Other women rarely entered the house.

Aurore had no sisters. Her mother had long since passed. And Gerard’s countless female cousins were burdened with husbands even stricter and far more fertile than hers. Poor Annele, one of his younger maternal cousins, had managed to squeeze out her seventh child by the age of twenty-four. The thought alone made Aurore’s skin crawl.

If God existed, he was clearly some sadistic fool, but at least he’d spared her one mercy: she had given birth only once, and not to a daughter. That, she would never have survived. She could not have offered up her miracle, her perfect child, to some cruel bastard like her husband.

All day she’d done what was expected of a diligent wife before company arrived: assisted the kitchen maids, personally selected the cutlery and porcelain, ironed the table linen, set the table, swept and scrubbed the house as if she were the lowliest of servants. Gerard observed it all with a smug grin, sipping tea and leafing through a newspaper she didn’t dare glance at, lest her eyes linger too long on the words and earn her a backhand across the cheek. Ah, if only she could return the favor.

Today, Gerard was particularly proud of his wife. After all, the visit from his old friend and the friend’s wife was no idle afternoon social call. It was a lesson. A demonstration. A chance to show the young lady what a wife ought to be. Submissive. Compliant. Gracious. Silent. Like Aurore.

What an idiot.

Thoughts swarmed in Aurore’s head like gnats on a hot, sticky day. Trust was currency in this world — volatile, dangerous, and impossible to reclaim once spent. Aurore didn’t yet know what kind of woman sat at her table. Perhaps she was one of them: bitter, broken, ready to bite the hand of anyone who dared breathe differently. Or perhaps she was playing the same game — in silence, like Aurore, behind lowered lashes and folded hands.

Perhaps she, too, had secrets stitched inside her skirts. But secrets were expensive. And dangerous. And sometimes fatal. A single misplaced word could cost a woman her standing — or her life. Aurore was nearing forty. There would be no more children. Which meant she had outlived her usefulness. Guillotine. Rope. Convent. There were only so many exits for a woman who no longer served a purpose and dared be not obedient enough.

Evening arrived faster than expected. Gerard greeted the guests and escorted them to the table, while Aurore stood by the sideboard, hesitating over one final detail: the flower to place in a small vase before her guest's seat. A rose, perhaps — neutral, unremarkable? Or a carnation — as if in quiet mourning?

She chose an orchid.

She clipped the branch from the plant that had taken over a year to bloom. Five soft blossoms, delicate and defiantly feminine in the wildest form of what a woman is, rested in a porcelain vase placed just in front of her guest's setting.

Aurore remained mostly silent through dinner. As a 'proper hostess,' she offered seconds, poured wine, and attended to her husband and his guest with precise deference.

Her gaze kept flicking toward her guest. She was beautiful. Fairly young. Already broken, or not yet? Or perhaps already rebuilding? Gerard — damn him — had yet to ask the husband a single question about their marriage. And Aurore was desperate to know: Was it their first year? Had she already been made to give birth? Was she safe?