It's a short one this week.

***

“Which one would you like to hear about, your grace?”

Her mouth makes a small wrinkled O. “How many were there?”

“Two,” you say, glancing away wistfully.

“Then perhaps you should start with the first.”

“Clara,” you say. Naming your wives after the assistants from Doctor Who came to you earlier when you realised you are now a time traveller. “She thought our home was overrun with ghosts… telling her to do wicked things, and one day… she did.”

The old duchess gasped. “What did she do?”

“She shot my estate manager.”

“She did not!”

“I assure you, she did, your grace. But the tragedy didn’t end there.”

She grips your arm tighter than you expected. “Tell me.”

“She sold my mother’s jewellery, including a ring that had been passed down from Queen Charlotte herself.”

“No!”

“Yes, your grace. And then… then she did the unthinkable.”

“I dare not think it,” she whispers, and you only hear her because it’s suddenly quiet around you, all chatter halted in favour of eavesdropping on you and your story.

“The doctor prescribed pills to help with her… delusions. She took too many, and before the sun even rose on that foggy morning, she ran the length of our garden, and threw herself off the cliff.”

The dowager duchess isn’t the only one who gasps. You’re certain it’s poor etiquette to talk about such things at a ball, but the woman did ask for it after all. She wanted a tragedy, and you gave her one.

She wanted another. “What happened to your second wife?”