The drawing room was awash in soft light. The soft scent of pine drifted from a vase near the hearth–seasonal, understated and perfectly placed. Everything in this house seemed curated, as if the air was aware of its pedigree.
The seamstress stood by the far settee. A pin cushion cuffed around her waist and a roll of fabric draped over one arm. Beside her, Cerelith lounged dramatically, hair swept into a perfect coil, and expression of pointed boredom on her face as she examined a Swatch of lace held up to her neckline.
"This is too provincial," Cerelith declared, pushing the sample away with two fingers as if it offended her personally. "It makes me look like a merchant's wife. It looks like something they'd wear–no offence to you sister." She said turning to Coral.
The seamstress flushed, "it's imported from Lyon, my lady–"
Cerelith sniffed, "Then Lyon has lowered its standards."
"Cerelith," Lady Storms' voice cut across the room like the edge of a knife.
Cerelith glanced over her shoulder and straightened with mock innocence. "I'm merely expressing an opinion, mother."
"Express it with grace."
Before any more could be said, Coral rose from her place near the fire, smiling warmly as she crossed the room to meet me.
"Cici," she said brightly. "You've come at the right time, we were just about to start your fitting."
"Don't worry," she added in a hushed tone. "Cerelith's bark is sharper than her bite."
I managed a small smile, "I've been told I can handle sharp things."
Cerelith didn't bother to hide the way her eyes rolled.
Lady Storm gestured to the seamstress. "This is Madam Iverra. She'll be handling your reception gown. I've already spoken with her about what's expected, but of course, she'll take your measurements and ask your preference."
The seamstress bowed slightly, "A pleasure, lady storm."
That title again. Still unfamiliar. Still heavier than it should be.
I nodded, stepping towards the raised platform near the mirror. "The pleasure is mine."
I stepped onto the low platform Infront of the mirror, as madame Iverra approached me with a practiced eye and a polite smile. Her measuring tape unfurled like a silver ribbon as she began noting down dimensions with quiet efficiency.
"Do you have a particular cut in mind, my lady?" She asked, circling me with careful precision. "Or a preferred material? Satin, perhaps, or a fine brocade?"
I hesitated. The walls seemed to lean in, everyone was waiting for my answer.
"It should be warm," I said finally. "Winter is setting in, and the indoors might grow a bit cold. I don't want to be shivering through polite conversation."
Lady Storm, seated regally near the window, glanced over the rim of her teacup. "Practical," she said. "A good quality wool blend, perhaps, lined in silk. You'll want elegance without sacrificing function. A shivering hostess is a poor symbol of hospitality."
Madame Iverra nodded quickly. "Very well, my lady. Something structured but warm. We can work with a wool–silk overlay. Now, color?"
"Ooh!" Coral leaned forward with enthusiasm, reaching for a collection of sample fabrics draped on the settee. "Cici would look lovely in jewel tones. Amethyst, maybe. Or forest green? Your skin catches light quite beautifully."
"I agree," I said softly. "Something rich in color but not too loud."
"Not too loud?" Cerelith drawled from her seat, lifting an eyebrow. "If you're going to fade in the drapes, What's the point of throwing a party at all."
Coral shot her a warning look. "Cerelith."
"I'm simply saying," Cerelith added with a sigh. "If you're to stand before half the gentry, and announce yourself as Lady Storm, you might as well look the part. Or would you rather be mistaken for a maid?"
The seamstress froze for a minute, her eyes darting between us.
I met Cerelith's gaze in the mirror. "Thank you for the advice," I said coolly. "But I trust Madame Iverra will ensure I look like I belong."
Lady Storm said nothing, but the corner of her mouth lifted. It was approval or maybe something closer to observation.
The measuring continued in silence before Madame Iverra took a step back done with her work.
"An amethyst and deep green will work quite well," she said. "I'll be done with the dresses before the end of this week."
Madame Iverra gathered her things swiftly, bowed once more, and swept out of the room.
Lady Storm set down her teacup, her eyes returning to me with calm precision.
"You'll have a great deal to do in the next few days," she said. "The reception will take place at the end of the week. Word travel fast among the gentry and they've waited long enough to see the new lady storm."
I nodded, heart picking up pace.
"You'll need to review the guest list, finalize the menu, inspect the ballroom and confirm the musicians," she ticked each task with mild interest as if listing the contents of a pantry. "And you'll be expected to write a few personal notes of invitation. Not everyone appreciates a generic card as invitation."
I swallowed, "I'll handle it."
"Good," she stood and adjusted her cuffs. "See to it that it's tasteful and dignified."
"I'll help her," Coral chimed in quickly. "I still have notes from when I planned mine."
Cerelith gave a dramatical sigh, reclining back to the chair, "if you're offering her your old plans, do spare her the mistake of using funeral music you chose. Your reception felt like a mourning memorial."
The air snapped.
Coral's expression faltered. Her smile dropped like a veil slipping off.
"I had just returned home from my husband's funeral," she said quietly.
Cerelith tilted her head, very unbothered. "Exactly. Depressing time. Not entirely your fault."
"Cerelith," Lady Storm said, her voice cold now. "Enough! Walk with me."
Cerelith didn't flinch. She rose, smoothed her skirt and followed her mother out the drawing room.
"I'm fine," Coral said reaching for a cherry.