The Sisters
The morning of her wedding, Florinda could not find her shoes.
Not her everyday shoes—those were precisely where she had left them, beside her dressing table.
But the white silk slippers that had been dyed to match her gown, the ones Martha had polished until they gleamed like moonlight, had vanished entirely from the wardrobe where she had placed them the night before.
"They were here," she said, staring at the empty shelf. Her morning dress—a simple muslin affair she had donned hours ago, before the chaos of preparations began—felt inadequate for the crisis at hand. "I placed them here myself. Last night. I remember placing them."
Martha, who had been Florinda's maid since she was sixteen and had developed an immunity to theatrical distress, continued laying out the wedding gown with unruffled calm.
"Perhaps one of the children moved them, my lady.
Princess Charlotte was exploring the house yesterday evening with considerable enthusiasm. "
"Charlotte would not steal shoes."
"Princess Charlotte once stole the Archbishop's hat during Easter services," Martha observed. "Shoes would present no moral obstacle."
This was, Florinda had to admit, an excellent point.
"I shall send word to the nursery," Martha continued, smoothing the white muslin with practiced hands. "In the meantime, my lady ought to begin dressing. The ceremony is in three hours, and your hair alone shall require two of them."
Florinda's hand drifted unconsciously to her hair, which fell past her waist in a cascade of gold waves.
It was her one vanity—her crown, Margot called it, the glory that transformed her from merely pretty to genuinely remarkable.
Today it would be dressed with wildflowers from the garden, woven through the strands until she looked like a creature from a fairy tale.
Or a madwoman, she thought. Depending on one's perspective.
"I cannot marry a duke without shoes," she said, though even as she spoke, she wondered if this was strictly true.
Martha's face suggested she was wondering the same thing.
Drusilla found her twenty minutes later, seated at her dressing table whilst Martha worked sections of hair into elaborate arrangements.
"You look terrified," her sister announced from the doorway.
"I am not terrified."
"You are clutching the edge of the table hard enough to leave marks.
" Drusilla crossed the room with the analytical precision she brought to everything, her eyes cataloguing details in that way that had always made Florinda feel examined.
"Also, your shoes have been located. Hope had them.
She was attempting to teach Marmalade to walk in them. "
"Marmalade is a cat."
"I am aware. Hope maintains that Marmalade is a criminal mastermind who requires proper footwear for her schemes.
" Drusilla settled onto the edge of the bed, her moss-green morning dress pooling around her.
"The shoes are unharmed, though they do smell faintly of fish.
Apparently criminal masterminds require bribes. "
Martha made a small sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed.
"How faintly?" Florinda asked.
"Faintly enough that no one shall notice unless they are examining your feet very closely." Drusilla's mouth curved. "Which, at a wedding, they ought not to be doing."
Florinda felt some of the tightness in her shoulders ease. "Thank you for finding them."
"Thank Marcus. He is remarkably good at negotiating with four-year-olds." Drusilla paused, her head tilting in that particular way that meant she was about to say a thing she had been considering for some time. "Are you truly well? You seem... anxious."
"I am about to marry a duke."
"You are about to marry Frederick. The duke is merely an inconvenient attachment." Drusilla's voice softened. "He loves you, you know. Desperately, ridiculously, in a manner that would be embarrassing if it were not so obviously genuine."
"I know."
"Then why are you afraid?"
Florinda watched Martha's hands in the mirror, weaving flowers through gold. The scent of roses filled the room—sweet and heavy, the smell of summer and promises. Her chest felt tight with an emotion she could not name.
"Because I am happy," she said at last. "And I have learned not to trust happiness. It tends to disappear when one grows too comfortable with it."
Drusilla was quiet for a long moment. Then she rose, crossed to the dressing table, and wrapped her arms around Florinda from behind—a gesture so unlike her usual reserve that Florinda felt tears prick at her eyes.
"Then do not grow comfortable," Drusilla murmured against her hair.
"Stay terrified. Stay uncertain. Stay desperately in love with a man who counts the threads in your hair because he cannot help himself.
" She squeezed once, fiercely. "But do not let fear steal your joy.
