Part 1
The Rose Parlor had been chosen for its distance from the main festivities—three corridors and a world away from the glittering spectacle that continued to swirl through Redwood Estate's gardens. Lydia guided Natalia through the manor's familiar halls with the practiced efficiency of someone who had navigated countless delicate situations, her hand gentle but firm on the younger woman's trembling arm.
As they entered the parlor's hushed sanctuary, Natalia moved to the silk-upholstered settee with mechanical precision, though her usual grace had been compromised by the unprecedented sensations coursing through her system.
"I am experiencing a rebellion of the flesh," Natalia announced, touching her damp cheeks with the clinical detachment of a researcher examining a particularly puzzling specimen. "My eyes are tearing up despite absence of particulate irritants. Ambient temperature remains within acceptable parameters, relative humidity is optimal, yet these symptoms persist."
"My dear," Lydia said gently, settling beside her with movements that spoke of decades spent comforting the distressed. As she drew the younger woman into an embrace, memories flickered behind her eyes—ghosts of another time, another confused soul grappling with emotions too vast for understanding. "Not every tear requires an irritant."
Natalia's body tensed at the unfamiliar contact—physical affection beyond Philip's touch felt alien. Yet something in Lydia's embrace, a quality that transcended mere sympathy and spoke of deeper understanding, gradually dissolved her resistance.
"But that contradicts their primary biological function!" Natalia's voice cracked, frustration bleeding through her analytical facade. "I've evaluated every conceivable variable. The sole remaining hypothesis is systemic malfunction. What if the guests observed my deterioration? Master Philip's carefully cultivated reputation could suffer irreparable damage!"
Lydia stroked Natalia's golden hair with surprising tenderness, each movement deliberate and soothing. "Master Philip's concern for your wellbeing far exceeds any consideration of society's whispers." She paused, her voice taking on a distant quality as if hearing echoes of words spoken decades past. "Tell me, child—when you witnessed their dance, what did you feel? Not the analytical assessment—the immediate, visceral response."
"I..." Natalia subconsciously pressed closer to Lydia's maternal warmth, seeking comfort with the instinctive need of a hurt child. "Hollowness. As if some essential component of my core processes was being systematically extracted. Previously, the correlation was straightforward—Master Philip's happiness generated corresponding positive emotional responses. His safety induced calm. His needs triggered my drive to provide. But observing their synchronized movements..." She shuddered. "I experienced a sensation of... diminishment. As if each step they took together reduced my substantiality."
"Ah." The single syllable carried volumes of understanding. "The first fracture in the shell."
"Shell?" Natalia's analytical mind seized on the metaphor.
"The protective certainty of defined purpose," Lydia explained, her arms tightening fractionally around the trembling form. "That comfortable state where existing solely for another's benefit feels sufficient—until the moment it doesn't. When you realize you're not merely an extension of someone else's will, but a being with independent... needs."
Outside in the garden, the crowd surrounding Philip and Elora had grown dense as honeyed wine, each well-wisher eager to be seen congratulating what society had already deemed the evening's golden couple. Lord Pemberton pumped Philip's hand with enthusiasm that bordered on the theatrical while his wife gushed over Elora's technical mastery.
"Such passionate precision!" the Countess of Ravencrest proclaimed, her voice carrying the particular pitch reserved for social pronouncements. "In my six decades attending society functions, I've rarely witnessed such perfectly matched partners!"
Philip nodded and smiled with practiced courtesy, but his attention kept sliding away like water from oiled silk, drawn inexorably toward the space where Natalia had stood. Her absence gnawed at him with increasing urgency.
"One could practically see destiny itself choreographing your movements!" Lady Worthington exclaimed, her elaborate fan creating small hurricanes with each enthusiastic gesture.
"Indeed," Elora responded smoothly, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly on Philip's arm. "Philip and I have always shared a certain... synchronicity."
Even as the words left her lips, Elora tracked Philip's distracted glances with the precision of someone well-versed in reading unspoken desires. The recognition settled in her bosom like a stone—she knew that look, had memorized its every nuance during countless hours watching him pine for Rosetta. The bitter irony tasted of ashes: finally standing where she'd always dreamed, yet somehow her dream still eludes her.
