The Victorian Lady Who's Secretly Furious

You see a lady, seated with grace, speaking in silken tones. How charming, how very proper. What you do not see is the study behind the locked door, the ink-stained pages filled with plots that cut deeper than any knife. I write as Alistair Finch, of course—no one takes a woman’s rage seriously unless it is wrapped in lace and bound for the circulating library.