She had been Lady Christine, once, and it was hard, at times, to shake off old habits, old expectations. Sometimes she wished she could go back to that life; that life of leisure and comfort, servants to cater to her whims, nothing expected of her but that she act as a proper lady should. She was accomplished in French and the pianoforte; she was beautiful and charming and social graces came easily to her. Life would be so easy, she thought, so easy if she could just go back...
But it was impossible. That life was over. Lord Korby was dead, and while no one could honestly say that he hadn't deserved it, there were still consequences for a woman whose husband was found lifeless on the kitchen flagstones, a knife plunged into his throat at just the right spot to kill him instantly.
She'd studied anatomy, too.
Lady Christine had veiled her face and booked passage from the Federated States to the Isla del Risa, using her late husband's money. Once there she had abandoned both Korby's name and her own; she dared not risk being found.
And so Lady Christine became simply Buttercup; a foolish name, perhaps, but one that she held dear; a close family friend had bestowed the nickname upon her in her youth, after her yellow hair. She had not seen Nero since he had enlisted in the Queen's Navy, and did not expect to do so again.
For now, all she hoped for was to find a position on a ship sailing out of Isla del Risa: a ship whose crew did not ask too many questions, whose captain did not attempt to pry too deeply into the pasts of those under his command.
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But it was impossible. That life was over. Lord Korby was dead, and while no one could honestly say that he hadn't deserved it, there were still consequences for a woman whose husband was found lifeless on the kitchen flagstones, a knife plunged into his throat at just the right spot to kill him instantly.
She'd studied anatomy, too.
Lady Christine had veiled her face and booked passage from the Federated States to the Isla del Risa, using her late husband's money. Once there she had abandoned both Korby's name and her own; she dared not risk being found.
And so Lady Christine became simply Buttercup; a foolish name, perhaps, but one that she held dear; a close family friend had bestowed the nickname upon her in her youth, after her yellow hair. She had not seen Nero since he had enlisted in the Queen's Navy, and did not expect to do so again.
For now, all she hoped for was to find a position on a ship sailing out of Isla del Risa: a ship whose crew did not ask too many questions, whose captain did not attempt to pry too deeply into the pasts of those under his command.