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(01/2026 version - Details are subject to change)

He's dead.

The only thing left of Forrester Cadence is his life-size portrait hanging in the hallway outside his study. Also remaining is his daughter, who stares at the portrait with furrowed brows.

"I always thought Father looked like one of those overbred, small dogs. The ones their owners dress up in costumes and carry around," says Jo, twirling a strand of black hair around her index finger. "You know, because of the wrinkles and the short legs. And the occasional drooling while eating."

An angry snort comes in response, though not from the painting.

“Josephine, shame on you! To talk about your dear father like that!" Martha, the grey-haired, reliable old housekeeper, is not amused by the failed attempt of a joke. She snorts heavily into the crumpled handkerchief she has been clinging onto all day. Her cheeks are puffy, and her eyes red from the tears. "Really! At least let the poor man rest in peace."

Jo doesn't answer. She looks up again at the portrait of her father. He’s painted with a serious expression, one hand in the breast pocket of his suit, the other one holding an open book. An unworldly look has been placed in his eyes, along with a determination one could only wish for. Forrester Cadence wasn’t a pompous man though. During his lifetime, he was a reclusive businessman with a soft spot for his daughter. And he would have laughed heartily at Jo's remark, knowing her bitterness was just her way of coming to terms with his passing.

The funeral was a long morning of condolences and cold rain at the cemetery, a series of perfunctory bows from important men who had attended out of pure spite or decency. These men were polite enough to assure his remaining daughter, Josephine Cadence, that they would miss her father - which is obviously a lie. There is now one fewer entrepreneur on the market and one fewer competitor with whom to share profits. Businessmen rejoice if one of them kicks the bucket; making more room for greed and profit amongst their ranks.

They didn’t even really know him.

No one knew Forrester the way Jo did. He was a businessman, yes, but above all, he was an eccentric, a weird little man. He had a huge collection of books on reptiles and amphibians, a pond in his garden for frogs, and he loved to tell wild stories. His library contained books that he had written himself about myths, legends, monsters, and mythical creatures. Most of all, he treasured the books he wrote – the books about dragons. From an early age, Jo would secretly pull the books off the shelf and leaf through the pages, admiring the drawings of dragon heads and wings and the meticulously decorated texts about the existence of these creatures. She remembers tracing the edges of the illustrations with her little fingers and wondering if a dragon like that would fit in the house. If not, it would just have to live in the garden, her father had laughed, with a strange twinkle in his eye.

The doorbell rings, and Jo looks away from her father's portrait.

"Ah, that must be Mr. Ford." Martha hurries to the door as the small, compact lawyer and notary squeezes himself through it.

"Good afternoon, madam," he greets her breathlessly. Martha takes his coat and hat with a smile that tries to be warm – but just looks pitiful, considering her puffed cheeks and red eyes. "Where is... Ah, there." He waddles over to Jo and gives her a polite nod. "Dear Miss Cadence, I offer my sincere condolences on the passing of your father. He was a loyal customer of mine. We’ve known each other for a very long time.”

"Thank you," Jo replies hollowly, having heard those words at least a dozen times today. She shakes his small, sweaty hand, barely resisting the urge to wipe her palm on her dress after letting go. "Very thoughtful of you, Mr. Ford."

A reading of the will. Typically, this would take place in the lawyer's office, but an exception is being made due to the special circumstances. Martha insisted that the trip to the cemetery and back would exhaust Jo and her leg enough already. Otherwise, she would get a fever again. The old housekeeper is right; Jo can already feel exhaustion setting in. All the more reason to get this over with quickly and then disappear into bed until day turns to night and night turns to day again.

"Please, Mr. Ford," says Jo, pointing to the door behind her. "Let's get this over with."

"Of course, Miss." With his briefcase in hand, Mr. Ford enters the study, which now lies silent. There‘s no scratching of a pen on paper and no soft music from the gramophone in the corner, just the sounds of the bustling street outside.

