As night fell, a cold wind picked up. Ashlyn shivered, huddled in a dark alley across from the mansion that was once her home. Her tears had dried, replaced by a cold, hard knot of fury and despair in her stomach. She watched the guards patrol the outer walls, their lanterns casting swinging circles of light. She knew their routes. She knew their schedules. She had lived in the Thompson's mansion for a year; she knew the in and out of the building.
They think they have won, she thought, a bitter fire kindling within her. They think they can just throw me away like trash. But that title, that life… it's mine. It was always meant to be mine.
She waited until the deepest part of the night, when the moon was hidden behind thick clouds and the street was utterly silent. She made her way to the back of the estate, to a section of the stone wall covered in thick ivy. She had discovered long ago that the ivy was strong enough to be used as a ladder.
Her fine shoes were useless for climbing, so she kicked them off. The rough stone scraped her hands and tore at the hem of her gown, but she didn't care. She focused only on the top of the wall. With a final, desperate heave, she pulled herself over, landing with a soft thud in the manicured bushes of the garden.
For a moment, she lay still, listening. The only sound was the rustling of leaves in the wind. She was inside.
She went to the small side door used by the kitchen staff. It was supposed to be locked, but old habits died hard, and she knew the cook often left it unlatched for the baker's early morning delivery. Her hand closed around the cool metal handle. She turned it slowly. It clicked open.
Inside, the mansion was dark and quiet. She avoided the main staircase and used the narrow servants' stairs, her heart pounding with every step.
Her destination was the grand duchess's suite. Her suite. Or it was, until this afternoon. Now, it belonged to Marissa. The thought sent a fresh jolt of venom through her veins.
She reached the door and listened. Nothing. Carefully, she turned the knob and pushed the door open, inch by inch. The room was empty. And there, displayed on a mannequin near the window, was the coronation dress.
It was magnificent. Made of thick, cream-colored satin, with intricate gold embroidery that glittered even in the faint moonlight. It was a dress made for a queen, for a woman of immense power and prestige. It was everything she had lost.
She walked towards it as if in a trance. She touched the smooth fabric, her fingers tracing the golden threads. This was supposed to be her moment, her glory.
A sudden, wild idea took root in her mind. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned her own soiled gown and let it fall to the floor in a heap. She stood in her thin undergarments, shivering slightly, before carefully lifting the heavy coronation dress from its stand.
She slipped it over her head. It settled onto her shoulders perfectly. It fit as if it had been made for her. She walked to Marissa's vanity, a large, ornate table with a three-paneled mirror. On it, laid out for the morning, were the coronation ornaments: a heavy gold necklace, delicate earrings, and a small, sparkling tiara.
She sat on the plush stool. Staring at her reflection, she began to dress her hair. She pinned her dark curls up in an elegant style, fit for the coronation. Then, she picked up the necklace and fastened it around her neck. The cool metal felt strange against her skin. She put on the earrings. Finally, she picked up the tiara. She held it for a long moment, looking at the woman in the mirror. For a fleeting second, she saw her. The Grand Duchess. Powerful. Respected.
Meanwhile, Marissa was making her final rounds. She had just finished speaking with the head steward, going over the last-minute details for the ceremony. Her mind was buzzing with lists and schedules. She felt exhausted but filled with a nervous excitement. She wanted nothing more than to go to her room and rest.
She walked down the quiet hallway, her soft slippers making no sound. She reached her door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
And then she stopped dead.
The scene before her was so bizarre, so impossible, that for a second she thought she was dreaming. There, sitting at her vanity, was her sister, Ashlyn. She was wearing the coronation dress. Her hair was done. She was wearing the royal ornaments. She was staring at her own reflection in the mirror with a look of intense, desperate longing.
The world seemed to shrink to the space of that room. The only sound was the soft ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece.
"Ashlyn?" Marissa spoke, her voice low, filled with a deep and profound confusion. "Why are you in my room?"