Cerise always woke first. Even before the bells of Soleil's chapel rang through the gold-spangled air, before the doves gathered on the eastern terrace, before the servants had begun their quiet choreography below the stairs—she was already sitting at her vanity, her mind adrift in the delicate stillness of early morning. The room was hushed in a way that made the tick of the clock seem interminable, every second a silent promise of the day's unfolding drama.
The air in her chambers was still cool, kissed by the southern breeze that filtered through the carved windows, and it carried with it a faint scent of jasmine from the garden outside.
Here in Soleil, the sun burst forth faster than in Hivelle. More boldly. Less delicately. It came in hard light and sharp warmth, without asking permission, transforming the room with a vibrant intensity that was both stunning and relentless.
Her maid, Delphine, knelt gently beside her with warm, practiced hands. Older than the other attendants, with graying hair hidden beneath a lace cap and a manner full of subtle grace, Delphine moved with deliberate calm—a presence that Cerise trusted like a second skin.
They said that a woman could be confirmed with time. They said if the bleeding didn't come, and the appetite dulled, and the face turned pale—then perhaps. Perhaps. But it had come. Again. Last night. As it always did. And Cerise had said nothing.
Delphine was silent too, though she had seen the cloths, her eyes reflecting a careful resignation. She brought warm towels without question, every movement measured and respectful, and brewed tea laced with rosehips and ginger that filled the room with a gentle, soothing aroma.
Cerise stared at her reflection in the looking glass. Her skin looked too pale today—not ghostly, but almost… transparent, as if she were slowly fading away in the soft morning light. "I had a feeling this month would be different," she said softly, after a long pause that seemed to stretch like the shadows on the wall.
Delphine reached up and gently touched her arm. "It will be. In time."
Cerise didn't answer, letting the words linger unchallenged in the quiet atmosphere. She had thought—hoped—that this month might be different. That her body might finally do what it was meant to do, what was expected of her. A child would have given her purpose, weight, a reason for the emptiness to mean something. She would have been useful in the most sacred way, her existence redeemed by the quiet miracle of blood turned to life. But the ache in her belly told her the truth again, as it always did, and though she sat upright with her spine like marble and her face unmarred, she felt hollow inside, as if a room meant for joy had never been built at all.
Another maid entered, her arms full of linens, her step light and cautious as if she were afraid to disturb the fragile peace. She offered a soft, cautious smile. "You'll feel better once we begin, my lady. We chose the pearl cream and the rose powder today."
Cerise lifted her chin slightly as her maids began to work, their hands moving in slow, deliberate motions that made the simple act of dressing feel like a sacred ritual. Her skin was lovingly rubbed down with rose milk and dusted in powdered pearl, while her lips were painted the color of ripened plums. A hint of shimmer was brushed along the delicate bones of her cheeks. The rouge was soft, never too bold—Lady Blanche had always warned that garishness was the mark of desperation.
One maid moved behind her with a brush, taming her long black hair into a low twist secured with silver pins. Another stood beside her, whispering about the weather while tightening the corset over Cerise's chemise. It closed with a satisfying pull—snug but not suffocating, shaped precisely as her journals dictated, each measurement a reminder of the strict expectations imposed upon her.
"Twenty inches," the maid whispered with quiet pride. "Perfect as always."
Cerise nodded once, expression neutral. "Thank you."
When it was finished, she dismissed them with a flick of her gaze and returned to the bed. She slipped beneath the covers—her hair carefully arranged, her face flawless in the soft glow of dawn, her corset fastened beneath layers of silk that spoke of both refinement and restraint.
Moments later, Antor stirred beside her. "Mm… good morning, dove," he said groggily, turning toward her with a sleepy smile.
His hair was tousled just so, his amber eyes crinkling with boyish charm. "You always wake up looking like a painting."
Cerise turned her head slightly, smile in place. "Good morning, my lord."
He leaned over to press a kiss to her shoulder. She did not flinch. She never did. He carried the comforting scent of clove oil and velvet sheets, a familiar aroma that offset the weight of the day to come.
He began to dress while rambling. "Terrible mess with the contract yesterday—one of the ledgers wasn't signed, can you believe that? Idiots, the lot of them. I've got a meeting today with Lord Marquant, need to secure those trade rights before the Solsier delegation does. We're thinking of moving some of the warehouses closer to the river, might reduce shipping by a full day—"
Cerise nodded gently, feigning attentiveness as his words mingled with the soft rustle of silk and the clink of fine metal. "Of course. That sounds very strategic."
She watched his reflection in the mirror as she whispered to her maid to prepare her tea. "Perhaps the servants might polish your boots today as well. There's a scuff on the right toe."
Antor laughed, slipping on his coat. "Always my sharp-eyed dove. What would I do without you?"
Cerise smiled again, lips closed and serene as her fingers began to glide over the velvet-covered box on her desk—a cherished gift from Minette, with golden hinges and a carved lily crest. Inside it lay letters. Bundles of them, tied in ribbons. Dozens addressed to her sister, ones painting discontent, some planning escape—none sent.