You have earned this, Florinda. You have earned him. "
Martha tactfully busied herself with a ribbon that required no attention whatsoever.
"When did you become wise?" Florinda managed.
"I have always been wise. You simply never listened.
" Drusilla released her and stepped back, her composure reassembling itself like armour.
"Now. Ella has arrived with the children, and Margot is attempting to prevent Charlotte from rearranging the flower arrangements in the church.
Lord Raventhorn wishes to speak with you before the ceremony—he has a matter regarding the processional.
And the Dowager Duchess has sent word that she expects the bride to be punctual. "
"The Dowager expects punctuality from everyone."
"She does. But she sent word specifically to you, which suggests she is making an effort." Drusilla's mouth quirked. "Or establishing dominance. With the Dowager, it can be difficult to distinguish."
Ella arrived as Martha was fastening the final buttons of Florinda's gown.
Her elder sister swept into the room like a summer storm—all warmth and energy and the particular radiance that had made her a queen in fact long before Edward placed a crown upon her head.
Behind her trailed three children in various states of excitement: Charlotte, practically vibrating with anticipation; James, clutching a small box that probably contained a creature; and Charles, who had fallen asleep in his nurse's arms and was missing the proceedings entirely.
"Oh." Ella stopped in the doorway, her hand rising to her throat. "Oh, Florinda."
"Is it—" Florinda looked down at herself, uncertain. "Is it too much? Too simple? Martha suggested more pearls, but I thought the Carthedge pearls would be sufficient, and—"
"You look perfect." Ella's voice had gone thick. "You look absolutely perfect. Like a creature from a story."
"She looks like a princess!" Charlotte announced with authority. "But better, because she is going to be a duchess, and duchesses do not have to curtsy to anyone except queens."
"You have been studying the order of precedence again," Ella observed.
"It is important to understand hierarchy." Charlotte drew herself up with the dignity of a child who had clearly inherited her father's sense of protocol. "When I am queen, I shall need to know who curtsies to whom."
"When you are queen, you shall have advisors to remember such things for you."
"Advisors can be wrong. I prefer to verify independently."
Florinda met Ella's eyes over Charlotte's head, and for a moment, they shared the particular look of elder sisters confronting a younger generation that was entirely too clever for comfort.
"She is eight," Florinda said.
"She is terrifying," Ella agreed. "Edward is already planning her diplomatic career."
James, who had been suspiciously quiet, chose this moment to approach Florinda with his small box extended. "I brought you a present," he announced. "For luck."
"That is very thoughtful, James. What is it?"
"A beetle."
Martha made a sound of alarm.
"A lucky beetle," James clarified, as though this distinction were crucial. "I found it in the garden. It is green, like your eyes."
"My eyes are not green."
"They are a bit green. When you are angry." He thrust the box toward her with the earnest determination of a child who had put considerable thought into his gift. "You can let it go after the wedding. But it should be present for the ceremony. For luck."
Florinda accepted the box with the gravity the moment required. "I shall treasure it. Thank you, James."
He beamed—a smile so like Edward's that it made her chest ache—and retreated to his mother's side, apparently satisfied that his duties had been discharged.
"The beetle is not to be opened until after the ceremony," Ella said firmly. "The vicar has enough to manage without insects."
She found Lord Raventhorn in the morning room, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back and his face unusually serious.
Her stepfather was not, as a rule, a serious man—he preferred to approach life with dry wit and an architect's practical assessment of structural weaknesses—but there was a quality in his bearing now that made her heart stutter.
"My lord." She curtsied from the doorway. "Drusilla said you wished to speak with me."
"I did. I do." He turned from the window, and she was struck by the grey at his temples, the lines around his eyes—the evidence of years she had somehow failed to notice accumulating.
"I have been attempting to find the correct words all morning, but I find that architecture has not adequately prepared me for this particular conversation. "
"You are alarming me."
"I am alarming myself." He gestured toward the chairs by the fire, and she sat, her wedding gown pooling around her in a cloud of white muslin. "I wished to ask you about the ceremony. About the processional."
"Yes?"