In the days that followed the Queen's Ball, the house on Wiltshire Lane sank into its usual rhythm of laughter, perfume, and deceit. Yet to Lily, everything felt changed—colder, heavier, as though even the air had grown thick with unspoken truths.
She had not smiled since that night. When the women gathered in the parlour for luncheon, giggling over their newest patrons or teasing one another about silk gowns and favors won, Lily sat in silence. She lifted her teacup with trembling hands, forcing a smile only when someone looked her way. It was a fragile, painted thing, that smile—like a cracked porcelain doll pretending to still be whole.
"Sweet Lily, you are far too quiet these days," cooed one of the older girls, Mariette, her laughter edged with cruelty. "Still thinking of your mysterious ball, are you? Did a lord promise to sweep you away?"
The table erupted in laughter, but Lily merely bowed her head. The sound of their amusement was distant, muffled, as though she were hearing it from behind glass. Her fingers tightened around her cup until the porcelain creaked.
"No lord," she murmured. "Only dreams."
"Dreams don't pay for lace," another girl quipped, and the laughter swelled again.
Only Madame Roselle noticed that Lily did not join them. From the far end of the table, the house's mistress watched her with a thoughtful expression, her crimson lips curling into something between fondness and calculation.
That evening, when the others were preparing for their callers, Roselle sent for her.
Madame Roselle's chambers were perfumed with violet and smoke. The velvet drapes glowed under the lamplight, and a soft tune played from a music box near the window. Lily stood at the threshold, feeling once again like the child she had been when she first arrived—small, uncertain, the air too rich for her lungs.
"Come in, my dove," Roselle said warmly. "Close the door."
Lily obeyed, her bare feet silent against the rug.
Roselle studied her for a long moment before speaking. "You've been different lately. Quieter. Pale, even for you. Are you unwell?"
"No, madame."
Roselle rose from her chair, her silks whispering. "You've grown so beautiful, Lily. Seventeen, are you not? Nearly eighteen?"
"Yes, madame."
"Such a delicate age." Roselle smiled, and though her tone was sweet, her eyes gleamed with intent. "Do you know what that means, child?"
Lily hesitated. "That I am of age."
"Indeed. And that means it is time for you to stop scrubbing floors and start earning your keep properly."
The words struck Lily like a cold wind. She lifted her gaze, searching the older woman's face for kindness. "Madame, please—I can continue to clean, to sew, to serve—"
Roselle's laughter was soft and indulgent. "My dear, you were not brought here to serve tea forever. You were born for softer work. You've no idea the kind of fortune your first appearance could bring."
"My… first?"
Roselle crossed the room, her perfume heavy and sweet. She cupped Lily's face in one jeweled hand, her thumb brushing away the tear that had escaped down the girl's cheek. "Don't cry, my dove. It's a beautiful thing, your becoming. Every girl faces it. And for you—ah, for you, there will be a bidding war the likes of which London has never seen."
Lily's breath caught. "A bidding… war?"
"Yes," Roselle purred. "At the opera next month. Every gentleman of worth will attend—the viscounts, the earls, even the royal family. They will all want the honor of your first night. You'll be admired, adored, envied. You'll never want for anything again."
A single tear trembled on Lily's lashes. "I do not wish to be adored," she whispered.
Roselle sighed, the sound soft as silk. "You think you have a choice, my dear. But beauty is a currency in this world, and yours could purchase a kingdom." She kissed Lily's forehead lightly, motherly, as though to bless the ruin she had just decreed. "It will be all right. I will make sure the man who wins you is kind. Gentle, even."
But kindness and gentleness had become empty words to Lily—sounds that once promised safety and now meant only loss.
When Roselle dismissed her, Lily walked the dark corridor back to her room, her heart numb. The house was alive with laughter and music, but she felt as though she were moving through a dream again, one she could not wake from. She closed her door, pressed her back against it, and let herself cry silently until her tears ran dry.
Days passed, though Lily barely marked them. She went about her chores, her motions mechanical, her smiles faint and hollow. She no longer looked out the window toward the city; she no longer hummed to herself when she worked. At night, she stared at the ceiling, counting the shadows until dawn.
The opera loomed like a storm on the horizon, whispered about by every girl in the house, each of them secretly envious that Lily would be its centerpiece. They called her "lucky," "favored," "the chosen." But luck was a cruel joke, and favor a chain she could not escape.
Far from Wiltshire Lane, in the polished stillness of the royal hunting grounds, two riders galloped through the frost-bitten morning air.
