Chapter 3 The Dress
Chapter three
The Dress
Many a magical night has started with a beautiful dress and a sturdy pair of shoes.
-Tales From Meridia, Volume II
The setting sun was painting Blythe’s strawberry fields in a hazy pink set with orange streaks that should have taken Luci’s breath away.
Instead, she had hardly breathed in the last fortnight.
She was a ghost of herself as she stared at Brielle’s too still form lying in the bed they shared.
It had come on suddenly without any warning.
Leaning forward, Luci pressed her hand to Brielle’s forehead and jerked it back as if burned.
It might as well have been for how hot her skin was.
At least she had stopped shaking, though it was hard to say which was worse.
Luci never took her eyes away from Brielle’s chest as she counted each breath, willing the next one to come.
“Any change?” Lady Margaret asked from the doorway.
Slowly turning her head as if in a fog, Luci saw Margaret in her finest gown. A golden monstrosity, carefully embroidered with navy strawberries and flowers. Her red hair was done up in a carefully crafted array of curls, the rouge on her lips red as the strawberries they grew. She looked lovely.
Stasia and Drusilla sat by the door as if they knew that Luci wasn’t to be messed with tonight. At least they had some sense of self-preservation.
“No,” Luci answered, turning back just in time to see another breath lift Brielle’s frail chest.
“We are supposed to leave shortly,” Lady Margaret said quietly.
“She isn’t going.”
It shouldn’t have needed to be stated. She was the symptom.
Not the cure. Brielle had been well for the last fortnight.
Almost to the point that Luci forgot she was prone to illness for a moment.
All her preparations for the ball were made with a sparkle of hope in her eyes.
The kind of hope that made Luci more sure than ever that lord Treveon had been right.
Just a little purpose to look forward to, and Brielle was transformed.
At first, she had begged Luci to go with her to the ball, but after a few days, she relented.
There had been disappointment in her eyes the final time Luci said no, but Lord Treveon’s words haunted her like a restless spirit.
Crawling beside her in the dark and whispering around every corner.
As much as Luci’s heart was breaking, there was a joy that wrapped around her heart watching Brielle pick her dress, shoes, and hair for the ball.
“Luci,” Brielle’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
She was the lighthouse, and Luci was the ship that followed her call. Without hesitation, Luci pressed forward in the chair that never left Brielle’s bedside and reached for her friend’s too-warm hand. Brielle’s eyes fluttered open with surprising clarity.
“Go to the ball,” Brielle said.
Shaking her head, Luci reached for the tray of tonics beside her bed. She was due for another ginger tonic. It might not break the fever, but at least it won’t get worse.
“I don’t need the tonic. Listen to me,” Brielle said as she tried to push herself up.
To her credit, Lady Margaret was there without a moment’s hesitation, helping her up.
She may not have been a mother through blood, but she cared for Brielle, and that mattered.
Forced to concede for the moment, Luci helped prop up one of the dozen pillows on the bed for Brielle.
As soon as she was up, a coughing fit took her, and Luci’s stomach hollowed as she watched her friend struggle.
Honey. Luci reached for the dark honey and scooped out a spoonful, breathing in its sweet, warm scent, but Brielle waved her hand.
“Listen to me,” she repeated when she caught her breath.
A symptom.
Taking a steadying breath, Luci nodded once.
Lady Margaret slid onto the bed and rested her hand on Brielle’s leg, rubbing it slowly in a comforting gesture as if she were lending her strength.
Even the dogs understood as they jumped onto the bed.
Stasia curled up next to Brielle in a small ball while Drusilla watched anxiously next to Lady Margaret.
“It’s a masked ball,” Brielle began, but her breath caught.
It was like being held under water, like she would never know the feeling of taking a whole breath.
The sun setting felt like a countdown that none of them had asked for.
Tonight should have been filled with magic and fairy godmothers that only existed in stories.
Instead, it was filled with the sound of desperation and loss.
After twenty years, it never got easier.
Every spell felt like the last one. The one who would claim Brielle and leave Luci without her reason for breathing.
A life without meaning. Who was she without Brielle?
It was a question she never wanted to know the answer to.
A blissful ignorance she could wrap around herself like the warmest of blankets.
“It is the one thing father has ever asked of me,” Brielle whispered.
Her voice was hoarse from disuse and congestion—none of the musical tilt that usually carried her words.
“He will understand-” Luci began.
“No, no, he won’t,” Brielle said.
A gentle hum from Lady Margaret said they all knew the truth of it. Lord Treveon's nature wasn’t understanding, even when it came to Brielle.
“I know I’m always asking too much of you,” Brielle began before the coughing took her.
Yet it was Luci who was choking on the words that Brielle gave life. A bizarre sentiment that shouldn’t have existed. As if there were any reality where Luci had given enough to circumvent the debt she owed to Brielle. There was no such world. Some debts could never be repaid.
When Luci was able to speak once more, she drank in a hungry breath. “But I must ask this last thing. Go to the ball with Lady Margaret. My father will hear the announcement, and once you have danced a few dances, he will be too distracted to notice you’ve left.”
“I won’t leave you,” Luci grit out because the anxiety of telling Brielle no was crippling.
“If we are meticulous about it, we can be back by midnight. I’ll tell Stefan I had a headache and you escorted me back. Easy as strawberry cake,” Lady Margaret said with an endearing smile.
Six hours. Two there, two at the ball, two back. Six hours away from Brielle.
“I have nothing to wear, and you are smaller than me,” Luci said, deciding on logic.
