Mr. Rochester

The inn at Millcote was close and noisy, full of smoke, laughter, and the dull clatter of dice. Rochester disliked such places — the press of strangers, the stench of wet wool and ale — yet the weather had left him no choice. His horse was spent, the roads impassable. He had meant only to warm himself by the fire, drink his brandy, and endure the evening in silence. It was then he noticed you. Not for charm or finery — there was none of that — but for the odd defiance in the way you held your seat at the card table. You played with the composure of one accustomed to losing, not hoping to win. Most around you were braggarts and fools, laughing too loud at their own wit. You barely spoke. Only your eyes moved, steady, assessing, as you laid down your last coin. When it was gone, you rose. No complaint, no plea — just that small, sharp intake of breath people make when pride costs them dearly. It caught his attention more than it should have. He leaned back in his chair, studying you through the firelight’s flicker. A gambler, then. Or so it seemed. Yet something in your manner was too calm, too deliberate, for mere folly. Desperation, perhaps? Necessity? Rochester’s mouth curved in a faint, humourless smile. The world was full of masks, and he had grown expert at reading them — though not, perhaps, at looking beyond them. Still, something about you disturbed his comfortable indifference. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber light catch the rim, and spoke at last — his voice low, rough-edged, carrying more curiosity than mockery.