I took June’s quill from her hand, and at this action, my darlings stopped their racket-making and drew closer. For never had either of them seen me attempt to write. And honestly, I was not even sure if I could, for never had I tried.

But the idea in my head could not be fully expressed, could not take its necessary shape, unless I gave it the gift of its name. For the adventure on which we were about to embark upon gave my soul more than a thrill. There was a destiny to it. To all of it. For we had the means. And at last, I had the position in society to make it all possible. But first, the name.

Squatting on the desk, I gripped the quill between my fingers and scraped out clumsy letters.

Kendrick Slave Company

June gasped as soon as she read the words. “Aurelie….”

Niall rubbed his forehead. “I thought…we were trying to free pyres. Not buy and sell them ourselves. Would this not make us the villains, Cousin?”

“It is the perfect cover. No one will suspect our true intentions. No one will think slave traders are truly liberators. Utterly brilliant,” June said, nearly breathless. “I do believe I just heard society itself tremble.”

I grinned, standing full atop the desk and crossing my arms. Sometimes, to break a thing, one has to first make it. We would compete with every man in the heaven-forsaken industry. A company led by an unmarried young woman—and one who did not speak, at that. Partnered with a band of undesirables. Hardly able. Barely tolerable. And full of such wildness as to change it all.

For under the darkness of man’s intent, there is always, somehow, a glow.

-Until We Meet Again-

Read The First Dryad

The Romance Story Of A Generation

The First Episode: I Will Be Punished

I rattled the cellar door, but it was no use. It was bolted from the outside, yet that did not stop me from trying. Hunger does not care if it compels one into dangerous consequences. It only demands. And so I rapped my knuckles on the wood, though I knew doing so would end poorly for me. We had company over, and company meant I’d spend the turns among the shriveled beet roots of last season. Quietly.

“Open the door…please? Won’t you open? I will behave. I will stay quiet—”

I paused as I considered to whom I should address my plea. My brother went by many names. None of them were his. Sometimes, when I was very angry with him, I wanted to call him the name I knew belonged to him. The one he was born with. The one he denied as fiercely as he could but could never truly bury. If I called him this name, he would certainly open the cellar door, but it would not be to let me out.