//CLARA//
The horsehair toothbrush, after its boiling water exorcism, was surprisingly... fine. The tooth powder tasted like chalk mixed with an aggressive mojito, but once I rinsed, the funk was gone. It was good to feel human again.
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon rotting in my room, avoiding the judgntal bitch downstairs. But by three o’clock, the boredom hit like a gut punch. No TikTok. No emails. Just and the heavy silk curtains.
Then, I rembered Casimir’s offer from the bathtub about seeing his most prized stallion.
Back ho, before the world got complicated, my Papops had a ranch. He’d taught to ride when I was fifteen. I an, horses haven’t changed that much in a few centuries, right? Evolution doesn’t work that fast. A horse is a horse, whether it’s being posted on Instagram or pulling a carriage for aristocrats.
I pulled the bell for Hattie.
"Hattie, where’s Casimir?"
"Mr. Guggenheim is in his study, Miss Eleanor. He’s been there since noon."
"Perfect. Help into my riding habit."
Getting into a nineteenth-century riding habit was like being gift-wrapped by soone who hated .
"I’m sorry, Miss! If you can just hang on a minute, it’ll be done," Hattie grunted, her face turning a light pink from the effort of winching into the habit.
I gripped the edge of the vanity, praying my internal organs were as resilient as my ego.
"Hattie, I’m hanging on for dear life. If I pass out, just drag to the stables and tell the horse I tried."
"All done!"
Hattie announced, finally ending my eternal suffering with one last, agonizing tug. She stepped back, her face glowing with a prideful smile, completely missing the fact that I was currently praying for an oxygen tank.
The collar was so high and stiff I felt like I was being choked by a silk-covered brick. But underneath the skirt? Actual breeches. For the first ti since I woke up in this corseted hellscape, I felt like I could run. Or kick soone.
"You look breathtaking, Miss Eleanor."
"I’m literally breathless, Hattie, so I guess that’s accurate."
I headed straight for Casimir’s study, not bothering to knock.
The room slled of old paper, expensive whiskey, and fresh ink. Casimir sat behind his massive desk, buried under docunts that probably decided the fate of the national economy. He looked powerful, stressed, and dangerously focused. His hands moved quickly, scribbling, stamping, skimming pages with the efficiency of muscle mory.
I leaned against the doorfra, arms crossed. "You know, it wouldn’t hurt to take a break."
His hand paused. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. His eyes traveled from my boots up the length of my green velvet habit, lingering on the murderous collar, before locking onto mine.
"What are you up to now?"
"Hmm." I tapped a finger against my chin, feigning deep thought as I stepped slowly into his inner sanctum. My boots clicked against the hardwood, sounding like a countdown.
"You seem to have forgotten your offer," I purred, stopping just at the edge of his desk. "You ntioned a stallion, a ride, and a chance to verify his... health? Well? The sun is almost down, I’m in the outfit, and I’m bored out of my mind. Trust , Casimir, you won’t like when I’m bored. I tend to start fires just to see the sparks."
Casimir rubbed his temples, the heavy gold ring on his finger catching the light. He looked at the mountain of docunts in front of him, then back at . I could see the conflict in his eyes.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the leather chair across him. It wasn’t a request, so I complied.
"I have three more ledgers to verify and sign. If you can remain silent for ten minutes, I will take you to the stables. If not..."
"If not?" I challenged, raising my brows and running my fingers along the length of the ledger he was holding and stopping right to the edge of the docunt.
"If not, I’ll find another way to keep your mouth occupied, Clara."
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across my lips. He was finally speaking my language.
"Now, you’re getting curious," I murmured, my voice dripping with honey as I deliberately bit my lower lip, holding his gaze. "But I’ll comply...for now. Ten minutes, you say? Tick-tock, Casimir. I’ll be counting every second to see exactly how you plan to keep occupied."
I sank into the oversized leather chair. For a few minutes, only the scratch of his pen and the ticking of a grandfather clock filled the silence. I watched him, following the rhythmic motion of his hand. The way he dipped his fountain pen into the crystal inkwell was oddly... srizing.
My fingers itched. Needing sothing to do, I reached across the desk and snatched a blank parchnt and an idle pen. I felt his gaze snap to , heavy and watchful, but he didn’t pull the paper away.
I dunked the nib too deep, a fat glob of ink threatening to ruin the desk. I ignored it and started scribbling.
Clara in 1879. It sucks.
Casimir’s pen stopped. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing at my ssy, blocky print.
"What is this?"
"Writing. Why? You don’t like my font?"
"It isn’t... cursive," he noted, genuinely confused. "It looks like the markings of a child. Or a stone mason. Since when did you abandon the elegant script of your tutors?"
I felt a bead of sweat prickle under my choking collar. Who actually handwrites letters in 2026? Unless it’s for a vintage-aesthetic Instagram post, the answer is nobody.
"I’m in my experintal phase, Casimir. Minimalism is very in right now."
He didn’t look convinced. He set down his pen, leaning back and crossing his arms. The movent made his broad shoulders stretch against his coat, and suddenly the room felt very small.
"Tell , Clara. What exactly were you doing all those years in Thorne Manor? I rember your mother writing to , boasting of your education. She ntioned giving you free rein in your studies. But I don’t recall her ntioning you’d forgotten how to hold a pen."
Oh, fuck.
I scrambled through my mory of the diary entries, looking for a plausible answer.
"My mother believed in... unconventional learning. She wanted to have a broad perspective."
Casimir studied with an intensity that made feel like he was peeling back layers of skin.
"Two years isn’t a very long ti since we last t, Eleanor." The na sounded like a challenge. "And yet, so much of you has changed. Your tongue has sharpened. Your manners are barely hanging by a thread. You’ve even changed your na. And now your hand is no longer as I rember."
Two years. I rembered Eleanor’s diary ntioning it. He was getting suspicious. I needed to dial it back.
I forced a shaky, vulnerable smile. "Well, they do say tragedy and trauma can change a person." I leaned into the pity card. "Losing my parents like that..."
Thankfully, he didn’t push further. He went back to his docunts, though the tight set of his jaw told he wasn’t satisfied with my trauma excuse.
I spent the next ten minutes failing miserably at cursive. My ’L’ looked like a loop-de-loop gone wrong. Eventually, I gave up, crumpled the paper, and snatched a fresh sheet. Instead of mastering calligraphy, I started practicing my own signature. If I ever got back to my ti, I couldn’t afford to have my handwriting look like a toddler’s.
I was so focused on perfecting the flourish on the ’C’ in Clara that I almost didn’t notice the silence change. Casimir’s pen had stopped.
He stood up. Walked around the desk. Stopped inches from my chair. He rested his palms on the armrests, pinning between the leather and his chest.
"The ledgers are finished," he murmured, his breath fanning across my forehead. "And my patience is at its end. You wanted to see the stallion, didn’t you?"
I looked up. From this angle, he was terrifyingly beautiful. An ancient deity who could wipe out my existence with a snap, yet felt entitled to own every inch of .
"I did," I whispered.
"Good."
He didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he traced the line of my jaw with his finger, his thumb lingering near the corner of my lip. The touch was heavy with intent, and my heart did a frantic kick-flip against my ribs.
"You actually disappointed , you know."
"What?" I breathed.
"I was fully expecting you to be loud and noisy before the ten-minute mark," he said, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "I was looking forward to finding that... alternative way to keep you occupied."
The implication hit like a wave of heat. My mind went blank.
He just smiled, stepping back. "Let’s go. Let’s see if you can handle a saddle as well as you handle a pen."
I wanted to strangle him, but all I managed was to stomp after him, my skin still burning where he’d touched .
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