Isildeth moved with the calm precision of someone who had served courts longer than most nobles had lived, though a slight limp marked each step.
Evelyne smoothed her expression before turning to face her. “It seems sleep has abandoned me early today.”
Isildeth’s gaze flickered toward the open window, before returning to her. “It is understandable. The day ahead will be long.”
Evelyne nodded. “Then we should begin.”
Isildeth prepared the bath, and helped Evelyne out of her nightgown without a word. The only sound was water and birdsong from the open window. After, the maid helped her dry off and smoothed lavender oil onto her skin.
Evelyne braced against the back of her chair, staring at her reflection. The dark circles beneath her eyes had settled in like old tenants. Behind her, Isildeth tugged the corset into place. Evelyne winced once when the fabric pinched. The fit was never forgiving on her frame, soft where dresses preferred angles.
Today’s empire waist gown was in ash grey velvet, embroidered with silver vines. The neckline dipped just enoughto reveal the hollow of her collarbone, and the short sleeves left the tops of her shoulders bare.
She sat at her vanity and angled toward the mirror, watching as Isildeth began to arrange her hair. Evelyne picked up a small dish of pins, passing them up one by one as Isildeth worked.
Long, unpinned waves were a symbol of youth and maidenhood. When a lady came of age, it was permitted to be seen only by a woman’s husband, parents, or her most trusted maid.
Isildeth’s fingertips lingered at the nape of Evelyne’s neck. As usual, she left one long curl unpinned, styling it softly between her fingers. The lock rested just where Evelyne’s shoulder met her collarbone.
Evelyne passed Isildeth another pin, but the maid hesitated, catching Evelyne’s gaze in the reflection.
“My lady,” she asked gently, “how are you truly?”
Evelyne met her eyes in the mirror. The answer came easily, practiced. “I am fine.”
Fine. The favorite lie of women who'd trained too long in ceremony. And the most hated one.
Isildeth did not look away, her expression knowing. “Are you?”
For a moment, Evelyne said nothing, her palms curled in her lap, a small movement, but telling.
“I do not know him,” she admitted at last.
Isildeth nodded slightly. “No. But perhaps, in time, you might.”
Evelyne regarded her own reflection. “And if I do not?”
There was a pause, a beat of silence so thin it could have disappeared unnoticed, but it lingered.
“Then you will endure,” the maid replied. “As you always have.”
Evelyne hummed in response. Isildeth was unfailingly warm in a way that never smothered, honest without cruelty, gentle without coddling. She had never tried to shield Evelyne from the realities of the world. Evelyne appreciated that about her. Just as she appreciated that they not ever spoke of what had happened a year ago. Some things lived outside the reach of language—too tangled in silence to be captured by conversation.
And she was right. If her husband proved distant, if she never truly came to know him, she would endure. Hope was a fragile, traitorous thing. Too much like glass to hold tightly. She’d once reached for connection with open hands and woken to blood in her veil. Tonight, she was engaged. Tomorrow she might be mourning again.
So, she put gloves on, fan in hand, curtain up.
Evelyne exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “I suppose I will.”
The door slammed open.
“Evie!”
Thalen barreled into the chambers like a cannonball wearing polished boots. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to. Decorum forbade unannounced entries, even from charming princelings, but everyone let him. It was hard to discipline a child who made rules feel as suggestions.
Evelyne turned on her bench with a soft smile forming. “Storming the lady’s chambers again, are we?”
Thalen grinned, all mischief and freckles. “I wanted to say good morning.”
