Page 29 of The Vespertine Treaty

"I’ll be ready," I vowed, though my voice trembled. "I have to go. They’ll be coming soon.”

"Guard your heart, Ophelia. The Dance tonight... it’s designed to expose you. Don't let him drink too deep or see too much. I will try to sneak in if I can.”

I snapped the connection, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The adrenaline of the call mixed with the dread of the evening, creating a cocktail of anxiety that made my knees weak.

“You gave her everything, Oph. Everything we know”, Poppy whispered.

"I know," I murmured, a final, dangerous clarity settling over me. "But now, the knowledge is safer. Cain can take my freedom, he can take my reputation, he can even try to break my body. But he cannot take the silent war I am starting.”

I quickly moved to the writing desk, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had to put away the cracked Scry Stone back inside the secret compartment, ready to hide it completely, when a sudden sound ripped through the estate's quiet.

A heavy, abrasive SCRAPE of stone echoed directly outside my window, the sound of something massive moving across the roofline.

I froze, heart leaping into my throat. The wall opposite my window offered no defence against whatever was out there. I scrambled back, shoving the fragile Scry Stone into the small drawer of the desk with frantic, clumsy movements.

“It’s too late! Hide it!” Poppy screamed in my mind.

The footsteps ceased right above my room. A loud, dry, familiar BOOM of cynical laughter descended from the roof.

"Oh, relax, little Aenite! It's only the help!" Friedrik's voice scraped down the stone facade. "I was simply repositioning for a better vantage point of the courtyard. I have a long, boring night ahead of me, and I refuse to miss a moment of the Prince of Death's courtship display. It’s like watching a spider woo a butterfly."

I sank against the wall, trembling, letting out a shaky breath that was half laugh, half sob. It was only Friedrik. He had returned for a better view of my demise. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Friedrik."

I was still shaking. The adrenaline from the communication link with Aemelia was gone, replaced by the acute, terrifying knowledge that in this magnificent cage, even the sound of the wind was a potential death sentence.

“Consider it a warm-up! Tonight’s the night, little Ophie! The carriage will soon await, and I am to send the staff up with your necessary torture devices. The Master requires you to look appropriately stunning for your execution—pardon me, your debut.”

The words were barely out when the massive oaken door hissed open with a quiet, lethal efficiency. Silas appeared—not walking, but manifesting, as if Friedrik’s scornful words had conjured him like a bloody ghost. He was flanked by three maids, an army of silent witnesses, their arms laden with fabrics and glittering cases.

“My Lady,” Silas said, his voice quiet. “The Prince’s pleasure is that all necessities for the Masque be delivered directly, and your preparation begin immediately.”

My eyes fixed on the gown. It was an impossible thing: the colour of deep, royal blue, spun from a silk so fine it seemed to breathe. Intricate black lace webbed across the bodice and around the breasts, giving way to a dangerously long train. The fabric split high on the thigh, promising a wholly inappropriate amount of leg for a Life-Wielder heir.

“Silas, it’s magnificent,” I breathed, momentarily forgetting my hatred. “It’s beautiful, even if a little inappropriate. Thank you.”

Silas's face remained neutral, but I felt a small, almost imperceptible wave of resignation mixed with despair through my Empathy. “I merely facilitated the delivery, My Lady. Lord Cain selected every item himself, including the cut of the fabric, the jewels, and the necessary heel height.”

Silas bowed and retreated to the door, leaving the maids and me alone. They set about their work with professional, frightening efficiency. They stripped the clothes from my body, not roughly, but with the chilling impersonality of surgical assistants. I stood exposed, shivering, feeling shame crawl over my skin.

They drew my bath, warmer this time, and began the ceremonial washing. It was a precise, meticulous ritual, scrubbing every inch of my body with rough, fragrant soap.

"Stop!" I yelled, the word echoing sharply off the high ceilings. I scrambled out of the bath, grabbing the large linen sheet held by the youngest maid and wrapping it tightly around my wet skin. "That is enough! Get out! All of you! I am not a corpse to be prepared, and I refuse to be watched like a freak show! Leave me!"

The two older maids froze, startled by the raw assertion of my voice. Despite their Cenite training, the title of Lady Alistair carried weight. They bowed stiffly, exited the bathroom, and retreated into the bedchamber. Only the younger maid with the hair of wet sand remained, standing silently by the clothes rack, her gaze fixed resolutely on the wall.

I stepped out of the bath and followed them into the bedchamber, clutching the linen sheet to my damp skin. The younger maid moved with me, gathering the heavy royal blue silks from the rack. Together, we disappeared behind the heavy silk privacy screen in the corner of the room. I dried myself with frantic hands and pulled on my silk undergarments, my skin still humming from the heat of the bath. The maid worked in total, eerie silence, her fingers nimble as she began the arduous process of lacing me into the gown. I was just smoothing the heavy skirts over my hips when a sharp, measured knock sounded on the main door.

“Lady Alistair,” Silas’s voice drifted through the wood, dutiful and respectful. “The time for your transformation is at hand.”

“One moment,” I called out. I stepped out from behind the screen, now decently dressed, the weight of the silk pooling around my feet. I took my seat at the vanity. “You may enter.”

The door hissed open. I watched Silas through the reflection of the mirror. He entered with his chin tilted down, his gaze fixed strictly on the floorboards two paces ahead of him—the unwavering discipline of a high-ranking servant. He gestured for the older maids to wait in the hall, then closed the door, remaining by the entrance like a sentinel.

I ignored his presence as the younger maid began the final process of the hair and jewels. She spoke only in clipped commands and confirmations. "Raise your hands, My Lady." "Is the bodice tight enough?”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to speak to me,” I snapped, the words slipping out with more venom than I intended. I was baiting her, desperate for any reaction that wasn't performative efficiency. I still remembered Cain’s cold command from my first moments in this house:“My servants are shadows, Ophelia. They have no voice for you. Do not mistake their presence for company.”

The maid didn't even blink. She simply tightened the laces, ignoring my barb completely.