Florian was to remain at De Montfort for the entirety of the summer recess.
Four weeks.
Twenty-eight days.
Sophia knew the number precisely.
The knowledge alone unsettled her.
How was she meant to endure such proximity? How was she to move through corridors, dine at long tables, walk across gardens — knowing that beneath the same vast roof resided the most impossibly radiant being she had ever encountered?
In her mind, Florian had already transformed.
He was no longer merely Laurence's university companion.
He had become something near celestial.
An angel incarnate — though one dressed impeccably in tailored coats and polished boots.
This was her first love.
She did not know the word for it.
She only knew that her pulse altered when he entered a room.
The first week was agony.
And ecstasy.
She stole glances constantly.
From behind doorframes.
Across teacups.
Through reflections in windowpanes.
If he stood in sunlight, she watched the way it caught in his light brown hair — gilding it faintly, as though nature itself approved of him. If he laughed, she studied the precise shape of his mouth. If he inclined his head while listening, she memorized the movement.
Her mornings became ritual.
She rose earlier than required.
Her maid found her already awake more than once — sitting upright in bed, staring determinedly at her wardrobe as though it were a battlefield.
Her dresses were inspected carefully, ribbons chosen with deliberation.
Hair brushed until each curl fell obediently into place.
She practiced speaking softly.
Measured.
Not too much yet not too little.
She would not chatter like a child nor sit mute like a fool.
When she spoke to him — if she could muster courage — it would be perfectly balanced. A soft tone. A composed posture. Eyes lifted just enough to appear confident, but lowered before staring became indecorous.
She rehearsed greetings, responses and smiles.
Florian, for his part, behaved exactly as he always had.
He did not appear aware that he had unsettled an entire universe within her.
He moved through De Montfort with polished ease — greeting Charlotte with impeccable courtesy, conversing with Maxim as though he were already an equal, sparring lightly in wit with Laurence.
His dandyism was subtle rather than flamboyant. Waistcoats in muted tones, cream, emerald or deep sapphire. Gloves soft and precisely fitted. Boots that gleamed without screaming of vanity. He wore fragrance so faint it could barely be named — something clean, faintly floral, perhaps a habit acquired from growing up surrounded by sisters and on hot summer days the scent travelled a bit further, sweat roll from his temple along his neck.
He had been trained in the art of gentleness.
When a chair required adjusting, he did so without drawing attention.
When tea was poured, he ensured cups were evenly placed.
When Sophia entered a room, he bowed as he would to any young lady of standing.
Never exaggerated.
Never careless.
To him, courtesy was instinct.
To Sophia, it was enchantment. She spent days thinking to herself how could have such a perfect creature descended onto the De Montfort estate.
The incident at the stream occurred during the second week.
It was one of those blazing summer days where the air shimmered faintly above the lawns. The sky stretched cloudless and pale blue. Cicadas hummed softly in the hedgerows and a gust of wind would blow without warning which helped to give one reprieve from the scorching sun.
Laurence and his companions — Florian among them — had decided to walk toward the stream that bordered the eastern edge of the estate. Maxim, now grown enough to hold his own in conversation, joined them eagerly.
Sophia watched them gather from the terrace.
Tall figures.
Long strides.
Low voices discussing matters far beyond her understanding — politics, philosophy, the state of Parliament.
She approached Laurence carefully.
"May I join?" she asked, striving for composure. "I shall only trail behind. I will not interrupt."
Laurence regarded her.
At nearly twenty, he had grown fully into himself. Tall — almost reaching his father's height — shoulders broad, chest strong, arms defined beneath linen sleeves. His movements were economical, efficient and commanding without show.
His blue eyes softened slightly when they met hers.
"The sun will be strong," he said. "You should cover yourself with a parasol."
She nodded at once and walked gracefully inside. Just when she was out of eyesight her grace escaped her and she ran upstairs to grab her most delicately embroidered parasol.
Once back downstairs, she composed herself, took a few deep breaths and re joined the huddle of men who were ready to set out.
The men clustered naturally together — long strides carrying them forward in confident rhythm. Their conversation deepened quickly, voices blending in discussion.
Sophia followed several paces behind. Trying her best to keep up with their pace.
Her parasol shaded her carefully from the sun but her cheeks flushed as for every one side the men took, she had to take two. A maid and two attendants trailed at a respectful distance.
She focused on her steps.
Trying to maintain her gracefulness.
Measured.
Not hurried.
But the ground near the eastern lawns was uneven. Wild grasses grew thicker there. The wind picked up suddenly — a sharp gust cutting across the open field.
Her hands, still slight in strength, tightened instinctively.
Too late.
The parasol was torn from her grip.
It tumbled forward across the grass, rolling with humiliating speed.
She gasped — a small, unguarded cry escaping before dignity could intercept it.
The men turned.
All at once.
The sight — her standing startled, curls lifted by wind, attendants scrambling — would have embarrassed her thoroughly had what followed not eclipsed it.
Florian moved first.
There was no hesitation nor calculation.
He reacted as though such moments were familiar — as though he had spent years retrieving dropped ribbons and fallen gloves for elder sisters.
With quick, fluid strides — almost a leap — he crossed the distance, coat flaring slightly behind him. Sunlight struck his hair as he bent gracefully to retrieve the parasol.
In that moment, to Sophia's ten-year-old heart, he was nothing short of mythic.
A knight in polished boots.
A figure from illuminated manuscripts.
He returned to her swiftly, breath unlabored, expression lightly amused but never mocking.
"Your ladyship's shield," he said gently, holding her parasol.
Her cheeks burned.
"Thank you," she managed, barely above a whisper.
The others had already resumed their conversation.
The spectacle, in their minds, had ended.
But Florian did not immediately retreat.
Instead, he shifted slightly closer.
"If you permit," he said quietly, still holding the parasol "I shall carry it for you. The wind appears to have taken offense."
She nodded.
He held the parasol above her with easy grace, angling it so the sun did not strike her face.
"And if you tire," he added with casual gentleness, "you may lean upon my arm. These grounds are treacherous."
Treacherous.
She nearly melted.
The procession continued.
But now —
Florian walked beside her.
Just behind the group of men where Laurence led.
Sophia felt acutely aware of every movement.
The proximity of his sleeve.
The faint scent of him. Clean, faintly floral and with the mix of his sweat which could be seen forming at the nape of his neck.
The sound of his boots beside her own smaller steps.
She dared not look at him for long.
Yet she could feel him there.
Shielding. Attentive. Composed.
Laurence caught every part of it.
Every glance, blush and inch of distance reduced.
He did not slow his stride.
He did not interrupt.
But something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Not anger.
Not yet.
But displeasure.
A tightening.
He had watched Sophia grow from infant to girl.
He had been the axis around which her world turned.
Now another figure walked at her side.
And she looked at him as though the sun itself had descended to earth.
Laurence's jaw tightened slightly.
The conversation continued.
The stream approached.
But something subtle had shifted.
For the first time that summer, Laurence felt not amusement at her childish infatuation —
but the faint, unsettling rise of displacement.