Morning came as a soft surrender to light. The air in Blackthorn House felt less oppressive than the day before, though the memory of pain still lingered faintly in Nerine's body. The faint ache at her waist was a shadow now, not the raging fire it had been. She rose slowly from the bed, letting the silk sheets slide from her skin like a retreating tide.
Her maid moved about quietly, helping her dress in a soft cream morning gown. The mirror reflected a paler version of herself, though the sharp glass of her eyes had returned. She smoothed the last fold of fabric into place before heading to the dining room.
The long table stretched before her like a judgment, sunlight spilling in through tall windows. Kael sat at the head, as composed and unreadable as carved obsidian. Penelope was already there, stirring her tea with a languid, almost idle rhythm, though her gaze sharpened the moment Nerine stepped into the room.
"You're awake early," Penelope remarked, voice gentle in tone but weighted in the way a jeweler weighs gold. "I half-expected you to remain in bed another day. Are you truly feeling well enough to be here?"
Nerine gave a small, almost careless smile as she took her seat. "Well enough," she said. "The walls of my chamber were beginning to feel like a prison."
Penelope's spoon tapped lightly against the porcelain. "Better a prison than a grave. You've always been too eager to prove yourself strong. Tell me—" her eyes flicked briefly, sharply to Nerine's side, "—is the pain gone entirely?"
"I can manage," Nerine replied, keeping her voice even.
"That isn't an answer." Penelope's words were not unkind, but they pressed like fingertips against a bruise.
Kael, for his part, did not look at either of them directly. He picked up an apple with deliberate slowness, but Nerine could feel his attention—hidden, yet constant—as if he were tracing the edges of her every movement, weighing her every word for cracks.
"You should rest after breakfast," Penelope continued. "It would be foolish to—"
"I said I'm fine," Nerine interrupted gently, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. "If anything worsens, you'll be the first to know."
The moment stretched, delicate as glass, before Penelope's lips curved in resignation. "Stubbornness runs thick in this house," she murmured, setting her spoon aside.
They ate in near silence after that, though Nerine caught Kael's gaze once—just once—as she reached for the sugar bowl. It was quick, fleeting, and utterly unreadable, yet it left the faintest shiver at the base of her neck.
When breakfast ended, Penelope's mood seemed to brighten, as though she had been waiting for something. "The dresses," she said, leaning back in her chair with satisfaction. "They should be arriving any moment for the ball."
As if summoned, Irene appeared with two maids trailing behind her, their arms laden with rich fabric wrapped in protective cloth.
The sight of Irene's face was a soft relief to Nerine, though she hid it well under a polite smile.
They moved to the dressing room, a space awash with light from tall arched windows, the faint scent of lavender and old wood lingering in the air.
Penelope's dress came first—a vision in lilac with black edges, the bodice sharp yet elegant, the skirts layered in fine silk. She touched the fabric with reverence, the way a priestess might touch relics.
Nerine's gown followed—a sky-blue mermaid silhouette, the fabric catching the light like water beneath morning sun. Pearls, delicate as frost, trailed along the neckline and wove down the fitted bodice.
"It's beautiful," Nerine admitted, running her fingers over the cool pearls.
"You'll look like you belong in another world," Irene said softly, her eyes bright.
The fitting began. Pins glinted between Irene's lips as she adjusted the waist of Nerine's gown. Penelope turned before the mirror, testing the fall of her skirts, and after a moment, excused herself, saying she would return shortly.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Almost immediately, Irene's professional composure melted. She set aside her pins and, without warning, wrapped Nerine in a brief but fierce hug.
"You scared me," Irene whispered.
Nerine returned the embrace lightly. "I'm alright now."
"You don't look alright," Irene said, pulling back to study her face. "What happened to you?"
"A cold," Nerine replied, her tone somewhere between truth and evasion. "It caught me harder than I expected. I'm still recovering."
Irene's brows drew together. "And no one sent word? Not even a message?"
Nerine hesitated, lowering her gaze. "It's complicated."
Irene's voice softened. "Is this about… them?"
"Madam Helen?"
Irene nodded.
"She's fine," Nerine said quietly, relief warming her chest as she spoke. "But I need you to look after her for me. And the others. Check on them whenever you can, and if there's anything—anything—you think I should know…" She trailed off, her voice catching faintly.
"I'll come to you," Irene promised. "No matter the risk."
Nerine's lips curved in gratitude. "Thank you. You've always been my best friend, Irene."
She then explained how everything had panned out.
The words were not spoken loudly, but the air seemed to still for a heartbeat.
In the room next door, Kael sat in a high-backed chair, the faint glow of his cigarette ember painting his fingers red in the dimness. He released a slow ribbon of smoke, his expression unreadable as the muted murmur of voices reached him through the wall. The ash fell softly into the tray, and after one last drag, he set the cigarette down and rose.
No sound of his departure followed.
Back in the dressing room, Irene tightened the last seam at Nerine's waist. "This gown was made for you," she said with a small, proud smile.
Nerine winced a little bit from the pain and before Nerine could reply, the door opened and Penelope returned, her presence filling the space again. "How goes the fitting?" she asked lightly, though her gaze flicked from one woman to the other with mild curiosity.
"Almost done," Irene replied, resuming her professional manner.
"Good," Penelope said. "We've much to prepare before the ball. Appearances will matter more than words that night."
Her tone was casual, but Nerine could not shake the faint impression that the remark was meant for her as much as for herself.
When the final adjustments were made, Irene gathered the dresses carefully, promising to return them after the alterations. She gave Nerine a fleeting glance—one that carried both reassurance and warning—before leaving.
The rest of the day slid back into its usual rhythm, though the air between them seemed subtly changed, as though threads had been pulled and knotted where none had been before.