I should call Forsythe, tell him what just happened. Maybe warn him, or something. But I know he’s busy today… I know they all are, otherwise one of them would be here.
She’s gone now.
I’m safe. The Grieves appointed guards are still in the hall. And while they might not have been brave enough to keep the queen out of my apartment, they’ll keep out anyone else. So unless Queen Katherine intends to come back with a pistol and shoot me in the head, I’ll be fine until they get back tonight.
I’ll tell them what happened then.
Episode 28: Dress for the Scandal You Want
Florence
A dress is delivered by a harried looking messenger, who sneaks worried glances at the guards flanking my door, later that day.
I thank her, taking the huge pink box in hand and letting one of the guards close the door behind me.
My pack still hasn’t returned from wherever they went. I have a sinking suspicion it’s something to do with Isadora. Why else wouldn’t they have told me where they were going? So I’ve spent the day wallowing in self-pity, anxiously checking that the guards are still outside the flat, and wandering from room to room in this apartment that doesn’t feel like mine, like ours.
And why would it?
They aren’t mine. Not truly.
Even if they feel more and more like my pack. My home.
They’d left me with kisses pressed to my temples, my cheeks, my lips, my neck, and promised they would be back before too long. But that was hours ago.
And now this. A large light pink box tied with a crisp white ribbon, a white card taped to the front with just my name scrawled across it in calligraphy, delivered at 2pm on the dot.
Unexplained nerves jangle in my stomach, make my fingers tremble as I undo the bow, the satin slipping against my skin pleasingly.
When the lid comes off I can do nothing but stare at the contents.
My fingers hover over the fabric before I dare to touch it, like it might disappear if I’m not careful.
The fabric is a deep, dusky rose, rich without being loud, catching the light as I lift it from the box. It spills through my hands, smooth and fluid, the weight of it just enough to feel expensive, intentional.
The bodice is fitted with clean lines and careful seams. The neckline is softly scooped with delicate straps and gauzy strips of fabric that will drape over my biceps. The skirt falls in long, dreamy lines, a subtle slit along one side that promises movement more than it demands attention.
My throat tightens as I smooth my hand over the waist, tracing details I thought would only ever live on paper.
It’s mine, and it’s exactly how I imagined it.
I remember sketching it late one night, chasing a feeling more than a design. Something soft but structured. Elegant without trying too hard. Something I didn’t think I’d ever actually make. Not right away at least.
Not until my more accessible designs took off.
Why is it here?
I finished it not long ago, but it’s not as though I’ve had the tools to sew it… and I certainly didn’t send it anywhere to haveit created for me. The most I did was send it to Haven to get her thoughts on it.
I search for a note or something to tell me my best friend did this, or if not her,whodid. But the only things I find are silky lacy underthings and a small white card with “6:00” scrawled in Forsythe’s bold script.
Does that mean I’m meant to be ready by six tonight?
A glance at the clock tells me it’s just after six am in Granton and probably too early to call my best friend to get her opinion on the matter, but I decide it wouldn’t hurt to get a little dolled up, just in case.
The next few hours are spent washing, shaving, blow drying and curling. I’m not sure what the plan is for the night, so I keep my makeup relatively neutral. No smoky eyes or red lips, instead sticking with pinky browns on my eyes and a my-lips-but-better color on my mouth.
I’ve just slipped into the dress when I hear the front door open and close and I feel a flicker of fear for a moment. Small, but still there, imagining that it’s the queen coming to check if I followed her instructions.