It was a sinking sort of feeling that took hold of her as Brielle and Lady Margaret shared a conspiratorial smile.
It would have swallowed her whole if she hadn’t locked onto the paleness of Brielle’s lips.
Too pale. Without saying a word, Lady Margaret crossed the room, but Luci’s mind was already working.
Too pale. Ginger and milk. Going to the table of tinctures, Luci scanned them with shaking hands, trying to ignore the racing of her heart.
It wasn’t the first time Luci had been sick, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it felt like a change, and that was scarier than anything else.
When Luci’s hands wrapped around the green-tinted vial, she turned to give it to Brielle, but Stasia snarled at her.
“Oh, hush, you beasty,” She said, ignoring bared teeth.
In her infinite gentleness, Brielle took the medicine without any protest, her faith in Luci forever stronger than her body. Luci watched as Luci swallowed it and prayed to whatever magic existed in the world.
As always, Brielle read her mind.
“Do you believe in magic, Luci?”
Everything shrunk to the solidity of this moment. Only twice had the fevers been strong enough to cause her mind to struggle with reality. At least it would explain her insistence that Luci go to the ball, but the implications of the illness were enough to make Luci’s throat dry and scratchy.
“I am lucid.” Brielle rolled her eyes with a small smile. “You are so dramatic.”
The teasing should have abated the thumping in her heart, but instead it only beat faster. Desperate.
“I believe in what I can see. If magic and fairy godmothers were real, you wouldn’t be lying in this bed.
You would be dancing at the ball, sweeping the prince off his feet and winning the hearts of the most tedious lords and ladies.
” Luci said, tears gathering in her eyes despite her best attempts.
The flush in Brielle’s cheeks was bright with life against her too pale skin. As she placed her hand gently into Luci's, she squeezed with the strength of a hundred men as if she had been saving it all for Luci, for this moment.
“That is precisely why I believe in magic. In fairy godmothers, because they brought you to me.”
The tears fell freely, and she didn’t even bother to hold them back. There was no stopping the rain beneath a gray sky.
“I don’t believe in magical beings bestowing favors. We make our own stories,” Luci whispered.
Something drew Brielle’s attention, and her answering smile was what stories were made of. “Perhaps it’s a bit of both.”
Twisting her body, Luci turned to see the most beautiful gown she had ever seen in her life.
Light blue silk shimmered beneath carefully intricate silver swirls and delicately placed strawberries that at first glance looked like simple designs.
The long sleeves were perfectly crafted to a point at the end, and the neckline was straight across, adding a sense of drama.
It was perfection, not at all the frilly, tulle dress that Brielle had designed for herself.
Was it possible for a person to be paralyzed with fear? That was how Luci felt staring at the dress and knowing all at once what had happened. What was happening, rather.
“There isn’t much that takes your breath away,” Brielle said, her voice thick with emotion.
With mindless steps, Luci walked towards the gown, seeing nothing except what it meant.
The room was silent except for her own shaky breaths and the careful hum of something profound.
Her hands were strangely steady as she reached for the silk and traced one of the delicate strawberries inlaid into the expensive fabric.
“Your father-” she began.
“Was wrong,” Brielle said with infinite strength as if she had saved all her energy for this moment. “He’s always been wrong about you, Luci. You are as a part of me as my own soul; if you do not belong at Blythe, then I don’t either. You are ours, Luci.”
Light above, this feeling was destroying her. Finding all her insecurities and flawed parts and cracking them into a thousand little pieces. It choked her and cradled her. Her salvation and doom.
“She’s right.” Lady Treveon spoke with all the grace of an aristocrat. “There is no Blythe without you. Stefan may not see it, but we all do.”
Luci lifted her eyes to Lady Margaret, perhaps seeing her for the first time. Most of the time, she was a simple woman who cared more about fine things and social climbing than anything else, but there was a kindness to her that was unique and beautiful.
“Lord Treveon will be furious,” Luci said, shaking her head and regretfully stepping away from the gown.
“He will never know,” Brielle said, a coughing fit taking her.
All thoughts of balls and clandestine meetings were ripped away by the air fighting for purchase within Brielle's lungs. Luci knelt at the bedside, placing her hand over Brielle’s chest, feeling for the crackle and pop that meant fluid had gotten into her lungs, but none ever came, and it was like gasping for air after being submerged under water.
When Brielle caught her breath, she smiled, though it was weaker than before.
“It was meant to be a surprise. You and I are going together, but magic has its own plans.”
It was an effort not to correct her that magic wasn’t real, but it felt like a cruelty against what she was already facing. The ball had meant everything to her. The answer to every dream and secret hope she kept locked in her heart.
“What a scandal that would have been.” Luci sniffed.
Brielle snorted. “Father probably would have been as red as our strawberries, but it would have been worth it. To claim you for all to see, but instead, I am afraid I must ask this favor of you. To go as me.”
“Mrs. Blakesley has agreed to sit with her until you get back and follow any instructions you leave, though she would have you know she’s plenty capable of taking care of her all on her own.”
Even though it was Lady Treveon who said the words, all she heard was Mrs. Blakesley in their severity. If Luci were going to trust Brielle to someone, it would be her.
It was as if they were chiseling away at Luci’s resolution one word at a time.
“This is what you want?” Luci asked, begging Brielle to say no.
Brielle never hesitated. “It is.”
Defeat was a well-worn pair of shoes and a lonely road.
The sigh came first, then, “I hope the shoes are comfy.”