A Dress Fitting - Part 1

The Duke of Ravenshade's voice was not loud, but it cleaved the air, a whipcrack of sound that made the very gravel at Isadora's feet seem to tremble. His eyes, fixed on her from the top of the grand staircase, were twin chips of ice, burning with a cold, black fury. He was a statue of restrained violence, a storm held in check by nothing more than his own formidable will. And all of it, every ounce of that terrible, silent rage, was directed at his sister.

Yet it was Isadora who felt pinned by his gaze.

Lady Seraphyne, however, seemed utterly immune. She turned to her brother with a smile of pure, unadulterated delight, as if he had just paid her a charming compliment.

"Caelan, darling," she purred, her voice dripping with playful mockery. "Whatever is the matter? You look positively livid. Is it because I missed breakfast? I do apologize, but I had the most pressing errand to attend to." She gestured grandly toward Isadora, as if presenting a prize pig at a country fair. "I've found myself in desperate need of a new wardrobe, and I heard such wonderful things about this little flame's talents. I simply had to acquire her services immediately."

"You will not refer to her as a 'flame,'" Caelan said, the words clipped and precise, each one a frozen dart. "And you will explain why you saw fit to drag a citizen of this town to my doorstep as if she were a stray you found in the street."

His gaze flickered to Isadora for a fraction of a second, and in that fleeting moment, she saw something other than anger. It was a flash of… something protective. Possessive. It sent a confusing, unwelcome shiver down her spine.

"Drag her?" Seraphyne laughed, a light, airy sound that was terrifying in its lack of warmth. "My dear brother, you wound me. I am doing the girl a favor. Her little shop has become rather… infamous. I thought it best to conduct our business away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the Merchant Quarter. Am I not merciful?"

The Duke's jaw tightened. He descended the stairs, not with the fluid grace of the night before, but with the heavy, deliberate tread of a man trying to keep himself from moving at an inhuman speed. He stopped five steps from the bottom, a looming figure of power and shadow.

"You are a menace, Seraphyne," he stated, a simple fact.

"And you are a bore, Caelan," she retorted with a smile. "Which is why you need me to liven things up. Now, are you going to leave us to freeze on your doorstep, or will you invite us in?"

For a long, tense moment, he said nothing. He simply stared, his icy gaze moving from his sister's amused face to Isadora's defiant one. He was trapped. To refuse would be to cause a scene, to give his sister the satisfaction of a public victory.

"Inside," he bit out, the word a surrender and a command all in one. He turned on his heel and stalked into the cavernous depths of the hall.

Seraphyne's smile widened in triumph. She looped her arm through Isadora's, her touch as light as a spider's web and just as strong. "Come along, little flame," she murmured. "Let's not keep the master of the house waiting."

Isadora had no choice but to let herself be led through the enormous oak doors and into the lion's den.

The great hall was even more intimidating in the daylight. The red candles and flattering shadows of the masquerade were gone, replaced by the stark, unforgiving light of morning pouring through towering stained-glass windows. The light revealed the sheer, oppressive scale of the place: the vaulted ceilings that disappeared into darkness, the cold marble floors that echoed with every footstep, the portraits of long-dead Virellions whose pale, judgmental eyes seemed to follow her every move. It felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum, and she, a small, warm, living thing, was trespassing.

The Duke was standing with his back to them, staring into a massive, unlit fireplace. His anger was a palpable thing, radiating from him in cold waves. He was pointedly, deliberately, ignoring her. He treated her as if she were an inconvenient piece of luggage, a nuisance his sister had brought into his pristine, ordered world. The slight was so profound, so dismissive, it stung more than any insult. It made her feel small. And it made her furious.

"Well, this is cozy," Seraphyne said brightly, her voice echoing in the vast hall. "You've done wonders with the place, Caelan. It has all the warmth and charm of a crypt."

He did not turn. "If you have come to critique my decor, Seraphyne, you may leave."

"I have come for a dress fitting," she insisted, her voice laced with feigned innocence. "And perhaps to inquire why my dear brother has abandoned his duties at the Council to brood by his hearth. Valerius and Lucien were quite beside themselves. Something about a dead vampiress and your shocking lack of interest."

