30. Claire
Claire
“Here we are, my lady,” Persibal’s voice sounded next to me in the carriage.
I smoothed my hands over the front of my dress before glancing toward the window. Sunlight streamed through the opening, and beyond it—color.
The town stretched out before me in a way that made my chest loosen for the first time since breakfast. Market stalls lined the streets, fabrics draped in rich hues of deep blues, warm golds, and soft creams that caught the light as they swayed in the breeze.
People moved in clusters, laughter and conversation drifting. And somewhere, I smelled chocolate.
“Shall I assist you down?” Persibal had already exited and held out a white-gloved hand.
Warm air rushed up to meet me as I accepted his hand.
The sounds were louder out here. A merchant calling out prices, a child laughing somewhere nearby, the rhythmic clatter of hooves further down the road.
It reminded me of the markets back home.
Home.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed that kind of noise.
I followed Persibal’s lead, and we passed stalls overflowing with spices in small, carved bowls, ribbons in every shade imaginable, and baskets of fruit so vibrant they almost looked painted.
We eventually came to a stop in front of a pastel pink shop.
Its windows were wide and framed in pale wood, and behind the glass were layers upon layers of dresses.
Some were simple, and others were extravagant.
“This is the finest dressmaker in the district,” Persibal said. “The duke has made arrangements specially for you.”
I swallowed, my reflection faint in the glass as I stepped closer. For a moment, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me, dressed in soft pink lace, curls freshly set, standing before the kind of dresses she had never in her life imagined she’d be allowed to touch, nonetheless purchase.
“Go on,” Persibal encouraged gently. “They are expecting you.”
I hesitated only a second longer before pushing the door open. A soft chime rang above me as I stepped inside. The noise of the street faded, replaced by the hushed elegance of the shop.
“My lady,” a voice greeted. I turned to see a woman approaching. “Welcome! We’ve been informed of your arrival.”
I glanced around, letting my fingers brush against a nearby fabric. It was like touching a cloud.
“These are all…” I trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
The woman’s smile deepened. “Yours to try.”
I nodded, drawing my hands back to myself as though I might break something if I lingered too long.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Walking farther into the boutique, guided toward rows of dresses far more beautiful than any in my own closet, I found a small part of myself still lingering back at the breakfast table.
I tried on dress after dress regardless.
Offered a glass of rosé wine, I shook my head; my stomach had been churning uneasily since we’d eaten.
“Perhaps something in a deeper tone?” the woman suggested, already scanning me with a careful eye. “To better complement your features.”
“Yes,” I said, finding my voice again. “I would like that.”
“And I would like to see it,” a new voice cut in.
A man emerged from between the racks of fabric. He was finely dressed in layers of dark cloth tailored to perfection, measuring tape draped around his neck. His hair was pulled back neatly, and his eyes flicked over me in a practiced sweep.
“Forgive me, Madam. I could not resist. A new canvas is always inspiring.” He straightened, a smile curving at his lips. “Elion, at your service.”
“Claire.”
His smile softened. “Claire. A pleasure.”
Before I could respond further, he circled me with an artist’s intent, his gaze assessing the fall of my dress, the shape of my shoulders, the way the fabric moved when I shifted.
“Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself. “We can do quite a lot with this.”
My hands instinctively clasped in front of me.
“Come,” he declared suddenly, gesturing toward a nearby rack. “I have something special in mind.”
He quickly pulled out a deep-colored dress, richer than anything I’d ever worn. Tilting his head, he held it up to me to judge the look.
“Try this.”
When I stood before the mirror moments later, I was stunned. Because the rich color deepened my complexion and the cut shaped me in entirely unexpected ways, I barely recognized myself.
Behind me, Elion admired his work. “Ah. There you are.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“It’s… beautiful,” I admitted.
“It is,” he agreed easily. “And you’re beautiful in it.”
My fingers brushed the fabric, unsure where to rest.
Then he clicked his tongue. His expression shifted. “I must say, I did not expect that His Grace would ever settle down.”
“Settle down?”
“Yes, the Duke is… well-known, shall we say.”
A small knot formed in my chest. “I don’t understand.”
For a moment, he hesitated. “He is not known for keeping one lover, my lady. Quite the opposite, in fact. He has had… many.”
The room felt suddenly too small. My fingers stilled against the fabric.
“Oh.”
Elion’s expression shifted again, as though he realized what he had said, and to whom.
“Ah,” he waved a hand as if to brush the thought away. “Forgive me. That was not my place to say. I am certain he will never turn away from you, beautiful.”
He stepped back, his tone professional once more.
“The cut is quite flattering along the waist. We can adjust the sleeves, perhaps bring in the seam just slightly…”
But I barely heard him. My reflection stared back at me, composed and elegant.
And suddenly more uncertain than ever.