Page 132 of Bound By Crimson
Lyric blinked. “Actually, I haven’t decided yet—”
“Oh, but we have,” Mrs. Thornwick interrupted, handing her a cup. “It’s the purest way. The most spiritual. And so empowering, don’t you agree, ladies?”
The women nodded in perfect unison.
One of them, a woman with icy gray eyes and a fox-shaped brooch, leaned forward. “You’re rather small,” she said. “I do hope the child won’t be too large. Natural births can be… quite intense.”
Another chimed in, smiling thinly. “I had one without so much as a whimper. Of course, I was raised to tolerate pain.”
A third added, “It’s such a beautiful process when done properly. You’ll need real discipline. Emotional control. But I’m sure you’ll manage... eventually.”
Lyric’s cheeks burned. She sipped her tea, but her hands trembled, and the rim clinked sharply against her teeth.
One woman leaned closer, eyes scanning Lyric like an x-ray. “Are you still gaining a lot of weight? It’s hard to tell under that blouse.”
Lyric nearly choked on her sip. “I’m gaining what the doctor said is normal.”
Mrs. Thornwick raised a brow. “You did say you had some trouble staying active, didn’t you? I’m sure the doctor has a great deal of patience.”
Laughter flitted through the room—brittle, sharp, cruel.
The conversation shifted—gardens, horses, charity auctions—but the glances never stopped. Lyric felt their judgment settle over her like a second skin.
At one point, one of the women gestured toward Lyric’s neck.
“Oh, what a charming little necklace. A locket, is it?” she asked, squinting. “It looks... very sentimental.”
Lyric’s hand flew to the locket. “It belonged to my mother.”
“How sweet,” the woman said. “You can tell it wasn’t purchased from a proper jeweller.”
Another chimed in, “Yes, so many modern girls hold onto the strangest things. But what else can you expect when there’s no family estate to inherit from?”
Lyric’s breath caught.
Mrs. Thornwick said nothing. Just sipped her tea, watching.
The woman with the fox brooch tilted her head. “Do your parents live nearby?”
Lyric hesitated. “They... they passed away.”
A beat of silence. Then a syrupy voice: “Oh. Well. That explains it.”
That explains what?
Lyric’s stomach twisted violently.
Mrs. Thornwick’s voice sliced through the stillness. “It’s been a difficult adjustment for her, of course. No real upbringing in the traditional sense. But she’s adapting.”
Lyric felt the air being vacuumed out of her lungs.
She reached for another sip of tea, but her hands shook so badly the cup clattered in its saucer.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.
Instead, she smiled—a brittle, hollow thing.
“Do have any hobbies, dear?” someone asked.
