The silence in the solar was a living entity. It pressed in on Isadora, heavy with the weight of centuries, thick with unspoken secrets. She stood in a pool of sunlight that felt like a spotlight, illuminating her as a foreign object in this place of pristine, cold opulence. Her sewing kit was a lead weight in her hand; the silver cufflink in her pocket was a burning coal.
She was waiting. For how long, she didn't know. Every creak of the ancient house, every sigh of the wind against the domed glass ceiling, sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. Was it him? Was he coming to finish the silent conversation they'd begun in the hall? Part of her, the sensible, terrified part, prayed he wouldn't. But another, deeper part, the foolish, defiant part that had worn the lavender dress in the first place, yearned for it. She needed to understand the man who had ignited this firestorm in her life.
The carved doors swung open without a sound. It wasn't the Duke. It was Lady Seraphyne, a vision of midnight silk, her pale violet eyes alight with a predatory amusement. The sunlight seemed to shrink from her, the warmth in the room leaching away.
"Still here, little flame? I do admire your tenacity," Seraphyne purred. "Or is it merely a lack of options?"
"I was told you required a fitting, my lady," Isadora said, her voice steady despite the frantic hammering of her heart.
"I do," Seraphyne replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But not here. This room is so dreadfully… bright. It hurts the eyes. We will conduct our business in my chambers. It is a much more intimate setting."
Isadora's hand tightened on her sewing kit. "My lady, with all due respect, I am a seamstress, not a confidante. A fitting can be done here just as well."
Seraphyne glided closer, her movements unnervingly fluid. She stopped a mere foot from Isadora, and the air grew thick with her cold, floral scent. "You are what I say you are, for as long as you are under my brother's roof. And at present, I say you are my personal seamstress, and you will attend to me in my private chambers. Do you understand?"
It was not a question. It was a command wrapped in silk. Isadora's pride bristled, but one look into those ancient, unblinking violet eyes told her this was not a battle she could win. To refuse would be to invite a punishment she couldn't begin to imagine.
"Perfectly, my lady," Isadora said, her voice clipped.
"Excellent." Seraphyne's smile was a sharp, beautiful thing. "Follow me."
The walk through the winding corridors of Mirewood Hall was a journey into the heart of darkness. They passed portraits of Virellions past, their pale, aristocratic faces frozen in expressions of eternal disdain. Servants, human and otherwise, scurried out of their path, their eyes fixed on the floor, their bodies radiating a palpable terror of the woman who glided beside Isadora. This was Seraphyne's power: not the overt, thunderous authority of her brother, but a quiet, venomous control that inspired a deeper, more personal fear.
They arrived at a section of the manor that felt older, more secluded. Seraphyne pushed open a heavy, iron-banded door, revealing her private chambers. The room was a jewel box of blacks, crimsons, and golds. A massive, four-poster bed draped in black velvet dominated the space. A fire crackled in a marble hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of dried roses, beeswax, and something else, something coppery and faintly sweet that made the hair on Isadora's arms stand on end.
A striking maid with bitter eyes and hair the color of spun gold—Mirabel—was folding silks by the fire. She glanced up as they entered, her expression a careful mask of neutrality, but her eyes held a flicker of resentment as they landed on her mistress.
"Leave us," Seraphyne commanded without looking at her. Mirabel bowed silently and slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.
"Now," Seraphyne said, turning to Isadora. "Let us begin."
She stood in the center of the room and held her arms out to her sides. It was an act of supreme arrogance, an offering of her perfect, immortal form to be touched by a mere mortal.
Isadora's hands trembled as she opened her sewing kit and removed her measuring tape. Her mind raced. She had to remain professional. She was Isadora Wren, of Wren & Co., the best seamstress in Bellmere. This was just another client. A terrifying, inhuman client who could kill her with a thought, but a client nonetheless.
She approached Seraphyne, the tape held aloft. "Your arms, if you please, my lady."
The act of measurement was a slow, deliberate torture. Isadora's warm, work-roughened fingers brushed against Seraphyne's skin, which was as cool and smooth as polished marble. Every point of contact was a tiny shock, a reminder of the chasm between them. Isadora focused on the numbers, the inches, calling them out in a low, steady voice, trying to anchor herself in the familiar ritual of her craft.