There are now three people in this room, and they must deal with the absence of the fourth person, which haunts this gathering like a ghost. Martha, Mr. Ford, and Jo are worlds apart, yet there is a thick, viscous tension between them.

Jo grips the handle of her wooden cane a little tighter, grounding herself in the feel of the smooth porcelain handle with the blue, flowery pattern against her palm. Running her thumb over the material gives her strength.

Make a wish, her father used to tell her. Rub the handle with your thumb and wish for strength, courage, or determination.

"Mr. Ford," she says as they cross the room together to her father's desk. "I request a direct reading of the will, without any fuss. Let’s skip the semantics, please."

"Josephine!" Martha angrily scolds from behind her. The housekeeper immediately falls into her role and addresses the guest in her sweet, welcoming voice: "Mr. Ford, would you like a drink? We have cognac, whiskey, and sherry.”

The lawyer pauses. Considers. "Well," he then says. "A cognac probably wouldn't hurt, given such a serious matter."

His red, thickly swollen nose reveals that he often thinks a drink or two or three couldn't hurt. But Jo swallows this observation - he's here to read the will, nothing more. Afterward, she won't have to see the fat, sweaty man again or shake his wet little hand. She'll probably never see the lovable but dull Martha again, either. Jo knows what's coming, but it still causes her sharp stomach pains.

She’s a single woman in her thirties who has never been engaged and has no family left. Clearly, she'll be sent to a convent. As God’s lovely, celibate wife, she will have to live there until she is old and gray. Pray the day away until there’s nothing left but bones and ashes.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." Mr. Ford grabs the glass Martha hastily prepared for him with a desperation that does not speak well of his integrity. His lips form a beak as he greedily slurps the cognac, and a flash of relief flickers through his eyes.

Jo doesn't like him. Or does she just dislike the reason he's here? It's hard to tell with such an unpleasant person.

"Well, well." Now, with a hearty dose of cognac in his system, Mr. Ford seems able to focus better on the task at hand. He walks over to Jo's father's desk and sets his briefcase on it.

A brief but piercing glance denies him the privilege of sitting in her father's chair. His flat, sweaty butt is definitely not going to sit where her father conducted business while she played on the carpet as a child. If necessary, she will hit Mr. Ford with her cane if he dares to sit on the upholstery.

Instead, she walks around the desk and sits in her father's chair. From this perspective, the office looks so different. Big and spacious, like a whole world squeezed into a single room. Bookshelves line the walls, filled to the brim with all kinds of reading material, as well as knick-knacks accumulated over the decades: snow globes, wooden model ships, and finely carved animal figurines that have been painted by a steady hand. So many memories, neatly lined up and looking oh so small now. Even the large globe in the corner, which had seemed so gigantic since her childhood, looks as if it could fit into one of the niches in the bookshelves from this vantage point.

Jo's gaze wanders over the rows of books, the small green couch with the wooden round table next to it, and finally, the mirror on the wall. She used to twirl around in her new dresses in front of it, pretending to be a princess waiting for her Prince Charming. Now, a woman with dark circles under her eyes, sunken cheeks, and dull black hair stares back at her. She looks sickly and sad, out of place behind the large desk. No princess, just an empty shell of a person.

She rubs the handle of her cane more firmly and turns her gaze back to the lawyer.

"Well then. First - once again, my sincere condolences for your loss," he says, pulling a stack of papers from his leather briefcase. Jo nods in thanks. "So, Miss Josephine Maria Cadence, you are unmarried at the time?"

Jo's grip on her cane tightens. "That is correct."

"I see, yes." He clears his throat. "Well, you are surely aware that your father had plans for you in the event of his untimely death."

"Yes, I know." Plans. He had only assured her that if anything happened to him, she would be taken care of. He probably meant the convent.

"Good, good... The house and all its premises, as well as the warehouses and factories, have already been designated for liquidation in the contract. The entire Cadence fortune will go to Miss Josephine Maria Cadence, and Miss Martha Rodgers will receive a fixed share as compensation for her dismissal.”

