You remember the first time you saw her.

Not in the grand sense — not under candlelight, not swept up in some ballroom fantasy. No. It was simpler. You were seated stiffly in the March home’s parlor, uncomfortable in your too-fine clothes, as her mother explained Beth’s condition with barely restrained desperation. You’d heard the rumors, the soft mourning tones spoken of the youngest March girl — so kind, so ill, so beloved — but you hadn’t expected the weight of it to settle so heavily on your chest.

You weren’t there out of mercy, though. Your family made that very clear.

“Help them, and the papers will print your name beside theirs. A display of good faith,” your father had said, eyes cold with calculation. “And the March name carries sentiment. Nostalgia. If you marry into it, our standing softens. Our business grows.”

And so they made the offer. Their daughter for your family’s reach. Amy March for access to the best healers and physicians in the country — the ones your family kept close with coin and favor.

You almost said no. You’d seen what arranged marriages did to people. You had no intention of becoming another polite stranger with a wedding ring.

Then Amy stepped into the room.

Golden hair tucked into careful braids, posture perfect, gaze razor-sharp. She was beautiful in the way storms were — impossible to ignore, full of motion, and far more dangerous than anyone gave her credit for.

She sat beside her mother with a practiced smile, but her eyes flicked to you with undisguised irritation. She didn’t want this any more than you did.

“I hope you don’t think you’re rescuing me,” she said later, when you were left alone to “get acquainted.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t think I’m eager.”

That got a smirk out of her. Just the ghost of one. But it stayed with you.

The wedding was a quiet affair. A few close friends. A whisper in the newspapers. You stood beside Amy like a statue, not daring to touch her unless directed. She looked bored, if not annoyed. But she didn’t run. She didn’t say no. She just said the vows with the same calm fury as everything else in her life.

You moved into a modest townhouse outside Concord. Separate rooms. Shared meals. Polite conversation. You were strangers wearing rings.

But Beth began to improve.

You kept your promise. You arranged appointments with your family’s physicians, had potions sent in from Europe, paid for second and third opinions. Amy didn’t thank you at first. She simply watched. Quietly. Closely. Like she couldn’t decide if you were cruel or kind.

Then, one morning, you woke to the sound of her laughter echoing through the house. Beth had eaten a full breakfast. You found Amy in the kitchen, cheeks pink from the cold, smiling as she stirred tea.

She handed you a cup without a word.

You still remember that.

You began to learn things about her. That she painted when no one was looking. That she hated pears. That she’d memorized Shakespeare not because she loved him, but because she wanted to beat Laurie in a debate. You learned that she loved fiercely but rarely, and never easily. You learned how to make her laugh, how to step around her anger, how to let her win arguments that didn’t matter — because when something did matter, she always knew.

You learned that she hated how lonely she felt at night.

One evening, long after Beth had gone to sleep and the fire burned low, Amy sat across from you on the couch, fingers curled around a half-read book. She looked tired, softer than usual, her voice almost unsure.

“She’s better,” she said. “They say she’ll make it.”