Her mind worked with the efficiency that had made her a brilliant researcher, calculating social equations while her heart performed its own agonizing mathematics. She loved Philip—had loved him since those golden afternoons of childhood when the world seemed infinite with possibility. The exact moment of falling in love remained elusive, like trying to identify when dawn transformed into day. Perhaps it was the summer he'd faced down three older boys to defend Kendrick, displaying courage that transcended his years. Perhaps during those long discussions of literature and philosophy, his eyes alight with passion for ideas. Or perhaps love had simply grown with such gradual inevitability that its beginning became irrelevant.
She'd wondered, once, if mere physical attraction explained her devotion—his aristocratic features and athletic grace had certainly turned heads. But now, observing him slightly disheveled from the day's exertions, his form softened by recent indulgences, she felt her heart constrict with the same desperate affection. Well, she thought with dark humor, that hypothesis thoroughly disproven. It's definitely not lust.
The crowd pressed closer, and Philip's agitation became increasingly apparent to her practiced eye. Every fiber of his being oriented toward the mansion, toward wherever Natalia had fled. And worse—so much worse—Elora understood why. She'd catalogued every gentle correction, every patient explanation, every flash of pride on the part of Philip when Natalia mastered some social nuance. It transcended duty or obligation.
It was precisely how she'd dreamed he might one day treat her.
Not again, a voice whispered in the recesses of her mind, sharp as a blade between ribs. Not like Rosetta. I cannot—will not—lose him again.
Yet even as possessiveness flared hot and fierce, her better nature reasserted itself. She'd meant every word during their dance—she wanted his love freely given, not coerced by social pressure.
With the timing of someone accustomed to creating opportunities, she swayed slightly, pressing elegant fingers to her temple.
"Elora?" Philip's attention snapped to her with gratifying speed. "Are you well?"
"I'm..." She let her voice waver with calculated authenticity. The performance came easily—her heart did ache, though not in the manner she implied. "The day has proven rather more intense than anticipated. That dance was quite... vigorous."
Concern creased Philip's brow as murmurs of worry rippled through their audience.
"Perhaps some air?" Philip suggested, already scanning for escape routes with poorly concealed eagerness.
"I think..." Elora leaned into him just enough to sell the performance while savoring this fleeting closeness. "Might we step inside briefly? The combination of heat and crowd has become rather overwhelming."
"Of course." His relief was palpable. Raising his voice to carry, he added, "Please excuse us. Lady Elora requires a moment's respite."
As they navigated toward the terrace, Elora maintained her performance with the skill of someone raised in society's theatrical arena—each step calculated to project delicate femininity while facilitating Philip's escape. She was simultaneously leading lady and director, orchestrating their exit while cementing her position in society's eyes.
"Thank you," Philip murmured as they reached the French doors.
She turned to face him fully, allowing genuine emotion to color her words. "I know what it's like to watch someone you care about slip away while obligation holds you captive."
He stared at her then, and for one precious moment, she felt truly seen.
"Go to her," Elora continued, her smile gentle despite the grief threatening to crack her composure. "But Philip... be careful. Hearts don't understand the difference between performance and reality."
As Philip disappeared into the manor's depths, guided by Albert's fortuitously timed appearance, Elora made her way through familiar corridors to an opulent powder room. The Redwood Estate had been her second home since childhood; she could navigate its halls blindfolded. Only after securing the door with hands that trembled despite her iron control did she allow her public mask to fragment.
The mirror reflected a vision of aristocratic perfection—golden gown catching light like captured sunshine, every hair in place, cosmetics applied with an artist's precision. But the eyes staring back held a determination that would have frightened those who knew only Lady Elora Nernwick's public persona.
"I'll be the understanding wife," she informed her reflection, voice steady as steel. "I'll embody compassion and kindness, become everything Philip needs. I'll even guide that bewildered girl through emotions she can't comprehend. But I will not—cannot—lose him again. Not to another woman, whether born or made."
The words hung in the perfumed air as memories surfaced unbidden. "After Rosetta, I swore," she whispered, each word sharp with old pain. "Never again would I stand aside, convinced that love meant only wanting another's happiness at the cost of my own."
