She looked at him, eyes clearing, as though she’d been woken from a daydream. “Oh, probably nothing. It’s just, when Master Conti and Dominic were here a few days ago, I noticed something.”
Livia looked at her sister, aghast. “Issy, you can’t possibly believe Dominic would do something like this? He wouldn’t harm a fly. I swear it on my life.” She pressed a hand to her heart, tears welling in her soft brown eyes.
Isadora waved a hand. “No, Liv. Not Dominic. Please sit down.” She patted the settee again, and this time Livia complied.
“Go on,” Anders prompted.
“It most likely means nothing, but Master Conti is a very fashionable, conscientious man. He’s always dressed in the latest styles, with expensive embellishments and accessories. But last time they were here, I noticed that his outfit was less…elegant than usual. And he appeared to be missing a few gold rings.”
Anders’ brows rose. “You think he may be suffering under financial strain?”
“Possibly. It could explain why the shoes are falling apart so quickly. If he’s choosing to cut costs by using lower quality materials.”
Anders nodded. “It would also give him a strong motive for placing the curse on you and the rest of the dancers. The more you dance, the more quickly you destroy the shoes. The more often you need new shoes, the more money you spend with the cobbler.”
Isadora’s eyes widened. “It’s so clever. He makes his money both ways, providing sub-quality goods that require replacement more often, and forcing us to dance each night and wear them out more quickly. It’s the perfect plan.”
“Issy, no,” Livia said. “Master Conti has been a friend to our family for decades. He made Mother’s wedding shoes. He wouldn’t do this.”
Anders closed his notebook and tucked it into his pocket. “If there is one thing I learned during my time in the army, it is that desperate men will do anything to survive.”
Chapter 19
Isadora
Issy gasped as the modiste tightened the stays on the bodice, pulling in her waist and making breathing difficult.
“Does it really need to be this tight?” She tugged at the laces and Lady Fiona batted her hand away.
“This is the fashion now, Princess. We can’t have you greeting potential suitors in last season’s attire, can we?” The modiste nodded in agreement and Lady Fiona beamed. She was clearly in her element, surrounded by garish materials and whalebone corsets that Issy felt should have remained on the whales.
She measured her breaths to avoid bursting out of the bodice and raised her arms to allow the modiste to drape the turquoise material over her. It wasn’t that she disliked the colour, per se, but it was so eye-catching that it really necessitated a much simpler, cleaner style than the ones Lady Fiona had picked out for them. The bright colour, combined with the puff sleeves, flounced skirts and figure-hugging bodices, were too much for Issy’s taste. And no matter what Fiona and the modiste said, she didn’t believe they were ‘this season’s style’.
And, in any case, she was the Golden Princess. She set the trends, she didn’t follow them.
Livia stood beside her, bedecked in a similarly elaborate, fuchsia pink gown with black laces and ribbons. Their eyes met and understanding passed between them. This was utterly humiliating.
“What do you think?” The modiste asked in her rolling accent, and Issy opened her mouth to answer, but realised, to her chagrin, the dressmaker wasn’t looking at her. She’d directed the question at Lady Fiona.
“Marvellous, just marvellous. Perhaps some feathers for their hair?”
The modiste dug around in her collection of sample materials and pulled out a bunch of dyed feathers, eliciting a delighted coo from Lady Fiona. The raven-haired dressmaker slid a tall, black feather into Livia’s hair, which Issy thought made her look like she was attending a funeral. Until she came to Issy and gestured for her to bob down so that she could stick a pair of silver-painted, shimmering feathers into her own hair.
Straightening, Issy caught sight of herself in the mirror and didn’t recognise herself for a moment. The shape of the gown drowned her slender figure, and the way her collarbone jutted through her flesh, it was like looking at a poorly dressed skeleton.
She turned away, gut twisting with misery. She couldn’t even enjoy a dress-fitting these days—that is what the blasted curse had done to her. She’d always loved shopping for dresses and shoes, it felt like a small part of her had died.
But then a bolt of silk sticking out of the modiste’s wardrobe caught her eye. It gleamed like copper and rippled like water when she reached out to touch it. There was a matching brocade with an enchanting pattern of flowers and vines, and Issy could just picture the breathtaking gown the two would make. Perhaps Master Conti could even make a pair of matching shoes?
But Lady Fiona tore the fabric from Issy’s hands. “Oh, that is so out of fashion. Nobody is wearing metallics these days. Am I right, Deandra?”
The modiste nodded, her heavy jewellery rattling as she did. “You are, Lady Fiona.” She hesitated, eyeing Issy with a thoughtful expression. “Although, if anyone were to pull off this material, it might be you, Princess Isadora.”
Lady Fiona scowled, but Issy couldn’t suppress her grin. She tugged the materials from the wardrobe, and with them came a bolt of molten chocolate satin, a sumptuous colour and material that Issy knew immediately would complement Livia’s complexion and hair perfectly.
“Liv, you have to wear this. It would be heavenly on you.” She dragged the entire roll of brown satin over to her sister and draped it across Livia’s chest, holding it up to her jawline to show her how it flattered her tanned skin and light-brown eyes.
Livia squealed. “It’s gorgeous! Do you really think Father would buy us these dresses?”
