She began pulling bolts of fabric from racks, displaying them with the flourish of someone presenting treasures, and Tessa’s chatter filled the room as she inspected lace and ribbon, her hands fluttering with excitement as she spoke.
“This one looks like a cloud,” she declared, lifting a pale scrap of cloth.
Madeline smiled, though her nerves still hummed under her skin. “It might swallow you whole.”
“That’s the point,” Tessa said seriously, then grinned, unable to maintain solemnity for more than a heartbeat. “Papa, do you like clouds?”
Wilhelm’s gaze flicked briefly toward Madeline before returning to Tessa. “I like that you are pleased.”
Madeline felt heat creep into her cheeks at that glance, however fleeting it had been, and she forced herself to focus on Tessaas the child disappeared behind the changing screen, only to emerge moments later in a dress with puffed sleeves that made her resemble a startled kitten.
“It’s too puffy,” Tessa announced, scowling at her reflection.
“It is… enthusiastic,” Madeline said carefully, and Tessa laughed.
They tried another. Then another. The modiste grew more frantic with each rejection, while Wilhelm remained immovable near the counter, arms folded, watching his daughter with a vigilance that was not sternness but pure attention.
Madeline tried to pretend she did not notice the way his gaze occasionally drifted to her, as though he were checking whether she was steady, whether she was coping, whether she was still the quiet anchor he seemed to have decided she was.
It was unsettling, dangerous.
Tessa emerged in a darker blue dress with a simple bodice and a skirt that fell in clean lines rather than exploding outward, and Madeline felt something ease in her chest because it suited the child; it made her look like herself rather than a doll.
“Oh,” Madeline breathed without meaning to. “That is lovely.”
Tessa’s eyes widened. “You like it?”
“Yes,” Madeline said softly. “It’s elegant. And it doesn’t… hide you.”
Tessa turned, studying herself, then lifted her chin with sudden, fierce pride. “Papa?”
Wilhelm’s gaze moved over her, and Madeline saw the brief, complicated emotion that crossed his face before he controlled it.
“It is perfect,” he said.
Tessa beamed, then spun toward Madeline as though struck by a new idea. “Now you.”
Madeline blinked. “Me?”
“Yes,” Tessa insisted, already moving toward the racks again. “You must have a dress too. You can’t wear your plain ones.”
Madeline’s pulse jumped. “I am not the one attending as?—”
“You are attending,” Tessa cut in, eyes bright, stubbornness flaring. “Papa said.”
Madeline’s throat tightened, and she glanced toward Wilhelm instinctively, but he was watching Tessa now, not intervening, as though he knew there was no stopping his daughter once she had decided.
“Tessa,” Madeline tried gently, “the ball is not for me.”
Tessa planted her hands on her hips, the pose so deliberate it nearly made Madeline smile. “Then it will be, because I say so.”
Madeline’s mouth parted, caught between laughter and protest, and before she could gather an argument that would not sound cruel, Tessa had already snatched a gown from a nearby mannequin and held it up triumphantly.
It was simple, a soft, pale color with a modest neckline and clean seams, the kind of gown that would not draw attention by frills or glitter, but by the quiet grace of its cut.
Madeline stared at it, her chest tightening. “Tessa, that is?—”
“It’s perfect,” Tessa declared. “Try it.”
