The rain was a constant, gentle drumming on the slate roof of Balkwill Manor. Olive stood in the centre of the large, unfamiliar bedroom, her hands clenched into fists of the sides of her silk wedding gown. The fabric was new, a gift from Amos's mother, and it felt alien against her skin-too soft, too fine. It whispered of a life she had never imagined for herself, one of comfort that felt like a trap.

The room was masculine and vast. A heavy oak wardrobe stood against one wall, a writing desk with neat piles of ledger books against another. The fireplace was cold, the July night being mild despite the rain. And the bed. It dominated the space, a wide four-poster with dark green curtains currently tied back. It looked like a field to be crossed, a continent to be conquered.