My eyes scanned the seemingly empty street seeking out any stealthily waiting paparazzi. Confident there were none, I took a breath before punching in her number. Hoping to catch her voicemail, of course she picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Matilda, h-hi!" I cleared my throat and tried again. "Hi, it's Emma."

Alice had been asleep when I arrived, and the nurses advised me she'd had a restless sleep the night before and likely wouldn't be awake for visitors. Still, I sat beside her bed for near an hour writing in my journal and, before I departed, carefully tore the pages from the book's binding and left them in a neat stack on her bedside table.

"Emma," Matilda's voice crackled through the receiver. "I-I wasn't expecting—"

"I'm terribly sorry," I rushed in. "I don't mean to be a bother I just wanted to apologize personally."

"A-apologize?" I thought I heard her sniff.

I nodded and then cursed myself for my idiocy.

"Yes, for the photos in today's paper." I explained. "You have to know I had no idea they were there I—"

Suddenly a cry much like a wounded cat pierced my ear. I nearly dropped my phone at the noxious sound and searched the still empty street for its source. With dawning horror I realized the cry hadn't come from my surroundings. It'd come from my phone. From Matilda.

"I-I'm so sorry!" I said, my own voice pitching in emotion. "I know how upset you were with them taking photos of the children and I-I really didn't think—But I take full responsibility!"

"I c-can't!" She sobbed hysterically now. "I-I can't put it down, but I can't finish it either!"

"Put it down! Throw the damn paper in the rubbish bin! Don't let those bastards have a moment more of your day," I urged her channeling what I hoped to be a combination of Cynthia and their mother's sound advice and stern tone.

"But I have to know!" She practically wailed. "I have to know what happens!"

I blinked several times before answering. "Well you were there, you already know what happens."

"Exactly! I was there, I'm still there!"

I shook my head in confusion. "Your at Flannigan's?"

"What? Of course not!" She exclaimed. "Why on earth would I be at your shop?"

"You just said you there... didn't you?"

"I don't know where I am! I don't know where my life is, that's the problem! Don't you see?" Her tone was desperate, as if beseeching me to understand her pain.

And in that moment, I did.

"You read the book I gave you," I breathed.

Matilda let out another sob before quickly stifling it. "Y-yes, but I can't finish it. You have to tell me how it ends!"

I shook my head. "You know I can't do that."

"But you have to! I'm a wreck. I-I started it last night and I didn't sleep a wink—not one bloody wink—but then..."

"Then?"

Her voice sounded ragged. "I got to the final chapter."

"And then?" I coaxed her gently.

"I can't do it, Emma," she whispered. "I'm so a-afraid. She's me. You know she is. It's why you gave me the damn book in the first place."

We both let her words hang in the air, neither of us feeling the need to say a word.

After a minute I nodded again, not caring that she couldn't see me. "Put the kettle on, and I'll bring a tin of biscuits."

"And you'll tell me how it ends?"

"No, but I'll sit with you while you finish it."

Matilda took a moment to consider my offer before accepting it with a moist sniff. "I prefer Mr. Kiplings."

I couldn't help but grin. "Box of Viennese Whirls coming your way."

"Do hurry, Emma," she pleaded before abruptly disconnecting the line.

* * *

Matilda unceremoniously dunked her biscuit into her still steaming tea, the amber liquid splashing the splayed pages of her book.

It was a novel, though some critiques questioned if at least thematically it served more as a memoir of the author's tumultuous marriage. The protagonist was a mother of three, not necessarily young but definitely not past her prime. Some reviews had reduced the work to a modern retelling of Mrs. Dalloway, but I always thought it uniquely different. Like, a call to arms of modern women. Not necessarily behind a specific banner or cause, per se, but in questioning our purpose in the world and what's more even the very assumption that we must have one.

I hadn't known the protagonist was Matilda. After all, only Matilda herself could know a thing like that.

Just as only I could know, sitting there perched on her pristine velvet sattee, that I did not want to be either of them.

I had read the book years ago, and I knew the call just as I knew the question. I used to think I knew my answer—my purpose was to be a daughter, a friend, a lover of books, a professional. But since meeting Tom, it felt as if my neat and ordered answer had been thrown into a perpetual tailspin.

It's true I had been quiet as a child, but I always spoke my mind in my own way but now... Ever since The Reckoning my public statements, my schedule, my life had come under the control of someone else.

I had given Cynthia that control willingly, and I trusted her with it wholeheartedly. But despite my trust in her and my willingness to go along with every choice that had thus far been made for me, a dread-filled sense of unmooring had steadily begun to encroach on my life.

Attending stuffy fundraisers and hobnobbing with wealthy donors in hopes of convincing them to support causes they shouldn't need convincing to support it—feeling the constant gaze of cameras trained on me—the constant hum of the upper class ladies whispering—repeating Cynthia's talking points and deferring to Tom's work—none of it was me.

My eyes fluttered shut as I attempted to calm my breathing and the growing anxiety I felt choking my airwaves whenever my thoughts drifted to the upcoming gala—the biggest event of the year according to anyone who mentioned it. My intestines twisted uncomfortably as I suddenly began to imagine myself mixing up my lines or—heaven forbid—giving an honest answer to some reporter's questions.

How much more convenient it would be if I didn't have to talk at all, I sarcastically quipped.

My eyes flew open with my obvious solution just as Matilda turned the last page and snapped the book shut.