[OTMES:TI=58|M=(48,87,15)|N=(29,46,85)|K=(0.3,0.5,0.2)|A=200|TL=0.15|STYLE=Mannerpunk_Romance|GENRE=#138|]

Lady Cordelia Vance had been ruined three times, which was considered excessive even by the generous standards of the Ton. The first ruin had occurred at the age of seventeen, when she had been discovered reading a volume of natural philosophy in the east garden during the Duke of Ashworth's annual ball, an offense that would have been forgivable had the volume not been open to a diagram of the human circulatory system. The second ruin had occurred at twenty-one, when she had declined Lord Pendleton's proposal by reciting, from memory, the precise genetic incompatibilities that made their hypothetical offspring statistically unlikely to survive childhood. The third ruin, at twenty-four, had been the most egregious: she had published, under a male pseudonym, a treatise on the taxonomic classification of certain fungi that was widely praised in scientific circles and immediately denounced in social ones as proof that she was Unmarriageable, Unsalvageable, and Possibly French.

She was now twenty-seven and living in a modest cottage on the edge of her brother's estate, where she cultivated mushrooms in a converted greenhouse and corresponded with botanists across three continents. She was content, or as close to content as a woman of her inclinations could reasonably expect to be in a society that measured female worth exclusively in matrimonial units.

The letter that changed everything arrived on a Thursday, carried by a footman who had the slightly embarrassed expression of someone delivering news he did not fully understand. It was from Lord Ashby, the Duke of Thornwood, a man whose reputation preceded him in ways that Cordelia found deeply problematic. He was known to be wealthy, aloof, and in possession of a library that was rumored to contain volumes banned in seven countries. He was also, according to three separate gossip columns, in need of a wife.

The letter was not a proposal. It was, of all things, a request for a consultation. Lord Ashby's estate, it seemed, had succumbed to an aggressive fungal infestation that was consuming his library at an alarming rate. The usual experts had been consulted and had failed. He had read Cordelia's treatise on taxonomic classification and had concluded, with a logic that she was forced to admire, that she was the only person in England who might be able to help.

She arrived at Thornwood Hall three days later, carrying a field microscope and a case of specimen jars, prepared to be condescended to by a man who almost certainly viewed her as a novelty rather than a serious scientist. What she was not prepared for was Lord Ashby himself: a man of approximately thirty, with ink-stained fingers and a slight stammer and eyes that brightened visibly when she began to discuss spore dispersal mechanisms.

They spent the afternoon in his library, which was indeed magnificent and indeed being consumed by a particularly aggressive strain of Serpula lacrymans. Cordelia identified three distinct colonies and prescribed a treatment regimen that involved copper sulfate and strategic ventilation. Lord Ashby took notes with the focused intensity of a man who had finally found someone worth listening to.

"I must apologize," he said, as the afternoon light began to fade. "I have read your treatise, you see. All of it. Including the footnotes. I found them... I found them extraordinary."

Cordelia, who had never in her life received a compliment on her footnotes, did not know what to say.

"The third footnote on page forty-seven," Lord Ashby continued, "in which you argue that taxonomic classification is itself a form of storytelling. I have been thinking about that footnote for six months."

"You have been thinking about my footnote for six months."

"Yes. It changed how I understand... well. Everything. Taxonomy. Narrative. The way we organize the world. I wanted to write to you, but it seemed presumptuous. And then the fungus arrived, which I now suspect was either a remarkable coincidence or an act of divine intervention."

Cordelia looked at him—at his ink-stained fingers, his eager eyes, his library that was being slowly consumed by an organism that would have been the subject of an excellent seventh footnote—and felt something shift in the taxonomic classification of her own heart.

"I have been ruined three times," she said. "You should know that, before we continue."

Lord Ashby considered this. "I have a library full of banned books, a speech impediment that becomes markedly worse in the presence of attractive women, and a fungus that has resisted every expert in England. I believe we are evenly matched."

Outside, the sun finished setting. Inside, the fungus continued its quiet work. And Cordelia Vance, who had been ruined three times and had made her peace with it, began to consider the possibility of a fourth.

[END OTMES:TI=58|STORY=The_Season_of_Borrowed_Manners|VARIANT=V05|GENRE=#138|]

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