The same moisture falling slowly from the ceiling had turned her fresh pillow and sheets wet.

This was why they were leaving, after all.

This right here.

It didn’t do anything to make her feel any better.

Because they were leaving.

Neither her family nor the staff had bothered to suggest Myrtle seek out more comfortable chambers. But then, that would have required those same people to care enough.

Suddenly besieged by the urge to cry, she swung her legs over the side of her bed and jumped down.

The cold of the floor immediately met her.

A cold made all the worse by the fact that she was soaking wet.

Shivering, her teeth chattering, Myrtle headed for her armoire.

Her largely empty armoire.

Shedding the damp garment, she let it fall to the floor and traded it for a simple, white cotton nightdress.

Her teeth still chattering, Myrtle fished past the remaining garments hanging from neat little hooks within, most of the dresses and items better suited for spring and summer than the unrelenting winter cold that would meet them in Scotland, bypassing gown after gown before reaching the fur-lined cloak that had been left behind.

A gift from her parents, who, in Myrtle’s absence, had seemed to forget that above all else, she despised fur-trimmed garments, a luxuriant comfort of man that animals had to give their lives for.

Myrtle stared a long while at the garment, recalling the very day she’d been given the gift.

Her siblings had laughed and rolled their eyes at such a response last Christmas when she’d unwrapped the package.

Her parents had only half listened.

They’d already resumed talk about some piece of gossip or another, or the holiday fare they’d have that day. Or really, anything and everything that didn’t have a jot to do with Myrtle or what she felt or cared about.

Just like everything else about her they’d forgotten, too: what made her laugh. What made her sigh, and those things that filled her with fury—activities like hunting and the senseless slaughter of animals for her garments. That, when there were plenty enough of garment choices that didn’t require such sacrifice on those creatures’ part.

Or mayhap they’d never really known anything about her.

Mayhap no one ever had.

Giving her head a shake, dislodging the useless self-pitying musings, Myrtle yanked the article out of the armoire and, sending a silent apology to the animal who’d been slaughtered in the name of style, tossed the garment around her shoulders.

Immediately enfolded in a wonderful warmth, she burrowed deep within the folds of the cloak, hating to admit, even in silence and only to herself, that there was something to be said for converting those skins to a garment, after all. That it turned out there was a benefit to lining one’s clothes with that fur.