The carriage rolled onto the waking streets.
Penelope’s eyes traced the world beyond the glass: women in shawls carrying baskets, a tailor hanging coats outside his shop, an apprentice sweeping the threshold of a bakery.
Ordinary life. Life she had been severed from. Life she wanted back—not as prey, but as someone who chose her own path.
Mingxi studied her reflection in the window. “You have not asked where we are going.”
“I assumed the message was accurate.”
“It was,” he said. “But you did not ask which modiste.”
Penelope lifted a brow. “Is the distinction important?”
“For reputation, yes,” he said. “For the Winter’s End Ball?” His eyes held hers. “Critical.”
The carriage turned a corner, and the street widened into a more fashionable district—cleaner cobblestones, polished shopfronts, gilded signage.
Mingxi continued, voice smooth, precise. “Camille DuVallon is the court’s foremost modiste. Her clientele includes ambassadors’ wives, high-ranking sorceresses, and foreign royalty.”
Penelope blinked. “You’re taking me to her?”
“Rowan insisted,” Mingxi replied. “You will be seen by many at the ball. First impressions will matter.”
Her throat tightened—not with fear, but with the weight of expectation.
“And her discretion?” Penelope asked.
“Absolute.” Then, a faint tilt of his head. “Though she will likely attempt to measure your bone structure before greeting you.”
Penelope huffed—half amusement, half apprehension. “That seems…forward.”
“That is her version of manners.”
The carriage slowed to a graceful stop.
A gold-lettered sign arched elegantly above the storefront: Atelier DuVallon, Costumière des Élysées.
The doors swung open from within before the driver could dismount. A petite whirlwind of a woman stepped out, dressed in layered silks, spectacles perched on the edge of her nose, pins scattered through her hair like a crown of needles.
“Lady Penelope!” she declared, despite never having met Penelope. “You are late!”
Penelope blinked. “It is barely midmorning.”
“Fashion waits for no one!” the woman snapped and then pressed her palms together reverently, squinting at Penelope’s face like a jeweler examining a rare gemstone. “Ah. And you are exquisite. Flawed in ways that can be sculpted. Perfect.”
Penelope shot Mingxi a sidelong look. He did not smile, but there was a ghost of one in his eyes.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering a hand to help her down from the carriage.
Penelope placed her fingers lightly in his, steady and composed, and stepped into the atelier.
Her preparation had begun.
Chapter 20
The atelier smelled faintly of rosewater, starch, and the expensive fabric only old families could afford. Bolts of silk and velvet lined the walls like soldiers awaiting deployment. Enchanted mannequins drifted along the far side of the room, their forms adjusting minutely as if eavesdropping for future orders.
Camille DuVallon clapped her hands the moment Penelope crossed the threshold.
