Then came the hooped petticoat, the framework beneath the gown—a silhouette not of my choosing, a shape not my own.
Mary selected a gown of robin’s-egg-blue silk, the fabric as cool as water against my skin.Delicate cream-colored flowers embroidered across the bodice—so soft, so lovely, so at odds with the terror coiling inside me.
Over this, she draped a matching Caraco jacket, the lace-trimmed sleeves brushing against my wrists with every move, as gentle as a caress, as suffocating as a chain.
I was being adorned like a gift to be unwrapped.
My hair was gathered, woven with ribbons that matched my dress, twisted into curls, and piled high atop my head?—
A lady’s hairstyle.
Mary secured the final touch—a pair of soft kid gloves, sliding them over my fingers as though she could shield me from what lay ahead.
I could not help but feel like a doll being prepared for a child’s play.
A child’s game?—
Where I had no say.
“Lady Elizabeth, you look most becoming,” Mary said, stepping back to admire her handiwork, offering me a small, comforting smile.
I tried to return it.
I failed.
Because all the finery in the world?—
The silk.The lace.The ribbons.
It could not mask the foreboding that clung to me like a second skin.
None of it could stifle?—
The silent scream that echoed within my chest.
“Thank you, Mary,” I whispered, though my thoughts had already strayed far from the reflection in the looking glass.
They drifted—unbidden, unstoppable?—
To him.
To Lord Hassan.
To the man whose stoic countenance and resolute gaze had marked my mind.
He was a puzzle.A man ensnared in my father’s web, yet somehow...different.
Uncorrupted.
Untouched by the decay that lurked in the folds of power and privilege.
And that difference?—
It called to me.
A beacon in the encroaching night.
* * *
