One day, as she was working in the garden while her mother rested from a headache, she wandered into the rose patch—a special section filled with different varieties of roses: pinks and reds, whites, and even one that looked purple. She and her mother could never quite figure out how one particular rose bush looked so violet in the sunlight.

Up and up and up the butterfly went, until it reached the very tippy tops of the trees.

“I thought I belonged up here,” she whispered. “But now I see I belong in the in-between.

Though you hold this missive (or perhaps scroll it) in modern hands, I invite you to imagine, if only for a moment, that you are seated beside a low fire in a dim drawing room. A pot of tea steams on the sideboard. The scent of pressed violets lingers on the air. Outside, the wind murmurs something forgotten.

An audible gasp escaped several nearby matrons. Juliet accepted the bouquet with trembling hands, conscious of the sudden silence that fell around her. Yellow roses—the flower of betrayal and broken promises. To receive such a gift at a public gathering was tantamount to social ruin.

Lord Nigel Ashcombe, Duke of Wexley, and Miss Mary Smith shared with me the details of their upcoming nuptials...I offer their words below, as they shared them with me—modest, tender, and utterly sincere.

Pioneers spoke of wandering lights—will-o’-the-wisps—that danced across the plains.

The moment her fingers met his, the rooftop fell away in a swirl of stars and wind. Her shawl fluttered like wings, and her skirts rippled,.

Charles was a master of his craft, known far and wide for his lush rose bushes and sprawling ivy. But there was one flower that had always eluded him—the delicate and elusive lady slipper orchid.

Millicent sighed. At sixty-two, she had weathered enough society storms to know that scandal was as inevitable in their circles as rain in an English spring. “And you’re certain it was him? The fog has been terribly thick these past evenings.”

Lyra’s head snapped up, her eyes, usually so veiled, flashing with a desperate hope. She moved to the bars, her fingers clutching them, knuckles white. “They… they bought me,”

Three weeks had passed since consumption had claimed Catherine, her only sibling and closest companion. Their parents had departed years earlier, leaving the sisters to rely solely upon each other. Now, at twenty-six, Adelaide was utterly alone in their modest townhouse in Bloomsbury.

With the last reserves of his strength, Bramble zipped beneath the shelter of the Queen Anne’s lace just as the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour.

Still, the drought was testing even Amaryllis’s enduring confidence. She fluttered from bed to bed, watering with dewdrops gathered in acorn caps, whispering to the dry soil, encouraging earthworms to dig and aerate.

As they ascended the stairs, she whispered, “Maybe the lamplighter will make you an offer.” Eugenie stopped, turning wide-eyed.

Six months after Rupert’s death, Josephine still felt unsettled. She needed to know if perhaps he was waiting on the other side with a message for her or their children.

March 1853 Kent, England "My lady, if I may interfere," her maid stepped forward from behind the desk where Lady Mary Fontaine sat writing in her dressing gown, her tea growing ever colder. "Yes, Agnes, what is it?" Lady Fontaine felt impatient with this whole morning process. Recently married, she was not accustomed to answering all of these notes and cards from well-wishing neighbors. Becoming Lady Fontaine had forced Mary into a world she had little known. She was the

Nettie meets a young man caught by the fey. Will she set him free so they can be together?

"Mary," he interrupted gently, "people here are far too concerned with appearances. There is nothing improper about feeding ducks."

What customs did the Victorians follow when courting? What could a woman say with her fan if she didn't want a man to approach?