A bitter laugh escaped. That naive girl who'd retreated before Rosetta's sophisticated allure, who'd believed sacrifice equated to love—what a fool she'd been. The lesson had carved itself into her bones: love wasn't selfless abnegation. Love was selfish. Love demanded. Love fought. And Rosetta had certainly fought, waging her campaign with subtle precision until Elora found herself excised from Philip's life as efficiently as a tumor.
"And now?" She attacked her elaborate coiffure with sharp, aggressive movements. "Now I'm losing to a Familiar who doesn't even comprehend the nature of her own feelings."
"Why am I perpetually the one left behind?" The question emerged as barely a whisper.
The injustice stung worse than Rosetta's victory ever had. At least Rosetta had been human, constrained by human limitations and flaws. But Natalia? She was crafted perfection, an artificial being whose entire existence centered on Philip's wellbeing. How could one compete with someone literally designed for devotion?
"Stop," Elora commanded herself sharply. "She's not merely a construct. She's as vulnerable as anyone. As vulnerable as me."
Yet even as she acknowledged Natalia's personhood, her scientific mind spiraled into increasingly clinical speculation. What was Natalia's internal structure? Did she possess conventional organs, or were there magical matrices where biology should be? The texts were explicit about Familiars' inability to reproduce—each required individual summoning. Did that indicate fundamental anatomical divergence? Was sterility an inherent?
The questions cascaded with increasing intensity. A thorough examination would reveal what? Did Natalia even require sustenance, or was consumption mere mimicry? The scientist within burned with curiosity even as the woman recoiled from her own calculating thoughts.
She found herself leaning toward the mirror, eyes bright with inappropriate intellectual fervor.
Slap.
Her palm stung from the self-administered correction. "Focus, Elora! She's a person, not a research specimen."
But the speculation persisted. If Philip chose Natalia, could she provide heirs? Would theoretical offspring be human or something unprecedented? Did it matter?
"Stop," she commanded again. "You're better than this."
But was she? In solitude's unforgiving honesty, she could acknowledge the ugly truth—part of her had hoped that dance would communicate clear boundaries to Natalia. Had calculated that social pressure might create the necessary wedge. She'd performed that tango with every grain of skill at her disposal, knowing precisely how it would appear, how the gossip would interpret each dip and turn.
"I'm a hypocrite," she stated flatly. "Claiming noble intentions while scheming like a common courtier."
But what alternative existed? She'd loved Philip since before she understood what love meant. Had waited through his infatuation with Rosetta, supported him through heartbreak, played the perfect friend. And for what? To watch him fall for another?
"No," she decided with sudden clarity. "No more waiting. No more watching from safe distances."
She would give everything this time, but with honor rather than subterfuge. If she lost again, perhaps it would finally be time to leave behind this unattainable childhood dream.
Meanwhile, in the Rose Parlor, Natalia sat with algorithmic stillness while Lydia poured tea with movements perfected over decades of service.
"So, these reactions are emotions instead of malfunctions?" Natalia said, her usually melodious voice roughened by confusion.
"Yes, my dear," Lydia said gently, settling beside her with surprising grace, "you're not malfunctioning. You're feeling."
"But these feelings are unlike any sensory inputs I had before!" Natalia protested with the frustration of a scholar facing an unsolvable equation. "Silk registers as smooth with a friction coefficient of 0.42. Stone presents as cold at 18.3 degrees Celsius. Master Philip's hand maintains a temperature of 36.8 degrees with slight elevation during emotional states. This is categorically different. This is..." She pressed her palm against her sternum. "Internal. Invasive. Resistant to voluntary control."
Lydia studied the young woman—for that's precisely what she was, regardless of origin—with sympathy born from hard-won experience. "Remember what I said? Stop analyzing. Simply tell me how it made you feel."
"I..." Natalia's composure crumbled like a sandcastle before the tide. "Empty. As if each synchronized step they took together decreased my existential weight by measurable increments."
Fresh tears traced silver paths down her porcelain cheeks. She touched them with bewilderment bordering on fear. "Why won't these reactions cease? I've attempted every shutdown protocol in my repertoire."
"Because they're not meant to be stopped," Lydia explained with infinite patience. "They're meant to be experienced. Processed. Ultimately understood."
"But I don't want understanding!" The words erupted with surprising vehemence.
