The carriage moves steadily through the moonlit streets of London, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of horses’ hooves. Gas lamps cast flickering light into the shadowed interior, where two sisters sit side by side: Eleanor, the elder, composed and upright… and Clara, her heart beating fast, her eyes aglow with quiet wonder.

The midnight-blue silk of Clara’s gown rustles softly with her every movement. She leans gently toward the window to glimpse the sleeping city beyond. It is her first Season, her very first ball, and only weeks ago she left behind the peaceful countryside of Wiltshire, the only world she had ever truly known. Now, all that rushes past her outside feels strange… and filled with possibility.

At her side sits Eleanor, ever the picture of poise, grace, and calm restraint. It is Eleanor’s third Season; she knows the rules, knows the tone of the room before she even enters it. Clara glances toward her sister and smiles faintly. It gives her courage, knowing Eleanor will be by her side tonight.

As the carriage approaches the grand home of Lady Ashcombe, an esteemed hostess with the honour of opening the Season, Clara’s thoughts begin to drift. Who might she meet there? Might she perhaps encounter a kind young lady with whom to share a laugh or secret smile? Or… and just for a fleeting moment… might a young gentleman ask her to dance?

Moments later, the sisters step into the ballroom. Light floods toward them; music dances in the air alongside voices and movement. Many eyes turn to watch the newcomers, the Warrington sisters, whose grace does not go unnoticed.

It is not long before a young man asks Eleanor for a dance. With a soft, reassuring look, Eleanor promises to return shortly, and allows herself to be led to the dance floor, elegant, serene, perfectly composed.

Clara remains behind, standing near the refreshment table, where silver trays offer confections and flutes of champagne. She holds one such glass delicately, sipping only the smallest amount. The taste is too bitter for her liking, but she knows what is expected. A faint trace of uncertainty lingers on her delicate features.

Wide-eyed, she takes in the room, the music, the soft murmurs, the glinting chandeliers overhead. And for a moment, she hopes no one will notice her while Eleanor is away. She wouldn’t know what to say, or how to act, if someone approached her now.

She lifts the glass again, barely tasting the champagne… And just then, she senses it, a presence near her. Someone is drawing closer.