Penelope Featherington had become something of an expert at slipping out of her own house.
Partially because Portia never noticed when she was gone, partially because Prudence and Philipa were far too self-absorbed to ask questions, and mostly because Penelope needed thread.
And buttons. And trim. And peace.
Two years had passed since her fall from the horse, and the world had shifted in a dozen small, quiet ways.
She had learned to live between breaths—between Portia's demands, her sisters' complaints, society's expectations.
She had unlocked over fifty crafting sub-skills, three new branches, and enough passive buffs to run a small magical factory out of her secret workroom.
Eloise visited often, barged in always, and—on no less than four occasions—announced:
"I have decided you should marry one of my brothers. Any of them! Then you won't have to deal with your mother and we can read in peace forever."
Anthony had nearly choked on his tea once. Benedict had blinked rapidly.
Colin had turned pink and stammered.
Gregory had said, "What does marriage have to do with books?"
Penelope, of course, had died inside each time.
Still, Eloise saw corruption in Portia even if she didn't yet understand it. Her loyalty had become another secret shield Penelope hid behind.
Visiting the Bridgertons—in London or the country—had become her one reprieve. Even if it meant mastering the art of avoiding Anthony's perceptive stare, Colin's sunshine smiles, Benedict's curious questions, and the occasional visits of Simon and his cold, analytical assessments.
Staying invisible among Bridgertons was like trying to hide behind a candle in a ballroom.
But she managed.
Mostly.
Which brought her to today—hooded cloak, clandestine purpose, and an incredibly long list of supplies.
The Featherington carriage was at the modiste for Prudence's fittings, which Portia had declared too important for Penelope to attend.
Perfect.
Penelope slipped down the side street toward a small boutique she loved in secret, savoring the scent of starch, bolt-dyed cotton, and polished wood.
The door chimed as she entered.
She froze.
She'd accidentally walked straight into Madame Genevieve Delacroix's private shop.
Not the public storefront (as she had intended). Not where assistants hovered.
No—her workshop.
Genevieve stood with one hand on her hip, eyebrow arched with a level of judgment that could cut diamonds.
"What," the modiste asked slowly, "is a Featherington child doing here without a chaperone?"
Penelope opened her mouth— —then spotted the display gown behind Genevieve.
And gasped.
"No, no, the bodice is fighting the skirt," she blurted before she could stop herself. "You stitched the tension wrong at the waist seam."
Silence.
Genevieve blinked.
Penelope would've liked the floor to open up and swallow her.
The modiste turned, inspected her own work, frowned… and then really looked at Penelope.
"What did you say?"
Penelope swallowed. "The fabric is pulling because the tension shifts at the boning. If you adjust the angle—just a little—you can let the body weight support the front panel instead of fighting it."
Genevieve stared at her.
Then wordlessly handed her a sketch.
"Fix it."
Penelope froze. "Pardon?"
"Fix the design. If you are so certain of seams and tension—show me."
The System chimed softly.
⟦ MISSION AVAILABLE: A BUSINESS PROPOSAL ⟧ [Objective: Demonstrate high-level design knowledge without revealing magical abilities. Reward: Partnership Path — Unlocked.]
Her heart thudded.
She took the sketch. She inhaled. She envisioned the fabric lines, the body map, the way pressure needed to flow.
Her fingers moved on instinct.
Stitch-Sense. Fabric Vision. Emotional-Thread Alignment.
All muted—subtle—mundane.
To the untrained eye.
She handed it back.
Genevieve stared.
Then stared longer.
"…You are thirteen," the woman finally managed.
"Almost fourteen," Penelope whispered.
"This is not talent." Genevieve looked at the drawing like it had offended her. "This is mastery."
Penelope flushed. "I just… understand cloth."
"Understand? Child, you command it."
The modiste circled her once, suspicious and intrigued.
"What else can you do?"
Penelope paused, careful. "I can… mend quickly. Adjust silhouettes. Map fabrics to body shapes. I sew neatly."
Neatly. As if she hadn't enchanted five gowns in a single night last month.
Genevieve narrowed her eyes. "Show me."
Penelope hesitated—then quietly unbuttoned the sleeve of her coat and revealed the cuff of a pale green day dress she'd made in secret.
Soft, elegant, perfectly proportioned—almost too sophisticated for a thirteen-year-old girl.
Genevieve touched the fabric.
Her breath caught.
"This," she whispered, "is not the work of a child."
Penelope's stomach twisted. Had she gone too far?
Genevieve looked up with a slow, wicked smile.
"Penelope Featherington," she murmured, "let's build an empire."
The System chimed like a bell tolling fate.
⟦ MISSION COMPLETE: A BUSINESS PROPOSAL ⟧ [Reward Acquired: Partnership Path — Delacroix New Affinity Level: 12%]
Penelope breathed in—carefully, quietly, like she could steady the threads of her new life with will alone.
An empire.
Not for Portia.
Not for society.
For herself.
Maybe… for once in this newer life… she didn't have to survive alone.