"Understanding necessitates acknowledging that Master Philip and Lady Elora represent optimal pairing according to all social metrics. That society anticipates—no, expects—their union. That my presence in his life is temporary, transactional, and ultimately..." her voice fractured, "a hindrance."
"Is that your assessment? That you're a hindrance?"
"What alternative interpretation exists?" Natalia's voice dropped to barely audible levels. "I'm performing a role, and when the final curtain falls..." She shuddered. "I am just a hindrance to Master's future happiness with Lady Elora."
Lydia captured Natalia's trembling hands between her weathered ones, feeling the desperate need for connection in that grip. "My dear girl, your performance ended some time ago. Haven't you noticed? These tears, this pain—they're not scripted responses. You're no longer acting."
Before elaboration could follow, rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor. Philip appeared in the doorway like a man who'd been running, his formal attire slightly askew, his face a canvas of concern mixed with something that looked remarkably like hope.
"Natalia," he breathed, her name carrying far more weight than two syllables should bear.
She shot to her feet with mechanical precision, immediately attempting to restore her composure. "Master! I apologize profusely for abandoning my designated position. My body appears to be experiencing various anomalous responses that resist conventional classification."
Philip's mind raced through possibilities with the speed of someone accustomed to rapid analysis. Natalia had navigated the party's social minefield with her characteristic precision until the dance. Then she'd fled, and now these tears... His heart executed a complicated series of movements. Could she be experiencing romantic jealousy?
The concept that someone like Natalia, stunningly beautiful and naturally alluring, might have developed romantic feelings for him seemed beyond probability's reach. Yet what alternative explanation existed?
"I apologize," he said gently, moving closer with careful deliberation. "I should have anticipated that the dance would cause you distress. The... intensity of my interaction with Elora—"
Natalia tilted her head, genuine curiosity replacing her tears. "Really? The dance with Elora caused this malfunction?"
"Well, yes," Philip cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how presumptuous he sounded. "When someone... that is, when a person has certain feelings... romantic feelings... they might experience distress watching the object of their... er... affection... dancing intimately with another..."
Natalia's eyes widened with each stammered word, her analytical mind clearly processing this new data. "Oh! So you're hypothesizing that I've developed romantic attachment to you, resulting in jealousy-induced tearing when observing your synchronized movements with Lady Elora?"
"I... well..." Philip's face burned. How did one explain romantic jealousy to someone who approached emotions like mathematical equations?
"Fascinating!" Natalia leaned forward with scientific interest. "According to your theory, my elevated heart rate, thoracic constriction, and tear production all stem from subconscious possessive instincts triggered by perceived romantic competition?"
"Er... yes?" Philip managed, increasingly aware of how ridiculous he sounded.
"And these possessive instincts indicate underlying romantic attachment that I haven't consciously recognized?" She nodded thoughtfully. "The logic is sound. Multiple symptoms, single causation. So I am experiencing these reactions because I am romantically in love with you!"
Philip caught movement from the corner of his eye—Lydia had pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed mirth.
"Well," Lydia interjected, her voice trembling with contained laughter, "while Master Philip's theory is certainly... creative... I believe our earlier discussion pointed to a different conclusion, didn't it, dear?"
Natalia blinked, then understanding dawned. "Oh yes! The fear of redundancy and becoming an impediment to Master Philip's optimal happiness trajectory with Lady Elora."
Philip felt oddly deflated, like a balloon pricked by the needle of reality. "So... not romantic jealousy?"
"I'm afraid not," Lydia said, eyes dancing with amusement. "Though who knows? Perhaps one day Miss Natalia will experience that particular complication. But for now..." she smiled mysteriously, "that's a problem for another day."
Natalia looked between them with innocent confusion. "So I'm not romantically in love with Master Philip?"
Philip opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His face had achieved a shade of red typically reserved for ripe tomatoes.
"Not yet," Lydia said gently, though something in her voice suggested intimate familiarity with the subject. "But these things often begin with simpler attachments. Fear of loss. Desire for proximity. The need to ensure another's happiness." Her expression grew distant for a moment. "The heart rarely announces its intentions clearly."
"Oh," Natalia processed this information. "Should I monitor for symptoms of developing romantic feelings? Create a diagnostic checklist?"
