Beautiful in the way funeral shrouds were beautiful when someone wanted death to look dignified.
Lysa began with the innermost layer.
White linen shift, thin enough to be nearly transparent, cut to expose the marked arm and shoulder.
Then the second layer.
Heavier silk, structured at the bodice to restrict breath, sleeves that ended at the elbow to display the mark fully.
Then the outer gown.
White silk embroidered with silver thread in patterns that looked like blessing symbols but felt like bindings.
The bodice fastened with tiny hooks that took Lysa several minutes to close.
Each one felt like a lock.
Sabine’s breathing shallowed.
“Too tight?”
“No. It is meant to be this way.”
The skirt was heavy, weighted at the hem with silver thread and careful stitching that would control how quickly she could move.
Designed to make kneeling easier.
Walking slower.
Running impossible.
Lysa knelt and began working at the hem with a small sewing kit.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you do not tear this walking down stairs.”
Sabine watched her unpick a section of the hem stitching with quick, practiced movements.
Then Lysa withdrew the folded fragment of Isolde’s score from her sleeve.
She placed it inside the hem between two layers of fabric, then stitched the opening closed with thread that matched the temple embroidery exactly.
The copied measure disappeared into the gown’s weight.
If Sabine were searched, it would feel like normal heaviness from ritual sewing.
The added weight was almost nothing.
Sabine felt it anyway.
The gown meant to make her kneel now carried instructions on how not to disappear.
“Walk carefully,” Lysa said. “If you tear the hem, I will kill you myself.”
Sabine almost smiled.
Lysa stood and adjusted the shoulders.
