The candlelight trembles on the wall, and the red dress glows in it like a wound that refuses to close. It hangs perfectly on the hook across the room—soft folds, dark lace, a ribbon tied as if someone’s invisible hands still linger there. Tiny jet beads dot the bodice like dried drops of night. It should look beautiful. Instead, it feels like a secret I never asked to keep.
Mira sleeps beside me, her tiny breaths shallow but steady. I lie on my side, watching her chest rise and fall, my hand resting lightly on the blanket over her stomach. A curl clings damply to her temple; I smooth it back and count the beats between her breaths. Across the room, Ysabet leans against the table, arms folded, her hair undone for once. She looks older tonight—sorcery drains her faster than time ever could. The room smells of rosemary and iron, the last scent her spells leave behind.
“Did your prince order that for you?” she asks quietly, chin tilting toward the crimson uniform.
I do not answer. I do not need to. The truth hangs heavier than the dress itself.
“Does it not bother you?” she presses, voice gentler but sharper in meaning. “A favor that paints a target?”
“Of course it does,” I sigh, rolling onto my back. The ceiling above us cracks faintly, the old palace bones whispering. “But I don’t know what to think. Should I hope or tense?”
“Perhaps both.” Ysabet yawns, rubbing her temple with one hand. The faint glow that usually hums around her fingertips flickers and dies. “Men call such gifts protection. They are often cages with ribbons.”
I sit up at once. “You’re fading.”
“I’m fine,” she lies, weary smile barely shaping her lips. “Mira’s treatment drains my magic. I can still hold the curse back, but each day takes more from me than it gives.”
The air thickens in my lungs. I glance at Mira again—her little hand curls around the edge of the blanket, her lashes damp with sweat. “How long?”
Ysabet looks toward the shuttered window. “Long enough if you work faster.”
“Work how?” I whisper. “At the needle… or at the truth?”
Her mouth tilts. “Both, little thread.”
I press my palms together, whispering as though prayer could thread miracles. “Then I will.”
“Wear the dress if it keeps you nearer,” she adds, voice almost a sigh. “Questions are sometimes safer than invisibility.”
Ysabet nods once, quiet approval in her eyes, and retires to the corner chair. I stay awake long after her head nods forward in sleep. The dress gleams softly in the dark. It feels like a promise and a threat both made of silk.
***
When morning comes, the palace smells of soap and melted wax. The hall of seamstresses hums faintly, but I am the only one seated so early. Chalk ghosts the tabletops; thimbles sit like dull little crowns. I’ve already tied my hair back and rolled my sleeves, a needle between my fingers before the first bell rings.
The new red dress hangs untouched on a peg beside the door. I have not worn it. Instead, I chose an older gray shift—faded, patched at the elbows, borrowed from a girl who left months ago. It fits loosely enough to feel invisible.
The rhythm of stitching steadies me until the doors open. Heavy footsteps echo—measured, royal, familiar. My pulse leaps. I don’t dare look up.
Aldric’s shadow spills across my table before his voice reaches me. “You’re not wearing your new uniform, Venn.”
I keep my gaze on the thread. “It is an honor, Your Majesty,” I answer evenly, “yet I cannot wear it. It would be disrespectful toward the other seamstresses.”
“Disrespectful?” he repeats, a hint of incredulity in his tone. “It was a direct order.”
“I’m not any different from them,” I say, still sewing. “To stand out would shame the others.”
He scoffs softly, somewhere between anger and something less definable. “You just can’t stand out, can you?”
My throat tightens. The air between us hums. His voice lowers, rich but restrained. “It’s an order from your prince. You can’t refuse it.”
The needle in my fingers stills. The words come out before my mind can stop them—reckless, foolish, sharp. “I can if the prince kisses me.”
The thread snaps. Silence falls like winter.
I freeze. The seam on the cloth blurs before my eyes. I can hear his breathing—steady, controlled, but faintly uneven.
Then, slowly, he straightens. I sense the shift of his weight, the tightening of his jaw though I dare not look up. “That… was a mistake, and you’re aware of it, Venn,” he says, quieter but edged with steel.
I finally raise my head. “Then why would you send me a dress?”
He meets my gaze. His eyes, deep green and guarded, pin me where I sit. For a heartbeat, we are suspended in the question itself—both of us searching for an answer neither can admit aloud.
“You will follow orders,” he says at last, softer than the words deserve. Something flickers in his expression. Regret, perhaps. Or recognition. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and strides away. The echo of his boots ricochets against the marble until it disappears entirely.
I exhale shakily, pressing my palm to my chest where my heart batters like a trapped bird. The hall feels emptier than before he came.
The needle slips from my fingers. I reach to pick it up, but pain flares suddenly at the tip of my thumb. I’ve pricked myself. A drop of blood wells up, bright and vivid against the pale fabric. I stare at it for a long moment.
It spreads slowly into the cloth—an unwanted mark, small but stubborn. Just like me.
“Maybe,” I whisper to no one, “I cause my own pain too.”
The bell tolls the next hour. The seamstresses begin to arrive, chattering softly, unaware that the air still carries the ghost of his voice. I wrap a strip of linen around my thumb, tuck my wounded finger beneath the hem, straighten my back, and keep sewing. The thread bites, the fabric resists, but I keep going. If the seams split, I will stitch again. It’s the only thing I know how to do—stitch through the pain and pretend the seams will hold.