The week had passed in a blur of silks and whispers, and before Ilaria could quite believe it, the day had arrived. Her chamber was alive with rustling fabric and the hushed coordination of hands, the air was scented faintly with oils and pressed flowers.
She sat before the mirror, heart fluttering faster than the seamstress' needle as they pinned the last touches to her gown. Every time she thought to sit still, her reflection betrayed her. Melyn was not here today, so she could not flaunt her anticipation carelessly.
By the time the final ribbon was tied, Ilaria rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. She drew a long breath, but it was no use, the excitement swelled in her chest like a song she could not contain.
