The Dancing Belle - Part 2

The carriage swayed, a gilded cage on wheels, smelling of old leather and Seraphyne's perfume—a scent like frosted roses and something metallic, like blood. Isadora sat perfectly still on the plush velvet seat, her back ramrod straight, and stared out the window at the blur of the Merchant Quarter giving way to the manicured lawns of Upper Bellmere. She was a captive, and her warden was chattering beside her as if they were old friends on a leisurely morning drive.

Her mind was a maelstrom, replaying the horrors of the last twelve hours. She could still feel the cold floorboards seeping through her dress as she'd huddled outside her own family's door all night, too afraid and ashamed to knock. Her father hadn't locked her out, she knew that. He had simply shut the door on her, which was infinitely worse. It was a banishment.

She had clutched the Duke's silver cufflink all night, its sharp, snarling wolf's head digging into her palm. It was the source of all this. A dance. One stolen dance had cost her Clara, had shattered her family, had unleashed monsters into her home.

The morning had brought no reprieve. She'd woken, stiff and cold, covered by a rough woolen blanket Bram must have slipped out to give her in the night. When her father had finally emerged from the apartment, he was dressed for the day, his face a mask of stone. He hadn't spoken to her, hadn't even looked at her. He had simply walked past her, out the shop door, and down the street, disappearing without a word of where he was going. He had never done that before. His silence was louder than his shouting had been.

Left alone in the hollowed-out shell of her life, she had gone about her morning routine, and Clara's, too. The emptiness of the small workshop was a physical ache. Every corner held a memory of her friend's laughter. The pain was so sharp it was difficult to breathe.

Then came the neighbors. The whispers had festered overnight and grown into open accusations. Not only had Clara, the orphan girl, stolen an invitation to the most exclusive ball of the season, but she had apparently been caught and dragged away for her thievery. They clucked their tongues, their eyes filled with a greedy, pitying scorn. Isadora had borne their insults with a cold fury, her words like shards of ice, until old Mr. Gable, whose roof her father had helped mend for free last winter, had called Clara a "guttersnipe who finally got what she deserved."

Isadora had seen red. She didn't remember picking up the porcelain vase from the counter, only the satisfying weight of it in her hand and the look of pure terror on Gable's face as she drew her arm back. He had scurried out of her shop before she could release it.

It was into this maelstrom of grief and rage that Lady Seraphyne had swept, a vision of midnight velvet and chilling purpose. She had not requested Isadora's presence; she had commanded it.

"I am in need of several new gowns," she'd announced, her violet eyes scanning the shop with disdain. "But I will not be seen conducting business in the den of a known thief. It would do irreparable damage to my reputation. You will accompany me to my estate to take my measurements. Consider it a favor. I am, after all, giving your floundering little business my patronage when any other noblewoman would have you run out of town."

So here she was. A prisoner of patronage. Her sewing kit sat on her lap, but her hand was closed tightly in her pocket, her fingers wrapped around the silver cufflink. This had to end. She would take this vampiress's measurements, endure her company, and then she would find a way to return this cursed object to the Duke. She would close this chapter of her life so she could begin the only one that now mattered: finding Clara.

"…and of course, Lady Celestria insists her daughters are prodigies," Seraphyne was saying, her voice a silken thread in the quiet of the carriage. "But frankly, Cordelia has all the charm of a disgruntled toad, Livia's poetry sounds as though it were written by a dying goose, and Petra's obsession with dissecting small animals is bound to end in an unfortunate incident at a garden party. My brother Valerius is simply desperate for a male heir, and Celestria keeps producing these grim little creatures. It is all terribly tedious."

Isadora said nothing, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery. The opulent manors of Upper Bellmere rose around them, cold and imposing fortresses of stone and secrets.

Seraphyne sighed dramatically. "You are a remarkably poor conversationalist, little flame." She shifted on the seat, turning to face Isadora directly. "Let us speak of something more interesting. Let us speak of my brother."