Seraphyne remained unnervingly still, her violet eyes watching Isadora's every move. She was a predator, enjoying the fear-scent of the small creature fluttering so close to her claws.
"Your hands are quite rough, for a girl," Seraphyne commented, her voice a silken murmur. "Does all that tedious needlework leave you any time for feminine pursuits?"
"My work is my pursuit, my lady," Isadora replied, moving to measure her waist. The corset beneath the silk was rigid, unyielding.
"How droll," Seraphyne mused. "My brother, Caelan, also finds his work to be his only pursuit. Or he did, until recently. It is fascinating, is it not? A man who commands armies and influences empires, brought to a standstill by a little flame with a sharp tongue and a stubborn spirit."
Isadora did not reply. She moved behind Seraphyne to measure her back, the tape stretched taut between her fingers. She could feel the vampiress's cold radiating through the silk.
"He is not an easy man," Seraphyne continued, as if speaking to herself. "Haunted. Controlled. He builds walls of ice around himself. And yet, you seem to have found a crack. I wonder… what would happen if you were to slip inside?"
The question hung in the air, a blatant, dangerous invitation. Isadora finished her measurements and stepped back, her professional mask firmly in place. "I have what I need for the bodices, my lady. If you would care to discuss fabrics…"
"Fabrics can wait," Seraphyne said, turning to face her. "First, you must understand my style. Peruse my wardrobe. See what I favor. I cannot abide a seamstress who does not grasp the essence of her client."
It was another command, another subtle humiliation. She was being ordered to go through this creature's intimate belongings. With a tight nod, Isadora walked over to a pair of massive, carved mahogany doors. She pulled them open, and her breath caught in her throat.
The wardrobe was larger than her entire workroom. It was a forest of gowns, a rainbow of silks, velvets, and laces, each one more exquisite than the last. The sheer, decadent wealth of it was staggering. This was not a collection of clothes; it was an armory of power, each gown a different weapon.
"Impressive, is it not?" Seraphyne purred from behind her. "A woman's power lies not in her strength, but in her presentation."
Isadora stepped inside, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of expensive fabric and cedar. She ran her hand over a gown of blood-red velvet, the pile thick and soft. She was a professional. She would do her job.
She moved deeper into the wardrobe, her expert eyes assessing the cut, the drape, the construction of each garment. Her mind was a whirlwind. She had to find a way out of this. Find a way to return the cufflink, to sever this connection.
Her fingers brushed against the pocket of a silk dressing gown, carelessly tossed over a chaise lounge in the corner of the vast closet. She felt the crinkle of paper.
Her heart leaped.
Seraphyne was humming to herself by the fireplace, examining her reflection in a gilded mirror. It was now or never.
With a swift, practiced movement born of years of hiding sweets from her father, Isadora's fingers dipped into the pocket. They closed around a thick, folded parchment. She pulled it out, shielding the movement with her body, and risked a glance.
It was a letter, sealed with a crest she didn't recognize—a snarling griffin. But it was the address, written in elegant, spidery script, that made the blood freeze in her veins.
It was addressed to Lord Branimir, Viregate Prison.
Prison? Why would the Duke's sister be writing to a lord in a prison? What was Viregate? The name was foreign, ominous. It felt like a key, a clue, though to what, she didn't know. This was a piece of a puzzle she wasn't meant to see.
"Find anything to your liking, little flame?"
Isadora jumped, spinning around. Seraphyne was standing right behind her, her violet eyes sharp and knowing, a cruel smile playing on her lips. She had moved without a sound.
Isadora palmed the letter, her heart threatening to beat its way out of her chest. "Your collection is… extensive, my lady."
"Indeed," Seraphyne said, her smile widening. It was clear she was enjoying Isadora's discomfort. "It takes a great deal to keep a noblewoman of my station properly attired. And to pay for… necessary expenses." She paused, her gaze turning thoughtful, and infinitely more cruel.
"Take Lady Valestra, for example. She was so dreadfully disappointed about her… missed opportunity with my brother the other night. Such a temper. She required a rather significant gift to soothe her wounded pride." Seraphyne picked a piece of lint from her sleeve, her expression casual.
"A new maid, I believe. It is amazing what a strong hand and a short leash can do for a mortal's disposition. Your friend, Clara, was it? I am sure she will prove to be a most… obedient pet."