“It is time,” she said simply. “Let us begin.”
***
The transformation took two hours.
First, the bath—hot water scented with lavender, meant to calm her nerves and soften her skin. Then, careful drying, a faint dusting of powder, the arrangement of her hair in the simple style Helena had chosen.
Then, at last, the dress.
Cecilia stepped into the silver silk with trembling hands. Helena fastened the buttons, adjusted the fall of the skirt, ensured that every line was right. Then she stepped back, and Cecilia turned to the mirror.
For a moment, she did not recognise herself.
The woman in the glass was not the grey shadow she had become. She was someone else entirely—elegant, composed… almost beautiful. The silver silk caught the candlelight, lending her pale skin a soft lustre. Her dark hair, simply arranged, offered a striking contrast. And her eyes—
Her eyes looked alive again. Fully, unmistakably alive.
“Your pearls,” Helena said softly, offering the familiar strand.
Cecilia took them with reverent hands. Her mother had worn these pearls on her wedding day—had worn them when she laughed, when she danced, when she lived.
Be brave,she could almost hear her mother whisper.Be brave, and be yourself—let them see who you are.
She clasped the pearls at her throat. They lay warm against her skin, steadying and dear.
“You are ready,” Helena said.
Cecilia looked at her reflection one final time. The grey woman was gone. In her place stood someone she barely remembered—someone with hopes and dreams and the courage to reach for them.
“Yes,” she said. “I am ready.”
***
The carriage ride to Fairholme felt like the longest journey of Cecilia’s life.
She sat beside Helena, wrapped in a borrowed cloak against the evening chill, watching the familiar countryside slip past in the fading light. Every turn of the wheels carried her nearer—nearer the ballroom, the scrutiny of society, and Sebastian.
“You are trembling,” Helena observed.
“I am terrified.”
“Good. Terror means you comprehend the stakes. Fools walk into such moments without fear; wiser people feel it—and proceed regardless.”
“That is not especially comforting.”
“It was not meant to comfort. It was meant to be true.” Helena’s tone softened. “You will be magnificent, Miss Ashwood. I have watched you—your composure, your strength, your ability to face unpleasant truths without flinching. Those qualities will serve you tonight.”
“And if they do not? If I falter, or stumble, or say something foolish?”
“Then you will recover. You will adapt. You will remember that you have survived worse than embarrassment—and you will go on.” Helena paused. “The Duke fell in love with you when you were dressed in grey, carrying your cousin’s shawl. Do you imagine a misplaced word will undo that?”
“I do not know what might undo it. That is what frightens me.”
“Nothing will undo it—that is what I am attempting to tell you.” Helena leaned closer. “I have watched him at Fairholme— watched him withdraw, watched him fade into himself. That is not the behaviour of a man indulging a passing fancy. It is the mark of a man whose heart is fully—and irrevocably—engaged.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can observe it. And I have observed people for a very long time, Miss Ashwood. I know the difference between infatuation and love.”
