And I would be there, smiling, welcoming them to their fate.
My attire took no small effort.
Madame Beaulieu, London’s most sought-after modiste, had sent her assistant for the final fitting of my gown.
A vision in pale-blue silk.
Pearls embroidered along the bodice—tiny, delicate things, like tears frozen in time.
Exquisite.
Restrictive.
A masterpiece of beauty meant to suffocate.
Mrs.LeClair, my hairdresser, promised to arrive early on the day of the event to sculpt my hair into an elegant tower of ribbons and feathers.
I would be painted, adorned, and transformed into the perfect image of grace and poise.
It was a beautiful lie.
For beneath the lace, beneath the silk, beneath the carefully applied powder and rouge?—
I was a storm waiting to break.
Yet, before the storm could come, I had to perfect the illusion.
The menu planning became my battlefield, a silent war over silver platters and gilded table settings.
The cook and I debated for hours.
Should the pheasant be roasted or braised?Would a venison pie be too rustic?
Would they suspect poison in the turtle soup?
Ultimately, we settled on roasted peacock, turtle soup, and decadent pastries that rivaled the king’s table.
But the true indulgence?
Fresh strawberries.
It was outrageously expensive this early in the season, but I dismissed the cook’s protests with a flick of my wrist.
“It will set the right tone.”
Death deserves a touch of luxury.
The music had to be perfect.
Musicians were hired—not just any musicians, but the best.
A quartet for dinner, a harpsichordist for the dancing that would follow.
I designed the dance cards, embossed with gold filigree, a small extravagance justified by the deception at play.
Still, I would not allow innocence to suffer alongside guilt.
The musicians would be gone before the poison touched a single goblet.