At that, Caelan's control finally snapped. He turned, his movements lethally sharp, and his eyes found Isadora's.

The world fell away.

It was not a glance. It was an invasion. He stared at her, his gaze intense and unbroken, and she felt as if he were peeling back the layers of her skin, searching for the secrets in her soul. He saw the sleepless night in the dark circles under her eyes. He saw the raw grief for Clara, the simmering rage at her father, the terrified defiance that was holding her together. He saw it all. And she, in turn, saw the conflict warring in his own eyes—the cold fury at his sister, the icy control of the Duke, and beneath it all, that same bewildering, intense awareness of her that had drawn him across the ballroom floor.

It was a silent, furious battle, a conversation held in the space between them without a single word. She wanted to hate him. She had every reason to. He was the reason Clara was gone. He was the reason her life was in ruins. She clutched the cufflink in her pocket, the sharp edges digging into her palm, reminding her of her purpose.

But as he stared at her, a strange, treacherous current flowed between them. It was the same pull she had felt during their dance, a dizzying, dangerous connection that defied logic and reason. He was winter, and she was a fool for shivering in his presence, not from cold, but from something else entirely.

The standoff was broken by the appearance of a third figure. Mrs. Blight materialized from a shadowy doorway, her skeletal frame moving with a silent, unnerving efficiency.

"Your Grace," the housekeeper said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "You have visitors."

"So I see, Elsbeth," Caelan replied, his voice a low growl. He finally tore his gaze from Isadora, though she could still feel the phantom touch of it on her skin. He turned to the housekeeper. "My sister requires a room to discuss a… commission with Miss Wren. The solar should suffice."

The pretense was paper-thin. A dress fitting. It was a ludicrous lie, and all four of them knew it.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Mrs. Blight said with a slight inclination of her head. She turned her gaze to Isadora, and her eyes, like chips of flint, held a flicker of something that might have been pity, or perhaps just morbid curiosity. "This way, girl."

Seraphyne released Isadora's arm. "You run along now, little flame. I will be up shortly to be measured." She gave her brother a triumphant, knowing smile. "Do try to be civil in my absence."

Isadora had no choice but to follow the housekeeper. She cast one last look at the Duke, but he had already turned his back on her again, presenting her with a wall of immaculate, unyielding black wool.

Mrs. Blight led her away from the great hall, down a long, cold corridor lined with more portraits of grim-faced ancestors. Their footsteps echoed on the marble, the only sound in the suffocating silence.

"The walls in this house have ears, girl," Mrs. Blight murmured, her voice so low Isadora almost missed it. "And the portraits have eyes. Best not to say anything you wouldn't want repeated at your own eulogy."

Isadora glanced at the old woman, but her face was as impassive as stone.

They arrived at a pair of tall, carved doors, which Mrs. Blight pushed open to reveal a large, circular room. Unlike the rest of the hall, this room was bathed in light. Sunlight streamed through a high, domed glass ceiling, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The room was filled with fine, delicate furniture draped in white cloths, a grand piano silent in one corner, and shelves filled with leather-bound books. It was beautiful, but it felt abandoned, a forgotten jewel box in a house of shadows.

"You will wait here," Mrs. Blight said. "Her ladyship will join you presently."

And then she was gone, the heavy doors closing behind her with a soft, final thud.

Isadora was alone.

She stood in the center of the sun-drenched room, her sewing kit clutched in her hand, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This wasn't about a dress. This was a summons. An interrogation. A trap.

She was waiting. She didn't know if she was waiting for Seraphyne to continue her cruel games, or for the Duke to finally confront her.

She walked to the window, looking out over the perfectly manicured grounds of the estate. It was a beautiful, orderly prison. Her fingers tightened around the cufflink in her pocket. She had to give it back. She had to sever this tie. She had to get away from this house, from these people, and find Clara.

But a deeper, more treacherous part of her, a part she refused to acknowledge, was filled with a terrifying, breathless anticipation. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to understand the man who had looked at her as if she were the only person in the world.

She stood by the window, listening. Listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall. Listening for the arrival of the Duke of Ravenshade.