“Dashingly handsome,” Finn says.

“Beg pardon?” I blow on the paper to hasten the drying of the ink.

“You forgot ‘dashingly handsome.’ Dear friend is nice but hardly covers the extent of my qualities.”

Eleanor looks up from her own letter writing. “How did she describe me? Because I have always preferred my eyes to be referred to as the ‘color of a storm-tossed sea.’ If either of you were wondering.”

“You did not fare much better. In fact, I think I am ahead. I am a ‘dear friend,’ and you are merely ‘recently ill.’”

I push the letter aside and face him. “Reading private correspondence is in poor taste, Lord Ackerly.”

“Unless it is terribly interesting,” Eleanor says, “which Jessamin’s letters are not. Mine, however, are lurid tales of my near-death experience and subsequent sequestering against my will in the home of the mysterious and brooding Lord Ackerly. I fear I may have given you a tragic past and a deadly secret or two.”

“Are we staying in a decaying Gothic abbey?” I ask.

“Naturally. When I’m finished, there won’t be a person in all the city who isn’t writhing with jealousy over the heart-pounding drama of my life.” She pauses, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her chin. “I don’t suppose you have a cousin? I could very much use a romantic foil.”

Finn shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Alas. As long as I’m not the friend who meets a tragic end that brings you two together forever through shared grief.” Her line meets dead silence, and a sly grin splits her face. “Oh wait, I nearly was.”

“Horrible girl.” I tug her ear as I walk past. She yawns, though she has only been awake a couple of hours. She writes more letters than anyone I know, and it seems to exhaust her.

I, however, am well-rested. Several times Finn has asked after my dreams, which have remained free from cameos by Lord Downpike for the last two nights. I think he is not one to pursue something when he no longer has every advantage. I suspect Finn’s inquiries have more to do with the fact that he no longer has an excuse to stay in my room at night.

Perhaps I could make up more bad dreams.

No. I need to get some air. I need to do something—anything—away from here. Even three days trapped inside has been too many. Finn is in and out all the time, making appearances at various social engagements, keeping up connections, trying to keep the scales tipped toward peace, but Eleanor and I are utterly homebound.

It reminds me of a game all the children on the island played: Fox and Rabbits. There was a free area, the rabbit hole, where you could hide and be safe from the prowling child playing the fox. I never used it, no matter how many times I was caught. I loathed, even then, to pretend at hiding rather than running free and taking my chances.

I pick up today’s newspaper and leave the library and its perpetual sunshine. I am in the mood for a bit of drab gray. The washroom suits my craving for privacy and I sit in a chair next to the window, idly scanning the paper.

An article referencing Melei catches my eye. I frown, skimming, and then read the whole thing start to finish. It is written by none other than my father, a fanciful and horridly false account of the glorious era Alben colonization has ushered in for the poor, downtrodden, dirt-ridden natives.

“In closing, I would posit that, given the vast benefits seen in every aspect of life on this primitive island, the effects of an Alben system of government and oversight cannot be overestimated. Consider the colonies a case study. If such a savage people can be so improved, the patriotic Alben cannot help but envision what our impact could be on civilized countries’ fertile grounds.”

Practically blind with fury, I storm back into the library and throw the newspaper onto the table. “Have you seen this?” I remember now the girl in my class referencing his newspaper articles. I’d never bothered to look them up.

Eleanor glances down and then goes back to her letter. “Oh, that? He’s written a whole series on it. Terribly dull. Read the Society section instead.”

Finn picks up the paper and reads the article, the frown line deepening between his eyebrows. “A series?”

“Hmm?” Eleanor sets down her pen. “Yes. Most of the time he picks a specific negative aspect of native culture that the colonization was able to correct, and then compares it to a continental country and what could be done to improve their social systems or methods of government. I only know because Uncle insists on reading them aloud to Lady Agatha and then asking her opinion, which is always the same: ‘I think I will order a new hat.’”

I pace in a rage. “Of all the self-righteous, culture-blind, arrogant twaddle! I have half a mind to go to his office and box his ears!”

“Jessa.” Finn’s voice is soft, lacking all of my indignation.

“What?”

“I think we ought to call on your father.”

Eleanor drops her pen, leaning in eagerly. “To ask his permission? I have a list of requirements for the colors you may use at the wedding. My complexion ought to be taken into account. It’s only fair.”

“For spirits’ sake, Eleanor, I would not give my father the honor of asking his permission for anything. We’re going to box his ears! Yes?”

Finn doesn’t smile. “I’m concerned about the tone of these articles. I would like to ask your father about them.”