The breeze coming off the sea would have stirred her skirts, had Eloise been wearing any. The boys’ trousers she had put on instead were a not-yet-comfortable second skin, a constant reminder of all she was leaving behind.

Eloise didn’t know much about ships, but even she could see that The Serpent was beautiful. She boasted a golden figurehead in the shape of a mermaid, with long flowing hair and an expression of fiery determination. Built out of a rich, dark wood, her railings shone under the sunlight.

The ship was quite nearly as handsome as her captain.

Eloise stood on the docks and watched as said captain began to pace the length of the deck. His was a figure built to command and inspire. He moved with an almost vicious confidence, striding up and down the wooden boards of the deck, flaunting a backside that was so well-defined as to be almost scandalous, even through his breeches. The wind tousled his dark curls against his cheekbones as the sea crashed against the ship’s bow, and his face drew her gaze like an incoming tide. Sculpted, as though out of marble—but what stone could capture the movement of his lips as they shifted into a half-smile, his eyes bright with mysterious intent? Eloise could feel her pulse thrumming in her throat.

He peered over the side of the ship. His hands, resting on the railing, were long-fingered and gloved: artful hands, Eloise thought. Hands that she imagined would feel absolutely perfect against her neck where they would then trail ever so slowly down to her breasts and—heaven’s Eloise get a grip! A moment of fear sang like lightning in her veins as his bright eyes glanced her way, excitement setting her pulse racing, and the heat at her core rising ever higher; but then his gaze passed over her without so much as a pause.

Of course, she didn’t exactly look like a lady just now. She was out of her element on the docks of Wayfort, waves colliding with the wooden pier and threatening to slosh right over her feet. She cursed herself silently. Of all the moments to look like a boy!

With some effort, she turned her thoughts back to the situation at hand. What mattered was that this gentleman could keep her safe. But her disguise itself was no small risk, and even if she were to successfully pass as a boy for the length of the journey, wouldn’t she earn his wrath as a stowaway if she were to be caught? Then, she would have to prove herself a capable sailor, an even trickier act of deception. Or else, offer him some other incentive to offset the inconvenience of her presence... but, of course, he’d be too much of a gentleman to take her up on an offer like that. And Eloise was too much of a lady. Wasn’t she?

Not for the first time, the scope of her plan seemed fated for catastrophe—ill-planned, ill resourced, and on the verge of unravelling like an improperly stored skein of yarn. But she was trapped. Her hand had been forced.

The very livelihood of her family was at stake.

How had she come to be here in the first place? Her thoughts swirled like ocean water in a storm, and she sank into the depths of her memory…

Three Weeks Earlier

The voice of the old priest was reedy and thin in the openness of the cemetery. At first, Eloise kept her eyes fixed on the coffin, mahogany and heaped with white lilies. Lord Covington, her father, was dead. She had had days to process the news and still found she could not. The priest continued to expounded on the virtues of the family as she allowed her gaze to wander to her mother and her two younger sisters.

Lady Covington was outfitted in a dress that would likely be considered ostentatious if it hadn’t been tastefully black. A smile threatened to break through Eloise’s tears. Her mother meant no disrespect, though few would have guessed it to be so. No, it was quite the opposite, really. Her father had always encouraged his wife’s more decorative tendencies, even when they verged on the ridiculous. It was a marker of affection between them, just one of many signs of how deeply the two loved one another, how intimately they knew each other.

Currently, Eloise’s mother and her youngest sister, Phoebe, were crying openly, tears flowing down their cheeks. Middle child Rosabella looked determined not to weep, mouth set in a firm line, but when Phoebe grasped her hand, her face crumpled.

There was no point in wiping at tears that continued to come. Eloise let them fall, every spadeful of dirt on the coffin weighing heavily on her heart.

As the service came to a close, she noticed a strange figure lurking at the edges of the small gathering—a man she had never seen before. She frowned in his direction, wondering who he was. There was a look about him she was not certain she liked.

“No,” Rosabella told her, on their walk back to Hartstone Manor, “I didn’t recognize him, either.”

“Neither did I,” said Phoebe, still sniffling.

“That’s strange,” mused Lady Covington, as Sir Alistair Tate escorted her down the path towards the estate, the girls right behind them.

“Probably an old friend of Lord Covington’s,” Sir Alistair said with a reassuring smile.

“If that were the case,” Eloise replied, “he ought to have introduced himself.”