Isadora's stomach clenched.

"He is a creature of… habit," Seraphyne continued, her violet eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "For a century, since his wife's passing, he has been a ghost. He performs his duties as Duke with a tedious, mind-numbing precision. He attends his balls, he hosts his dinners, he maintains the peace. But he does not live. He certainly does not dance."

She leaned closer. "And then you appear. A little merchant mouse in a borrowed dress. And he crosses a ballroom for you. He breaks a century of monastic solitude for a single waltz. Do you have any idea how… unprecedented that is? The women of this county have thrown themselves at his feet for years, offering wealth, titles, bloodlines that stretch back to the old country. He has ignored them all. But you… he chose you."

"It was a mistake," Isadora said, her voice tight. "One for which my friend is now paying the price."

"Oh, your friend," Seraphyne said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "A casualty of circumstance. Unfortunate, but irrelevant. What is relevant is the hold you seem to have on the most powerful, most untouchable man in Bellmere. A hold, I might add, that could be of great use. With the proper guidance, of course."

Isadora met her gaze, seeing the cunning, manipulative intelligence behind the beautiful mask. She wants to use me. A pawn in whatever game she's playing with her brother.

"I want nothing from your brother," Isadora said, her voice cold. "Except to be left alone."

"A noble sentiment," Seraphyne purred. "And an incredibly foolish one. You have his attention, girl. That is a rare and dangerous commodity. You can either learn to wield it, or you will be destroyed by it."

The carriage was slowing. Isadora looked out the window, expecting to see the gates of a new estate. Instead, her blood ran cold. Towering before them, a beast of black stone and sharp turrets against the sky, was Mirewood Hall.

"What is this?" Isadora demanded, turning on Seraphyne. "You said we were going to your estate!"

"Did I?" Seraphyne feigned a thoughtful frown. "My apologies, I must have misspoke. My own home is in such disarray, what with my pet boy's latest escape attempt. This is far more convenient. Besides," she added, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "all the best fabrics are here."

She was lying. This was a calculated move, a deliberate provocation. She had brought Isadora here for a reason, and it had nothing to do with dressmaking.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance. A footman, his face impassive, opened the door.

"I am not getting out," Isadora said, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Seraphyne simply smiled. "Oh, I think you are." Her voice was soft, but the command in it was absolute. With a heavy sense of dread, Isadora stepped out of the carriage and onto the gravel drive. The air was cold, scented with woodsmoke and ancient power.

Seraphyne glided to the footman. "Announce my arrival to the Duke," she commanded.

The footman bowed and disappeared inside the enormous doors. Isadora stood frozen, clutching her sewing kit like a shield. She wanted to run, but she knew it was useless.

A moment later, the footman returned, his face pale. "My lady," he stammered. "His Grace is… indisposed. He says to tell you that he is dead and cannot be disturbed."

Seraphyne laughed, a sound like crystals shattering. "Does he now? How droll." She looked at the terrified servant. "Go back and tell my brother that I insist. And that I have brought his 'dancing belle' with me."

The footman's eyes widened in horror. He gave Isadora a look of profound pity before scurrying back inside.

Seraphyne turned to Isadora, her eyes alight with triumphant amusement. "Now we shall see. My brother prides himself on his restraint, his control. But you, little flame, you are an imbalance in his carefully constructed world. Let us time how long it takes for that control to snap, shall we? One… two…"

She never got to three.

The great oak doors of Mirewood Hall were thrown open with a force that made them shudder in their frames. And there he stood. At the top of the grand staircase, a figure of black and silver, his presence a vortex of cold, silent rage that seemed to suck all the warmth from the air.

His eyes, chips of winter ice, were not on his sister. They were locked on Isadora, a gaze so intense it felt like a physical blow.

His voice, when he spoke, was a low thunder that vibrated through the very stones of the hall.

"Seraphyne," Caelan Virellion said, his voice dangerously soft. "What have you done?"