Chapter seventeen – The red widow's ball
The manor breathed unease.
A cold hush clung to the morning air, even as servants moved quickly through the marble halls of Vaelric estate. In pairs or small clusters, they worked — polishing candle sconces until the metal gleamed like ice, unrolling thick crimson carpets, and stringing garlands of withered roses and dark ivy across the chandeliers. Silver trays were stacked high with glass goblets, their sharp rims catching the light like teeth.
Tonight was not a ball. No music rehearsed. No heraldry announced.
Only whispered words passed among the help.
"A private gathering," one young maid muttered, adjusting a velvet curtain under the sweeping arches of the ballroom. "That's what they called it."
"Not for us," said another, smoothing the hem of her apron. "It's for them. Nobles. Lady Ravienne's sort."
The first scoffed, glancing nervously toward the corridor. "I heard she invited Elira too. The one who they call Lord Thorne's little stray.'"
The other chuckled. "Wouldn't be surprised if they set her up again. Did you see how she looked at her last time? Like a cat cornering a bird."
"She won't last long."
"Shh—!"
Their words snapped shut like a vice when Alaric stepped into the hall.
The steward said nothing at first, his sharp eyes scanning the corridor like a blade drawing across parchment. His presence was more command than voice. Even the dust seemed to still beneath his boots.
"You two," he said, tone clipped, "enough chatter. If you have time for loose tongues, you have time to polish the crystal again."
They bowed quickly and scurried off.
Alaric turned to one of the junior staff waiting near the alcove. "Send Mirelle to the lady's chambers. Inform her Lady Ravienne requires her attendance tonight. Make certain she is… presentable."
The girl nodded and fled down the corridor.
Elira was seated by the window in her room, the dull grey light smudging her reflection on the glass like an echo that didn't belong to her. She had not left her quarters since the incident in the drawing room with Lady Ravienne — since the weight of that encounter had settled in her bones like cold ash.
when the knock finally came, it wasn't loud. Just a soft rapping, barely audible over the hum of wind threading through the narrow windows. Yet it sliced through the silence of her chambers like a blade.
Elira's heart gave a violent jolt.
She didn't move, not at first. Just stared at the door, breath shallow.
It creaked open. Mirelle stepped in, quiet as a shadow, her head bowed. Her apron was crisp and white, freshly pressed—but the rest of her… the rest of her looked worn. Shoulders pinched inward like someone who had braced too long against a storm.
"You're being summoned," Mirelle said, voice barely above a whisper.
Elira blinked. "Summoned?"
The maid nodded. "Tonight." She kept her gaze fixed somewhere near Elira's shoes, as though looking her in the eye might be dangerous.
Elira's body tensed. "Another gathering?"
"A private one. Hosted by Lady Ravienne herself."
The words settled like ice in her veins.
Elira stood, slowly, carefully, as if the movement itself might provoke the unseen forces wrapped around her. The collar at her throat gave an invisible tug, a phantom pull that made her skin prickle. It felt like a warning.
"I'm not going," she said, more to herself than anyone.
Mirelle didn't respond. Not with words.
She merely stood still—unmoving, unreadable.
"I mean it," Elira insisted, her voice sharpening. "I don't owe them a performance."
Still, silence.
And then—
"You don't," Mirelle murmured, so softly the words barely reached her. "But sometimes… survival means pretending you do."
Elira stared. The weight of those words didn't strike like a blow. They seeped—quiet and cold—into the hollows of her chest.
She took a step closer. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, old wood protesting her approach.
"What happened?" she asked. "Why do you sound like that?"
Mirelle finally looked at her then, but her eyes held no light. No warmth.
"Like what?"
"Like someone's wrung the voice out of you."
A flicker of something passed over the maid's face—pain, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
"You ask too many questions," she said quietly, "for someone who's already trapped."
Elira's throat tightened. "Did they hurt you?" she asked, reaching forward, fingers brushing Mirelle's wrist. "If she did something—"
Mirelle gently pulled away, like the contact itself stung.
"Don't," she said. "Don't make it harder than it is."
Elira's mouth parted, but no sound came.
"Please," Mirelle added, softer now. "Just… wear what I bring. I'll stay. I'll help you get ready."
And with that, the conversation ended—not with resolution, but with resignation.
Elira stood in the silence that followed, her arms at her sides, fingers curling inward. The helplessness wasn't new. But it was heavier this time. Like iron settling in her gut.
And Mirelle—quiet, obedient Mirelle—was already turning to fetch the gown.
Mirelle laid the gown across the bed with care, her fingers smoothing over the dark velvet like it might bite her if she moved too quickly.
"You'll wear this one," she said, her voice steady, but her eyes remained fixed on the fabric.
Elira sat motionless at the edge of the mattress, her bare feet curled against the cold floorboards. "It's too fine," she murmured. "She's dressing me up like a prized pig for slaughter."
Mirelle gave a faint breath of a smile — not amusement, but agreement unspoken.
"It's not the dress that matters," she said. "It's what they expect to see inside it."
Elira stared at her. "And what is that?"
"A girl who knows her place."
The silence stretched. Mirelle turned, holding up the gown. "Arms up."
Elira obeyed, the velvet slipping over her skin like winter dusk — heavy, cold, inevitable. The neckline dipped lower than she liked, and the sleeves clung to her like smoke.
Mirelle fastened the laces at the back, fingers working swiftly, efficiently. But Elira felt the slight tremble in them — the momentary hesitation before the knot tightened.
"They've done something to you," she whispered, voice low. "Since the last time."
"I've been here a long time," Mirelle replied softly. "Long enough to know which battles bruise quietly."
Elira turned her head. "Why are you still here, Mirelle?"
Something flickered in the maid's eyes. "Because some of us don't get to leave, even if we run."
Neither spoke after that.
Mirelle moved to brush out Elira's hair, her touch gentle despite the weight in the room. She braided one side and pinned it with a silver comb. "There," she murmured, her voice gentler now. "They'll see what they want to see."
Elira met her eyes in the mirror.
"And what do you see?"
Mirelle's hands paused.
"A girl who still believes she can fight."