Lydia's lips twitched. "Perhaps we keep this particular discussion between us three? No need to share your... diagnostic journey with others."
"Understood," Natalia nodded seriously. "Romantic development surveillance shall remain classified information."
"Excellent." Lydia moved toward the door with practiced grace. "Now then, I believe you two could use a moment to... clarify matters." She paused at the threshold, catching Philip's mortified expression. "Do try not to theorize too extensively about Miss Natalia's emotional states, Master Philip. Sometimes the heart appreciates a bit of mystery."
She slipped out, but Philip could swear he heard muffled laughter echoing down the corridor.
"You're afraid," Philip realized with sudden clarity. "Afraid of being abandoned."
"Is that the designation for this sensation?" She touched her damp cheeks with something approaching wonder.
Philip studied her with new understanding, then made a decision that felt both momentous and inevitable. "I need you to understand something with absolute clarity. You're not replaceable. Not by Elora, not by anyone."
"But Lady Elora—"
"Is wonderful," he acknowledged, choosing his words with care even as his heart pulled in another direction. "Beautiful, intelligent, everything society's checklist demands. But society doesn't get to dictate my heart's choices."
"Your heart makes choices?" Natalia's analytical mind engaged. "That's metaphorical, correct? The cardiac muscle lacks decision-making capacity—"
"Metaphorical heart," Philip clarified, fighting a smile at her literal interpretation.
Understanding dawned across her features like sunrise. "So your metaphorical heart has formed attachments to me that supersede societal optimization algorithms?"
"I... yes. Precisely that."
"That's wonderful!" Pure joy transformed her tear-stained face into something radiant.
The delight in her voice, the way her entire being seemed to illuminate from within despite the lingering evidence of tears—Philip felt something fundamental shift in his chest's geography. Without conscious thought, he opened his arms.
Natalia's eyes widened at the invitation. Then, with the fluid grace that marked all her movements, she flowed into his embrace.
Except—
Her usually flawless calculations hadn't accounted for the emotional surge flooding her systems. She moved with characteristic superhuman speed but misjudged the force required for a simple hug. Her arms wrapped around him with enthusiastic efficiency, momentum carrying them both forward.
Philip, expecting a gentle embrace, found himself swept off his feet by the intersection of physics and enhanced strength. His instinctive grab for balance only triggered Natalia's protective protocols. She automatically adjusted her grip to prevent his fall, pivoting with a dancer's liquid grace—
Which sent them both tumbling back onto the settee in a perfectly controlled descent that somehow resulted in Philip ended partially atop Natalia, her arms still wrapped protectively around him, faces separated by mere inches of charged air.
Time crystallized. Every point of contact burned with electric awareness. Natalia's eyes were wide, pupils dilated to large pools, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants that he felt against his lips.
"Philip," she whispered with scientific wonder. "My cardiac rhythm has increased to potentially dangerous levels."
"Mine too," he admitted, voice rougher than intended.
"Is this typical?"
"Very."
"I believe," she said with determined precision even as her voice trembled, "that I'm experiencing what the handbooks categorize as 'physical attraction.' The symptoms align remarkably—elevated pulse, pupil dilation, increased dermal sensitivity, and this fascinating concentration of warmth in my—"
The door opened.
Lydia stood in the doorway balancing a tea service, taking in the scene with remarkable composure. The faintest smile played at the corners of her mouth, equal parts amusement and maternal understanding.
"I do apologize for the interruption," she said with perfect calm. "However, Lady Elora approaches, and given the... delicate nature of your current configuration..."
Philip scrambled to extract himself, but Natalia's enhanced reflexes worked at catastrophic cross purposes. She tried to help him up with mechanical efficiency while he attempted to roll sideways. Her superior processing speed meant she kept adjusting to his movements before he'd completed them, resulting in a comedy of overcorrection that left them more thoroughly entangled.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Lydia muttered, then simply approached and lifted Philip bodily and set him on his feet.
He stared at her. "Did you just...?"
"Enhanced musculature," she explained, smoothing her skirts with nonchalant calmness. "I apologize if that was emasculating. But Master Philip, I do strongly suggest that time is of essence. You should intercept Lady Elora while I assist Miss Natalia here with... emotional regulation techniques "