//CLARA//
I had never stared at a bloodstain with such genuine, religious fervor. Like a pilgrim witnessing a miracle.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the morning sun filtering through the curtains, and let out a sigh so deep it felt like my soul was re-entering my body.
There it was. A small, blooming rust-colored smudge on the white silk of my nightshift. A blessing from the heavens.
The ache in my lower belly told everything I needed to know.
I wasn’t pregnant.
The panic that had been a low-frequency hum in the back of my brain since the conservatory was gone. For weeks now, the terrifying ntal image of 1879 Plan B involving blacksmiths or questionable herbs—evaporated instantly.
I was safe. For now.
But we couldn’t keep playing this ga. I needed a solution.
I reached for the bell pull and rang for Hattie.
She appeared a few minutes later, her eyes soft with concern before she even saw the stain.
"It’s that ti of the month," I said, because I had learned that word worked better than any euphemism. "I need the belt."
She nodded, already moving toward the wardrobe.
"Do you have the cotton?" I asked.
"Yes, miss. I will prepare fresh ones."
I’d been here long enough to have used the sanitary belt before, but I still hated the contraption with every fiber of my being. It was a bizarre harness of elastic and safety pins that felt more like a torture device than hygiene.
Hattie, bless her, looked at with genuine pity, insisting I stay in bed with a vapors excuse.
But I had business to attend to. Or more specifically, I had a biological ticking ti bomb to defuse before things got permanently complicated.
Casimir was in his study, as usual. The door was open, and I saw him bent over a ledger, his pen scratching across the page. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, and for a mont, I forgot why I was there.
Then my cramps reminded .
I knocked on the doorfra. He looked up, and his eyes softened when he saw .
"You are up early," he said.
"I could not sleep." I stepped inside and closed the door behind . "We need to talk."
He set down his pen. His expression shifted, the softness replaced by sothing more guarded.
"That sounds ominous."
"It is not ominous. It is just... awkward." I crossed to the chair across from his desk and sat, arranging my skirts. "I have been thinking about our... extracurricular activities."
"I thought we discussed the dress, Clara. I’ll have it replaced by noon."
"Not the dress." I waved a hand dismissively. "We have been intimate multiple tis now, and we have not been using any protection."
His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
"I have been careful. I didn’t... spill my seed inside you, Clara. My restraint is not that far gone."
I almost laughed. He sounded so proud of himself.
"The pull-out thod is about as reliable as a glass umbrella, Casimir. It’s not one hundred percent effective. There are... swimrs. Explorers. Long before the main event."
He blinked. "What?"
I watched his face go through a fascinating series of phases: confusion, denial, and then a sudden, bone-deep terror.
"Are you..." He cleared his throat, his voice dropping an octave. "Are you with child?"
"Good Lord, no." The laugh escaped , vehently shaking my head. "Can you imagine? The scandal, the timing, the absolute chaos? It would be ssy beyond belief. Vexing in ways I cannot even articulate. And I’m not ready to explain a mini-you or a mini- to Aunt Cornelia if that happens."
He let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. He looked like he’d just survived a heart attack in the span of five seconds.
"Then what is it you want from ?"
"Contraceptives," I said casually, as if asking for a cup of tea. "A solution, a protection. Or at least sothing better than hope and a prayer."
Casimir’s expression flattened into a void. The great Mr. Guggenheim was just...buffering. The information seed to be short-circuiting his internal logic. He stared at in a long, stunned silence before finally offering a slow, hesitant nod of defeat.
"Of course, I will... find a solution. Whatever you need."
"Good." I patted his hand and left him staring at his ledgers like they were written in a foreign language.
By the second day, the blessing felt a lot more like a curse. I had Hattie bring warm rugs. The pressure helped, but only a little.
I missed dolfenal with a longing that bordered on grief. I missed ibuprofen. I missed being able to text Lola and complain about the patriarchy and the complete lack of modern dicine.
Instead, I lay in bed, sweating through my night shift, and wished for death.
Hattie brought tea. She brought more warm rugs. She adjusted the pillows and smoothed my hair and asked if I needed anything else.
"No," I said, for the tenth ti. "Just let suffer in peace."
She left. I closed my eyes and tried to rember what it felt like to not be in pain.
I was curled into a ball, drifting in and out of a miserable sleep, when the door creaked open.
"Set them on the table, Hattie. I’ll manage."
I did not turn, assuming it was Hattie with yet another round of supplies
"Hattie ntioned you were unwell." Casimir’s voice drifted softly into the night.
I bolted upright—or tried to, before a cramp doubled over. He stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of his elent.
"I thought—I wished to check on you."
"I’m fine," I wheezed, falling back against the headboard. "Just my monthly period. My body is currently trying to evict my uterus. It’s a whole thing."
Casimir actually flinched. The word period in this century was apparently a structural threat to the patriarchy.
"I... apologize. I did not realize it was such a... delicate situation. I should not have intruded."
He started to back away, looking genuinely panicked.
"Oh, stop it," I scoffed, waving him over. "We were way beyond delicate when you have had your mouth on parts of that—" I cut myself off with a sharp exhale, shaking my head.
"Seriously, Casimir? My uterus shedding its lining shouldn’t be the one thing that actually renders you speechless."
His mouth opened, closed. A faint sound erged, sothing between a laugh and a strangled protest.
"I don’t—" He stopped, tried again. "Clara, I don’t know what to—how does one—there are no protocols for this."
"Protocols?" I laughed despite the cramp pulsing in my lower belly. "Casimir, you sound like you’re trying to negotiate a peace treaty with my ovaries. I’m not a foreign power. I’m just a woman with cramps. That is all. No need to get all jittery about it."
He remained standing, his uncertainty palpable in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes kept darting toward the door as if he were looking for an escape hatch.
"Is there anything I can do? A physician? Tonic? Anything at all?"
I watched him for a beat. This man, who could face down business rivals and social predators with ice in his veins, was currently being defeated by period cramps. There was sothing almost endearing about his panic—a vulnerability that actually softened the jagged edge of my irritation.
"Sit," I said, patting the edge of the mattress. "And stay. That’s the only command you need to follow right now."
He moved with the agonizing caution of a man approaching an unexploded pipe bomb.
The bed dipped under his massive weight as he settled onto the edge, back rigid, hands clasped in his lap like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s office. The familiar, solid warmth of him was already starting to ground .
"Closer," I nudged.
When he hesitated, I didn’t wait—I reached out and snagged his hand.
I pressed his palm firmly against my lower belly, right over the center of the ache. He went bone-still for a second, his breath hitching, but then the tension seed to lt out of him as he realized what I was doing.
His palm settled comfortably, radiating a steady, incredible heat that seeped through my nightshift and deep into my skin.
It was a hell of a lot better than a lukewarm flannel rug.
"There," I sighed, my eyes fluttering shut as the sharpest part of the tension finally began to bleed away. "The warmth helps. Just... keep your hand exactly where it needs to be."
He didn’t say a word, but his hand didn’t move. In the quiet of the room, I could feel his heartbeat, and for the first ti, a little bit humbled.
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