The concoction of scarlet silk, chiffon, and lace reminds me of the fashions popular in Isola when I was a girl, and the gold accents give it a regal flair. It fits like a dream, which tells me Elliot must have given Amelie access to the dresses in my room last time she was here so she could take approximate measurements. Additionally, Amelie must have also guessed the necessary adjustments she’d need to make to those measurements, because where my borrowed gowns are slightly too tight, this one fits like a glove, hugging my curves and allowing generous room for my broad shoulders and hips.
The style itself is certainly what I consider fae, with its plunging neckline, low-cut back, and flowing skirts. The sleeves are close-fitting from my shoulders to my elbows, where they open to sheer chiffon that trails away from my forearms. The bust and waist are snug against my form, then flare out at the hips into layered skirts that sway with my every move.
Saints, Gemma,I say to myself.You’re going to draw way too much attention in this.
But it’s too late for second-guessing, for I’ve already committed to wearing it. Still, it takes no small strength of will to prepare myself to meet the masses that are sure to be gathering downstairs already. Like I always do when fear tries to get the better of me, I breathe in deep and count to five.
After that, I do it again, because I’m still not ready, nor can I stop my arms from shaking or the nausea churning in my gut. Names of those I know I’ll have to face tonight flood my mind. Father. Imogen. Mrs. Coleman. Mrs. Aston. Gavin Aston. Strangers I’ve yet to personally know. Voices. Whispers. Eyes staring like daggers. Taunting, leering—
I shake my head and try again.This is here. This is now.
With a deep breath, I force my mind to empty. Once my breathing grows steady, I conjure images again, but not of those I dread. I think of the people I’m looking forward to engaging with tonight. Nina, Mr. Cordell, Foxglove, Amelie, Ember. And of course…Elliot.
I don’t allow my mind to take me anywhere else but here, in this place of warm anticipation. Then, bottling that warmth deep inside, I wrap my false persona around it like a cocoon, building an aura of confidence thicker, higher, until it feels solid and impenetrable.
I’m ready.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I leave my room to greet the townspeople of Vernon. With the poise of a military general facing the greatest battle of her life, I make my way to the ball.
* * *
Excited guests have already arrivedby the time I make it to the ballroom. The hired footman and other servants expertly go about their tasks, taking coats and cloaks, escorting the guests, serving refreshments, as if they’re regular fixtures at the manor. It gives me far less to attend to myself, but also less to worry about. And fewer worries mean more idle time to overthink and notice the way certain people look at me—
No. Not tonight.
I wander from guest to guest, keeping my false persona firmly in place as I engage in small talk and ensure everyone’s needs are being met. Some give only curt, polite responses, while others ask me about my employer, keen on drilling me for details about my job, why I was offered it, and furthermore, why I accepted it. These latter conversations I extricate myself from at once, using my armory of prepared excuses with hardly a flicker of anxiety on my part.
My nerves aren’t nearly as strong when a familiar head of blonde hair comes bobbing into the ballroom—Imogen. She assesses the room through narrowed eyes, her sister Clara at her side. And on her other side…my heart nearly skips a beat at the sight of my sister. I want to run to Nina and wrap her in a hug, but propriety has me keeping my steps slow and even as I approach.
If propriety hadn’t been enough to stop me, the sight of the figure bringing up the rear of the party certainly would have been. I nearly stumble as Father’s shrewd eyes meet mine, his expression full of disapproval as he escorts Mrs. Coleman. With a deep, steadying breath, I return my gaze to my sister, her wide smile acting as my anchor, my strength.
“Oh, Gemma,” Nina says, coming to the fore of the party to take my hands in hers. “The manor is beautiful! I had no idea to expect such elegance. And a ball! Although,” she lowers her voice, her smile slipping, “I must say I am so disappointed you haven’t visited, even with the books I’m keeping hostage.”
I squeeze her hands in mine. “I’m sorry, Nina. But as you can see, I have my hands full here. Perhaps after the ball I’ll have some downtime to visit.” I catch Father’s scowl over Nina’s shoulder and quickly avert my eyes.
“Miss Bellefleur, the ballroom looks sufficient,” Imogen says, stealing my attention to her. “I must say, this space serves as an even better dance floor than it did a dining room. It makes me regret we don’t have a finer orchestra to go with it. I hope Mr. Rochester isn’t too displeased that I encouraged Ember to lead our music tonight.”
I glance at Ember and the violinist, playing a slow, mellow tune. “On the contrary, the music is lovely.”
“That was poorly done, my dear,” Mrs. Coleman says to Imogen, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “If you hadn’t already offered your stepsister’s services to Mr. Rochester, I would have forbidden it. You know how much it irks me when she shows off like this.”
I turn my gaze to Mrs. Coleman, keeping my smile firmly in place despite my urge to snarl at her. “How fortunate it was that you weren’t there to prevent it then. I daresay my employer would be quite put out to have had to deny dear Imogen the opportunity to dance.”
“I too am so grateful this ball was able to happen,” Nina says, diffusing some of the growing tension with her sweet voice, “for I’ve yet to dance with James. I’m not sure I can consider myself properly engaged to a man I haven’t danced with. What a night this will be!”
“Where is Mr. Rochester, anyway?” Imogen asks, as if my sister hadn’t spoken a word. “Is he always late to his own events?”
“He’ll be down shortly, I assure you,” I say.
“Who might he open the ball with? Does he recall I was in charge of the guest list? One would consider me hostess.”
“Oh, he considers you hostess indeed,” I say, “and you will open the ball with a minuet. He, unfortunately, will not be participating in the opening dance.”
She gasps. “Not participating in his own—Miss Bellefleur, I know your employer is an unconventional creature, but surely he mustn’t be so contrite as this.”
I take her arm and gently pull her away from the others. “Can I let you in on a secret, Imogen? Mr. Rochester spent the last several days learning a selection of human dances for this ball. Foryou. Not all fae are versed in these kinds of things, you know.”
A pleased smile flutters over her lips despite her attempts to appear nonchalant. “When I encouraged him to host a ball, I confess it hadn’t occurred to me that Mr. Rochester wouldn’t know our popular dances. And never in a thousand years would I have considered he might have chosen to host afaeball. I am so glad he didn’t. Oh, how dreadful would that have been with their wild, unrestrained dances?”
