Chapter 93 A GAME OF SECRETS

The aroma of lavender and chamomile tea hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the bitterness that lingered on Mary's tongue from the conversation with her mother. The crimson liquid in her delicate china cup remained untouched, a reflection of the turmoil within. "A writer, you say?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam inquired, her voice laced with a hint of skepticism rather than surprise. "That's a rather unorthodox ambition, wouldn't you agree, Mary?" Mary straightened in her chair, her spine stiffening with defiance. "Unorthodox, perhaps, Mother, but not impossible. There have been many successful female writers in recent times." "Indeed," hummed Mrs. Fitzwilliam, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a slow rhythm against the porcelain teacup. "The Brontë sisters, for one. But writing is a precarious profession, wouldn't you agree? A solitary pursuit, filled with long hours and uncertain rewards." Mary felt a spark of irritation ignite within her. Her mother had always valued security and