simply sits alongside the inheritance deeds."

Beatrice swallowed hard. She looked as though she were stepping onto exceptionally thin ice. "Tell me, dearest... what do you remember about the time Mirabel was born? Or rather, what did your father always say of it?"

Penelope’s brow furrowed, entirely thrown off by the line of questioning. "Father always boasted of it, rather loudly, to justify how quickly he brought Lady Genevieve into the manor to Mother. He said Mirabel was born a bit early due to the stress of Genevieve’s travel to the estate. Why do you ask?"

Beatrice’s breath caught, her gaze falling back down to the ink. "He said she was born after Genevieve arrived at the manor? And that she was premature?"

"Yes," Penelope said, setting the ledgers down completely, her eyes narrowing. "Aunt Beatrice, you are making me anxious. What is wrong? What does the report say?"

Beatrice hesitated, her chest heaving with a quiet, troubled sigh. She turned the page slightly toward Penelope, pointing a trembling finger at the faded script, carefully choosing her words so as not to speak an absolute sacrilege aloud.

"If this log is accurate, Penny... it directly contrasts everything your father believed," Beatrice whispered, her voice laced with deep suspicion. "Look here. The parish priest recorded Mirabel’s birth as a perfectly healthy, full-term delivery—not a premature baby. And more than that... the date of her birth is marked a full two months before Genevieve ever set foot on Viremont soil. In fact, if you count the months backward from this date..."

Beatrice trailed off, looking up at Penelope with wide, stunned eyes. "Your father was across the sea on the King’s winter campaign during that entire window of conception. Genevieve did not deliver his child, Penny. She brought a full-term baby to him."