The Prince and his closest friend, Viscount James Langford, rode side by side beneath a pale winter sun. Their laughter echoed through the woods, easy and careless, at least on James's part.
"You've been uncommonly silent, old friend," James teased, pulling his horse to a slower pace. "Still brooding over the ball? Or has your mother chosen yet another debutante for you to charm and discard?"
The Prince smirked faintly, though the expression did not reach his eyes. "My mother has opinions enough for the entire court. As for the ball…" He paused. "It was… eventful."
"Eventful!" James laughed. "You left poor Josephine standing mid-dance before the entire peerage. Her mother was so offended she refused to curtsy to the Queen afterward."
"I had a reason," the Prince muttered.
"Ah, yes—the mysterious girl in blue," James said lightly, turning in his saddle to glance at him. "The one you chased into the gardens."
The Prince's jaw tightened. "You know of her?"
"Everyone knows of her. Half of London's bachelors are convinced she's some nobleman's bastard or a foreign countess in disguise. The other half think she's a ghost."
"Perhaps she was," the Prince said under his breath.
James laughed again. "If so, she's the most haunting spirit I've ever heard of. Do you recall her name?"
The Prince did not answer.
The Viscount's expression softened. "Well, if she reappears, I should like to meet her. The descriptions are… intriguing. Pale hair, eyes like sapphires, beauty unmatched. She sounds exactly the sort of woman I'd marry."
The Prince pulled on his reins so sharply his horse reared. "She is not for you."
The echo of hooves faded into the hush of the forest as frost shimmered on the bare branches above. The Prince's pulse still thundered from the words that had escaped him—sharp, possessive, and far too revealing. James stared at him, startled, the laughter dying from his lips.
"Not for me?" he said finally, his tone light but his eyes curious. "Good God, Edward, you speak as if she were yours already."
The Prince looked away, his gaze tracing the thin wisp of smoke rising from a distant cottage chimney. The air smelled of cold earth and memory. "She is no one's," he said quietly. "And yet…" His hand tightened on the reins. "I cannot forget her."
James dismounted, brushing the frost from his gloves. "You've had infatuations before. Dozens. What makes this one different?"
Edward—Prince Edward of Aramoor, heir to the throne and prisoner of his own crown—swung down from his horse, boots crunching over the frozen leaves. He thought of the girl in blue: her trembling hands clutching the edge of her mask, the way her eyes had met his as though she'd recognized something in him—something lost and fragile.
"She looked afraid," he murmured. "Not like the others. There was no pretense in her smile, no hunger for favor. Only fear… and something else."
"Fear and mystery," James said with a smirk. "A deadly combination for a man like you."
Edward ignored the jab. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the way she'd fled, the slipper she'd dropped on the marble steps, the haunting echo of her voice when she whispered her name. Lily. A name as simple as a prayer.
That night, long after the court had fallen to sleep, the Prince sat in his study by the fire, the small silk slipper resting in his hands. The moonlight turned the glass windows silver, and the flame's reflection danced across his eyes. He had ordered his men to inquire discreetly at every manor, every estate, every merchant's house in London. Yet no one knew of a girl fitting her description.
"Lily," he whispered again, his voice breaking on the sound.
He did not know that only a few streets away, that same name trembled on another's lips—spoken in fear, not longing.
Lily sat before the mirror in Madame Roselle's chamber, the lamplight soft on her pale face. Her gown—a cascade of silver and powder blue—hung from her shoulders like a curse. The maids fluttered around her, adjusting ribbons, pinning curls, dusting her skin with glittering powder. To them, she was a creation of beauty. To Lily, she was a prisoner adorned for sacrifice.
Madame Roselle entered, her perfume announcing her before her voice. "Perfect," she said, surveying Lily with a satisfied smile. "A vision. Remember, my dove—smile softly, keep your eyes down, and let them come to you. The more you tremble, the higher they'll bid."
Lily felt her stomach twist. "Please, Madame, I don't want this."
Roselle's smile faltered for only a moment before her tone turned to honeyed steel. "Then you should have been born plain, child. Beauty is a promise, and tonight, you shall fulfill yours."
As the carriage rattled toward the opera house, Lily's hands trembled in her lap. She could hear the carols of winter faintly through the fog, the laughter of men spilling from taverns, the distant chime of the clock tower marking the hours.
And somewhere across the city, Prince Edward looked up at that same clock and made a vow under his breath.
He would find her.No matter what world she belonged to—noble or common, dream or shadow—he would find the girl in blue.
For innocence had a name, and it was Lily.