Martha sobs quietly into her handkerchief at his words.

"Furthermore, Miss Josephine Maria Cadence will move to Dustworks to marry Mr. Ares Loherces, a resident of Dustworks. This union was arranged by both families and is considered contractually binding.”

Wait - what?

A sharp pain turns into a whirlwind of anger, frustration, grief, and nausea in her stomach, but Jo just nods wordlessly. Her father arranged a marriage without her consent? When? Why?!

She clenches her teeth so hard that it hurts. Of course Father did that. No one in town wants a wife who can't walk without assistance, is old, and was never taught proper etiquette. She's too weak to do housework and has no interest in embroidery or cooking. No one has ever asked for Jo's hand in marriage or secretly left a small bouquet of flowers on her doorstep. She had never even been inside the movie theater that was so notorious for being exciting until one day when her father took pity on her and took her to a show. So of course her father has arranged something. Of course.

"When is the departure planned?" Jo asked, knuckles white from the firm grip on the handle of her cane. "Father surely stipulated that in the contract, didn't he?"

"Indeed." Mr. Ford skims through the will, his gaze darting back to the small bar on the little oak table in the corner for a moment. His glass is already empty. "The departure will take place early in the new month."

"In two weeks, then." Jo bites the inside of her cheek to keep from making a snide remark. It would be directed more at her father than at the lawyer, but Mr. Ford happens to be in the line of fire. But she keeps the anger contained ins her chest, like a ball of hot metal. "And who is this Ares Loherces?"

"He, um... He owns a coal mine in the north." The lawyer eagerly searches for more information about the man, but the will doesn't reveal much. "He's wealthy, as far as I know. He's been a business partner of your father's for decades."

"So he's old," Jo concludes. “An old relic who won't touch me anymore. I guess that's fine with me.”

“Josephine!” Martha scolds. Mr. Ford clears his throat awkwardly. "Behave yourself!"

But why should she stop? She had just come to terms with spending the rest of her life in a cold, old stone monastery when she found out she was being married off to an old man! How is she supposed to hold back in a situation like this? Why isn’t she allowed to be angry about being sold like cattle?!

That's enough.

Jo has had enough and gets up from her father’s chair, burning with rage.

"I suppose the circumstances of this meeting and today’s pain have clouded my mind and loosened my tongue. If that's all, then please excuse me,” she says, lips forming a thin, angry line.

"Of course." Mr. Ford arranges the papers and clears his throat again. "Of course, Mrs. Loherces."

Mrs. Loherces. Being called that feels like a knife twisting in her side.

Jo limps to the door, which Martha hurriedly opens for her. "I suppose that's who I am now: Josephine Loherces.”

"Don't be so bitter," Martha admonishes quietly. She may be a gentle woman and a good housekeeper, but she has the sternness of an experienced mother - even for children other than her own. "This is a good thing. The man is wealthy. Now, go make a list of things from the house that you don't want sold. We'll have them delivered to your new home."

Then, with her radiant housekeeper's smile, she hurries back to Mr. Ford to offer him another cognac, which he is guaranteed to accept.

A new home.

A stranger, her new husband, who’s probably twice her age. Jo swallows the sour taste in her throat. Is this what her father wanted for her? To live in an unhappy marriage? To decide every morning whether to stuff stones in her pockets and walk to the deepest part of the river or living through another hellish day?

No, that didn't fit Forrester at all. He always wanted her to be happy. He was a wonderful father who did everything he could to make his daughter feel loved after her mother tragically died in childbirth. Even when she fell ill and could no longer use her left leg, he did everything he could to make her smile. This decision to give Jo away cannot have come out of the blue.

Nevertheless, it feels like betrayal, like a dagger to the back, delivered by the warm hand of a loving parent. What was he thinking, marrying her off to a stranger?!

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