We had grown up within the same walls, breathed the same air, and lived parallel lives divided only by status.Though she served me in name, her loyalty was never born of duty—it was something deeper, unspoken yet steadfast.Mary knew me in ways no one else did.She saw my fears before I spoke them and understood my hopes when I dared not voice them.
And now, she was the only tether keeping me from drowning.
“Stay strong, Lady Elizabeth,” she murmured, her hands deft as she guided me into the gown.
The bodice was drawn tight, each pull of the laces a slow, painstaking theft of my breath.The fabric molded to my frame like a second skin, and yet it felt nothing like my own.With every tug, I felt the constriction of my fate wrapping around my ribs like iron bands.
We moved on to the stomacher—the ornamental panel meant to complete the illusion.A masterpiece of embroidery, pearls, and gemstones, each detail fastidiously crafted, each gleaming facet a cruel mockery of the facade I was expected to present to the world.
Mary pinned it carefully, ensuring every embellishment caught the light.The gown shone brilliantly.
I did not.
“Look at you,” she whispered, and despite the sorrow in her eyes, there was pride in her voice.“Fitting of a lady about to change the world.”
If only that change were mine to command.
The gown.The room.This house—a gilded cage built to contain me.
I wanted to scream.To tear it all away, to strip myself bare and run until the memory of Lord Winston’s grotesque sneer faded into nothingness.
But I did not.
I stood—silent.Still.A statue scored by years of obedience, sculpted by fear.
The rebellion in my heart clawed at the walls of my ribcage, but it did not reach my lips.
“Thank you, Mary,” I murmured, though the words felt distant, hollow.
My reflection stared back in the mirror—a perfect portrait of aristocratic grace, poised and untouchable.A mask so finely crafted that, for a fleeting moment, I almost believed it.
Almost.
The rustle of silk and the whisper of linen filled the chamber as Mary hoisted the wide skirts of my gown, fluffing the layers of petticoats beneath.The panniers at my hips extended the fabric outward in exaggerated opulence, their rigid whalebone structure dictating my movements, trapping me in a frame of false grandeur.
I was meant to glide.To move like a vision of elegance, to be admired and envied.
Instead, I felt enslaved.
I watched the shadow of my reflection shift against the polished glass—a ghostly silhouette of excess and expectation shaped by fashion’s cruel hand.
“Steady now,” Mary soothed, her fingers deftly arranging the fabric, ensuring the voluminous shape remained flawless.The layers of starched petticoats whispered against one another, a rustling symphony of control, a counterpoint to the rising drumbeat of my heart.
They gave my form exaggerated fullness—a testament to wealth, to status.
To a life that was not my own.
“Your hair next,” Mary announced, guiding me to the dressing table where silver brushes and powder pots lay in perfect, unerring order.
With ease she twisted and pinned my wheat-blond locks into an intricate updo.My hair, once free and loose in the gardens of my youth, was now sculpted into an elaborate crown, dusted with fine white powder until it resembled a confection, delicate and untouchable.
Fit for a queen.
Or a prisoner.
I sighed as Mary threaded ribbons through my curls, their soft hues blending seamlessly with the fabric of my gown.Feathers were nestled into the arrangement, bobbing with every subtle tilt of my head.Finally, she placed a lace cap—as delicate as a spider’s web—atop the intricate construction, its edges kissing my forehead like a ghost of a blessing.
My father had insisted on the final embellishments—tiny pearls and glinting jewels woven throughout the elaborate updo.A nod to the opulence demanded for tonight’s charade.A final reminder that I was to be seen, admired, and owned.