Sir Alistair opened his mouth to respond, but Lady Covington began speaking with renewed fervor. “If only Sir Covington had never set foot in that carriage,” she said, “Haven’t I always said that those contraptions are wildly dangerous death-traps?”

“You never let that stop you from going into town,” Phoebe jested, and Rosabella nudged her gently in the ribs.

“Well, it hardly matters now,” cried Lady Covington, “not when we have no one left to take care of us!”

It was not the first time that Eloise had considered the bleakness of their situation, but her mother’s raw concern lent it a certain starkness. “Don’t worry, Mother,” said Eloise, hoping that her words would imbue her with confidence as much as reassurance for the others. “Things will turn out alright. I’ll make sure we’re financially secure.”

Lady Covington smiled then, eyes watery yet proud. “Oh, my girls. How did you all end up being so wonderful?”

Once they had all stepped into the foyer of the manor, a butler divesting them of their outerwear, Sir Alistair tipped his hat. “My dear ladies,” he said, “please let me know if I can be of any assistance. No matter is too small or too large.”

“You are too kind, sir,” said Lady Covington, handing off her hat and fan to the overloaded butler. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”

He bowed and took his leave. The two youngest girls ran to the kitchen to bother the cook for something to eat. Lady Covington collapsed onto the couch in the sitting room, burying her face in her hands. “Truthfully, I don’t think we’ll be able to hold onto the estate unless you marry someone with means, my dear Eloise.”

Eloise, who had been mentally running through calculations to determine whether they could afford a cut of beef, coffee, and some sugar for the next few days, felt like she had been struck on the back of the head with a stone. “That can’t be the only solution,” she said.

As though she hadn’t responded, Lady Covington sat up, struck by a sudden thought. “Why not Sir Alistair? He’s the perfect candidate.”

Eloise nearly laughed in shock. “Mother! He’s a wonderful man, I know, but he must be at least forty, and I’d rather not have a husband whose time already spent on this earth more than doubles mine.”

“It’s only just more than double,” her mother told her, stubbornly, “and nineteen is a perfectly marriageable age.”

Eloise sighed. “If you’re so interested, maybe you should marry him.”

Lady Covington gasped. “Eloise, that would be highly inappropriate. I don’t know how you can even suggest, given the circumstances—”

“We’ll manage without that,” Eloise interrupted, needing the reassurance as much as her mother. “Here, let’s have no further talk of the matter. Why don’t we all sit together in the parlor for a bit?”

But Lady Covington shook her head. “I’m going to retire early, my dear. I’m entirely worn out.”

The late afternoon light was beginning to fade as evening crept in. Rosabella and Phoebe were already at the little table in the parlor, outfitted with snacks from the kitchen. Eloise grabbed a handful of grapes and a slice of cheese from Phoebe, heedless of her protests, and sat next to Rosabella, dropping her chin into her palm as she popped some of the fruit into her mouth.

“Father should be here,” Phoebe said, gazing plaintively out the window.

“Father,” said Rosabella, “would have stolen even more of your grapes.”

That startled a giggle out of Eloise, and soon, all three of them were laughing—a moment of merriment tinged with deep grief. When they settled down again, Eloise found that she was no longer hungry.

“He used to say that he’d always find his way home, no matter what happened,” she said. “Years ago now. Do you remember?”

Phoebe shook her head blankly, but Rosabella nodded. “He said that whether by land or by sea, anyone could chart a path through the stars.”

Eloise looked out the window and sighed, her heart aching. “Perhaps he’ll use them to find a way back to us now,” she said wistfully.

When the moon rose that night over the gardens, Eloise wondered if, somehow, somewhere, her father was watching it, too. Watching her.

***

The clock had only just struck midnight when a loud banging at the front door echoed through the manor. Eloise, who had finally succumbed to her dreams, blinked confusedly before leaping out of bed as the pounding noise continued.

Bedroom doors slammed as the family made their way to the foyer, Lady Covington gesturing to the butler that she herself would answer the door. Eloise walked with her, the two younger girls following in their wake. Her heart pounded in her throat as they approached the door, terror in her veins. After everything that had happened, could something else possibly have gone wrong—another loss, another death, another grief for her heart to bear?

The door opened to reveal a haughty-looking man, flanked on either side by armed guards. “You have twenty minutes to gather your things, dress, and get out,” he barked. “Hartstone Manor is mine!”