As Antor's voice trailed off down the hall, musing about tariffs and price margins, Cerise finally exhaled a slow, measured breath. She rose and crossed the parlor into her private drawing room, where the morning light streamed lazily through gauzy curtains, diffusing the room with a soft, ethereal glow. A tray awaited her: warm scones, spiced tea, poached pear—the simple sustenance of a well-ordered morning.
She ate slowly, her appetite minimal these days, each bite taken as if in quiet resignation. The silence hung around her like spun silk, weightless yet pervasive, embracing her in its subdued stillness.
A fresh package sat on a side table, more gowns from the boutique. She opened it and sifted absently through the new additions: lavender chiffon, ivory satin, dove gray embroidered with delicate crystals. She smoothed the fabric with a gloved hand, yet the colors barely touched her—these were ordered for distraction, not delight. Soleil was bright and golden and full of life. It had the perfume of power, of oranges, hot bread, and gold dust, but it wasn't home.
Hivelle had been cold, yes. Strict, yes. But it had been hers. She missed the gardens, the winter birds nesting by the library window, her old bed with its creaking left leg, and even her sister's familiar voice echoing through the stone halls. Cerise wrote letters almost daily—to Minette, to Lady Blanche, to cousins and aunts and those distant relatives tethered by duty. She volunteered for local tea committees, outreach programs, and social boards. She donated to hospitals and sponsored two young girls at a needlework school.
Still, the emptiness pooled beneath everything like a slow, unyielding tide.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Eline, her youngest maidservant, whose cheeks were flushed with fresh vigor and who clutched a neatly folded pamphlet in her hand.
"There's news of the King!" she said breathlessly. "Another campaign, he's returned from the south victorious!"
Cerise took the paper delicately, her fingertips caressing the edges as if to preserve a fragile truth. A woodcut illustration showed Damian de Rohan, sword drawn, astride a white charger. His cloak flared dramatically around him, and his gaze was carved to seem sharp and noble—a hero captured in the stark simplicity of printed art.
"Handsome, isn't he?" Eline giggled, her voice lilting in admiration. "They say he's never lost a battle."
Cerise's voice was soft as she replied, "Yes. He is." She studied the print for a long, lingering moment before folding it neatly, as if closing a window on a hopeful daydream.
"Would you like to practice your reading?" she asked, glancing gently at the younger girl.
Eline beamed. "Truly? You'll help me?"
"Of course."
They spent the next hour in quiet repetition, their voices mingling with the soft scratch of quill on paper. Cerise traced each word with the tip of her finger, guiding Eline through the curves and elaborate flourishes of each letter, correcting her with tender patience. Eline reminded her so much of Minette—eager, sweet, and utterly unaware of the burdens that awaited at the close of girlhood.
The afternoon passed like a slow tide, each moment stretching into the next with deliberate, unspeakable quiet. Cerise rearranged the drawing room's floral displays, inspected paint samples for the new parlor wallpaper, wrote two letters, and re-addressed three more. Yet nothing seemed to fill the quiet hollow that echoed in the chambers of her heart.
By the time dinner came, the evening sky had turned a gentle lavender, the day softening into a calm dusk. The chandelier above the dining table glittered with delicate flame, casting fractured light upon the polished surfaces. Antor spoke through most of the meal—about a shipment of rare spices, about a noble's misstep in court, about the cost of new statues for the garden. Cerise nodded when needed, her responses as measured as the falling light.
"Don't forget your correspondence tomorrow," she murmured once, her voice low and discreet. "You left yesterday's letters in your study."
"Ah, thank you. What would I do without your eyes on me?"
She offered him a slow smile, a smile that held all the unsaid words of a quiet rebellion. "Truly, I wonder."
After dinner, she excused herself with a soft bow of her head and returned to her room, where the familiar routine awaited. The maids were already waiting. The corset came off, and another was selected—tighter, boned with ivory. The chemise was refreshed, a soft blue with silver embroidery that whispered of elegant restraint. Her hair was unpinned and brushed until it gleamed, then re-styled into soft, cascading waves. Rouge was reapplied, and her waist, thighs, calves, and ankles were measured and recorded with clinical precision.
She carried the subtle, comforting scents of jasmine and warmed almond milk as an unseen mantle.
Cerise sat again at her vanity, eyes closed, listening to the gentle brush sweep across her cheeks—a sound that seemed both intimate and eternal.
"Perfect," the head maid murmured. "He won't be able to look away."
Cerise said nothing. She returned to the bed, arranged the sheets with a deliberate calm, and let the lamplight fall over her just right, each fold of fabric a silent symphony of order and elegance. She waited.
The door creaked open. Antor entered with a yawn, pulling off his boots lazily. "Long day," he muttered. "Those bastards barely know how to manage a damn scroll—" He dropped his coat, stumbled toward the bed, and fell face-first onto the coverlet.
Within seconds, he was asleep, his heavy breathing the only sound in the quiet room.
Cerise stared at the ceiling, still perfectly arranged, her heart a slow cadence of measured thoughts. No one spoke. No one moved. Her fingers curled slowly on the sheets, and without fully thinking, she stood. She crossed the room in silence, retrieved a sheet of cream paper and a quill from her desk, and sat down at her writing table. Her pen began to dance softly on the paper as she started with simple words that held a lifetime of unsaid feelings.
To Mother—
And for the first time in years, she didn't stop herself.