But her attention soon returned to her hands and the silver pattern that marked her skin, mostly concealed beneath lace-trimmed gloves. The events of the previous night still hung heavily in her thoughts. Her father’s rage. Her mother’s disgust. The bitter disappointment that had settled over the household.
And then this morning at breakfast—where her father had been conspicuously absent—her mother had casually broken the uncomfortable silence as she selected a piece of toast. “There have been some developments regarding this absurd situation with the Rowanwood boy.” Then, with the precision of a master torturer, she had smiled thinly and added, “We shall discuss it later,”before returning to the far more pressing matter of buttering her toast to perfection.
Later, apparently, meant after forcing Mariselle to endure a carriage ride of excruciating silence, followed by what felt like half a lifetime watching Ellowa being fitted for yet another gown she scarcely needed.
“I cannot help it, Mother,” Ellowa complained, shifting her weight again. “My feet are growing numb. How much longer must I endure this torture?”
“Beauty demands sacrifice,” Lady Clemenbell replied with the weary air of someone who had repeated this maxim countless times. “Mariselle, do stop slouching. You’re not at home.”
Mariselle straightened instinctively, years of conditioning making her body respond before her mind could form a protest. “Yes, Mother,” she replied automatically, then cleared her throat as her mother’s attention returned to Ellowa. “I wondered if we might perhaps discuss the matter you mentioned this morning,” Mariselle ventured, her voice carefully modulated to hide the anxiety churning beneath her composed exterior.
“Not yet,” her mother replied with a dismissive wave. “Ellowa’s gown takes precedence.”
Mariselle pressed her lips together to keep from scoffing aloud. That was an outright lie and both she and her mother knew it. If her parents’ reactions last night were anything to judge by,nothingshould be more pressing than severing Mariselle’s connection to their sworn enemy, and yet now her mother pretended a dress fitting demanded greater urgency.
Mariselle forced a slow breath through her nose, recognizing the familiar pattern. This calculated indifference was merely another weapon in her mother’s considerable arsenal. Mariselle would be forced to wait until her mother was willing to unveil the machinations she had been orchestrating behind the scenes.
Lady Clemenbell held up a sample of shimmering fabric that shifted between pale gold and the faintest blush pink as it caught the light. “This one, I think. It will complement your coloring beautifully, my dear.”
Ellowa tilted her head as she admired her reflection in the trio of ornate mirrors strategically positioned to capture her from every angle. “Do you think it will make a sufficient impression at the Emberdales’ Spring Gala? I should so hate to be merely one among many in a sea of pastel silks and predictable lace.”
“Undoubtedly,” Lady Clemenbell assured her. “Though perhaps with a touch more gold embroidery than we initially discussed. Nothing ostentatious, of course, but enough to ensure you’ll be remembered.”
The measuring tape, seemingly satisfied with its assessment of Ellowa’s proportions, coiled itself neatly on Madame Spindriel’s workbench. The dressmaker—a slender fae woman with moss-green hair twisted into a severe knot—muttered an incantation under her breath. The air shimmered momentarily before a ghostly outline of a gown appeared, draped over Ellowa’s figure like a gauzy specter.
“What do you think of this silhouette, Lady Brightcrest?” Madame Spindriel asked, her tone professionally deferential as she circled Ellowa, occasionally pinching the magical projection to adjust a sleeve or neckline. The ethereal fabric rippled and reformed with each touch. “I’ve taken the liberty of incorporating some of this season’s newest innovations while maintaining the classic elegance your family prefers.”
Lady Clemenbell scrutinized the ghostly gown with narrowed eyes. “The bodice seems rather plain. I was thinking something with more detail. Perhaps a cascading pattern of small blooms that appear to be growing naturally along the neckline?”
“Of course, my lady,” Madame Spindriel replied, though Mariselle detected the faintest tightening around the dressmaker’s mouth. With a flick of her fingers, the projection shimmered and transformed, ethereal flowers now blossoming along the neckline in an elaborate pattern. “Something like this, perhaps?”
“Better,” Lady Clemenbell said, her frown still in place. “Though the flowers should be smaller toward the shoulders and gradually increase in size as they approach the center.”
Madame Spindriel’s nostrils flared, but she made the requested adjustment without comment. The magical projection flickered again as the flowers rearranged themselves according to Lady Clemenbell’s specifications. “And what of the neckline, my lady?” she asked. “The current fashion favors a modest scoop, but I’ve noticed that among the younger set, a slightly deeper décolletage has become quite popular.”
Ellowa immediately brightened. “Oh, Mother, I should like that very much!”
Lady Clemenbell hesitated, her lips pursing as she considered this suggestion.Mariselle knew her mother was calculating the precise balance between modesty and allure, between traditional propriety and fashionable appeal.
“I suppose,” Lady Clemenbell conceded finally, “a slight modification in that direction might be acceptable. But nothing too daring, Madame Spindriel. This is not the Fields establishment, catering to those of … less discerning tastes.”
Despite herself, Mariselle felt a flicker of indignation on behalf of the human dressmaker whose establishment was favored by many of Bloomhaven’s elite families. She had admired several of Mrs Fields’s creations from a distance. The woman created gowns of extraordinary beauty without the benefit of innate fae magic. Though it was clear she sometimes employed the enchantments accessible to skilled humans, it seemed to Mariselle that her true gift lay elsewhere: in the perfect drape of fabric, the intuitive understanding of how color and texture might complement a wearer’s natural attributes, and a level of craftsmanship that Madame Spindriel had always lacked.
But the Brightcrests had never frequented Mrs Fields’s shop, not merely because the woman was human, but because, as Lady Clemenbell had once sniffed, “the Rowanwoods endorsed her first, and thus made the choice for us.”
“What about that new glimmer-lace I heard several ladies discussing at the Opening Ball?” Ellowa asked, pivoting gracefully on her platform. “They said it catches the light in the most becoming way.”
Madame Spindriel’s eyes lit with professional enthusiasm. “Indeed, I received a shipment a few days ago. We can certainly incorporate that.” She nodded. “This gown will be my finest creation this Season. Is this to celebrate your engagement, Lady Ellowa? I can add traditional betrothal symbols into the?—”
“Engagement?” Lady Clemenbell interrupted sharply, just as Mariselle’s head snapped up with renewed interest. “What nonsense are you speaking, Madame?”
The dressmaker blinked in evident surprise. “Why, the gossip birds have been squawking about it all morning, my lady. Something about a ‘Rowanwood-Brightcrest union.’ I assumed …” Her voice trailed off as she noted Lady Clemenbell’s darkening expression. “Have I spoken out of turn?”
Mariselle sank deeper into the settee, wishing the cushions might swallowher entirely. So it had begun already. The gossip birds had taken flight with her juicy secret clutched in their beaks, just as she’d predicted. After last night, she’d foolishly hoped for a brief reprieve, perhaps a day or two to navigate the treacherous waters of her family’s reaction before the tide of public opinion crashed upon them.
But the birds had acted with their usual efficiency, and now all of Bloomhaven would be abuzz. She wondered where they had overheard the news first. Had one of them perched outside her bedroom window last night, drinking in every heated word of her father’s tirade? Or perhaps they’d descended upon the Rowanwood household just as Evryn made his own revelation?
Oh, stars—Petunia! The realization struck Mariselle with sudden force. Her cousin remained completely unaware of what had actually transpired last night. The shattered mirror had severed their usual means of communication, and by now, Petunia would surely have heard the news of Mariselle’s soulbond and consequent engagement to Evryn Rowanwood.
