Lily woke before dawn, her skin clammy, her breath ragged. The thin walls of Madame Roselle's house creaked with the sounds of the waking city—vendors calling, wheels clattering, laughter too coarse for morning. For a moment, she could not tell whether the dream had been a memory or a haunting.
She rose from her narrow bed, still in the blue gown, now wrinkled and sullied from her secret flight. The hem was torn, her hair tangled with petals that did not belong to her world.
Moving as if in a trance, she poured water into the tin basin and stripped away the gown. The water was cold, biting her skin like penance. She washed once. Then again. And again. But the scent of roses clung to her like shame.
It was not just her body she tried to cleanse—it was the memory of his touch, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding with confusion, fear, disbelief. She rubbed until her skin reddened, whispering prayers to a God she was no longer certain listened to women like her.
When she looked into the mirror, the girl who stared back was not Lily James, the maid, or the mystery of the ball. She was someone else—something forged from loss and silence.
"Beautiful," Madame Roselle had once called her."Useful," another man had said."Mine," the Prince had whispered.
None of those words felt like her own.
Outside, the morning light crept through the shutters, painting gold upon the worn floorboards. The city of London stirred to life, unaware that its newest scandal had already begun to bloom.
Whispers spread quickly in Mayfair. The Queen's Ball had ended strangely—the Crown Prince leaving the floor mid-dance, his partner, Josephine, left bewildered before the eyes of all. The King had excused it with a strained smile, insisting his son was "unwell." But mothers whispered otherwise. Daughters envied the woman who had stolen the Prince's attention.
Josephine, fair and mild as spring, sat alone in her gilded chamber, replaying every glance, every step. She told herself it was nothing. Yet her heart, loyal and naïve, trembled. She had loved him quietly for years, as women of good breeding were taught to love—modestly, with hope disguised as duty. Now she feared that hope had been misplaced.
Back in the dim light of Madame Roselle's house, Lily dressed in plain muslin and tied her hair with a ribbon that had seen better days. Her hands shook as she folded the ruined blue gown into a chest, burying it beneath rags as though that might bury the memory itself.
Madame Roselle entered without knocking, her painted face unreadable. "You were gone long last night," she said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as glass. "The ladies noticed."
Lily said nothing.
"Be careful, my dove," Roselle murmured, reaching to tilt Lily's chin upward. "You fly too close to the sun, and even the most beautiful wings can burn."
Lily flinched from the touch. "It was only a dream," she whispered. "A foolish dream."
But she knew it was not.
As the sun rose higher, the city's whispers grew louder. Somewhere in the palace, the Prince sat in his chambers, the scent of night-blooming roses still clinging to his memory. He did not know her name, yet her image haunted him—the pale skin, the eyes like blue fire, the slap that had stung more deeply than any wound.
And in the Queen's private rooms, another woman stared from her window, recalling a fleeting glimpse of a girl in blue—a beauty out of place, yet unforgettable. The Queen did not yet know her name either. But she would.
For in that single night beneath the moon, two women's fates had been set on a path that would one day collide—with love, with ruin, and with the crown itself.
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, my 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, you're 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, and 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 Pembroke, rode side by side beneath a pale spring's 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."