The silk's whisper against her skin felt like judgment. Anastasia stood rigid on the fitting platform, watching the dressmaker fuss over Cinderella in the adjacent mirror. The other girl's laughter sparkled like champagne, effortless and bright as she discussed embroidery patterns.
"Perhaps golden thread along the bodice?" Cinderella gestured gracefully. "To catch the candlelight?"
"Brilliant, my dear!" Madame Laurent's weathered hands fluttered with excitement. "You have such an eye for these things."
Anastasia's own reflection stared back at her, hollow-eyed. The half-pinned burgundy silk hung awkwardly around her shoulders, more shroud than gown. A pin slipped, and the fabric gaped unflatteringly. Even cloth rebels against me.
"Stand straight, please," Madame Laurent called over her shoulder, not really looking. "And do mind the hem, dear."
The wooden platform creaked beneath Anastasia's shifting weight. Her stays dug into her ribs, too tight after the morning's pastries. She shouldn't have indulged, but the kitchen had smelled so wonderful, and for once the cook had smiled at her instead of shooing her away.
"Oh, and the neckline!" Cinderella twirled, her ash-blonde curls catching the afternoon light. "Could we lower it just a touch? For dancing?"
"For the prince, you mean?" Madame Laurent winked, and both women dissolved into knowing giggles.
The pin in Anastasia's bodice stabbed deeper. She could feel her pulse hammering against it, each beat screaming: You'll never be her. You'll never be enough. The room's perfumed air grew thick, cloying. Powder and rose water and fresh-pressed linens merged into a suffocating cloud.
"I saw him in the market yesterday," Cinderella confided, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "He bought oranges from the Castilian merchant. Imagine, a prince doing his own shopping!"
"How delightfully common of him," Madame Laurent sighed. "And did he notice you, dear?"
"He smiled! Though perhaps he was only being polite..."
Anastasia's fingers trembled as she gripped the silk's folds. The fabric's rich color now seemed garish against her too-pale skin, like wine spilled across a pristine tablecloth. Mother would hate it. Mother would see Cinderella in her perfect blue silk and compare them, always compare them.
One chance, Mother had said that morning, her emerald eyes sharp as cut glass. One night to secure your future. Do not disappoint me.
The first tear fell silently, leaving a dark spot on the burgundy silk. Anastasia blinked rapidly, but more followed. Her throat closed around a sob.
"And these pearl buttons," Cinderella continued, "they're exactly right. How do you always know?"
"Years of experience, my dear. Now, for the sleeves—"
The room tilted sideways in Anastasia's vision, the mirrors multiplying her failure infinitely. Each reflection showed the same truth: her reddening face, her trembling lips, her complete inability to be the daughter her mother needed. The daughter who could charm princes and secure alliances. The daughter who wouldn't end up alone.
Please, she thought desperately, please let me disappear. But the mirrors kept watching, and Cinderella kept laughing, and the pins kept stabbing, until finally, finally, something inside her shattered.
Her hands flew to her face as her knees buckled. The stool caught her descent, but she barely felt it through the storm of her breakdown. Behind her palms, safe in the darkness, the tears flowed freely at last.
Anastasia flinched as gentle fingers brushed her shoulder. Through tear-blurred vision, she saw Drizella's emerald silk sleeve—so like their mother's favored shade, yet somehow warmer. Her sister's touch was hesitant, almost foreign after years of sharp words between them.
"Come with me," Drizella whispered, helping her off the fitting stool. The burgundy silk of Anastasia's half-pinned gown rustled accusingly. Another failure. Another dress that would never make her beautiful enough.
Drizella guided her through a narrow door behind the mirrors, into a maze of storage corridors that smelled of mothballs and dried lavender. Their footsteps echoed on creaking floorboards, and Anastasia's fingers traced rough-hewn walls as they descended a tight spiral staircase. The air grew cooler, heavy with the scent of raw cotton and dye.
"I used to hide here too," Drizella said, her voice soft in the darkness. "Whenever Mother paraded another 'suitable match' before us. Did you know Lord Pembrook's son had a glass eye? He kept winking it at me during tea."
A wet laugh escaped Anastasia's throat. "The one that was slightly larger than the other?"
"It fell into his cup when he sneezed. Mother was mortified."
They emerged into a narrow passage lined with crates. Anastasia's fingers caught on rough splinters as she steadied herself, the tears finally slowing. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere real." Drizella's skirts swished against the crates. "Do you remember Father's counting house? Before the fire?"
The memory hit like a physical blow—warm mahogany desks, the scratch of quills, Father's laughter as he taught them to balance the ledgers. "Mother burned his books."
"Not all of them." Drizella's voice hardened. "I saved some. Started studying them in secret. Did you know our dowries aren't just sitting in trust? I've been investing them. Building something."
They turned a corner, and Anastasia gasped. The passage opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow. Rows of mechanical looms stretched into the darkness, their metal teeth gleaming. The air hummed with potential energy, threads of raw magic crackling between the spools.
"This is how I survived," Drizella said, leading her between the machines. "While Mother was forcing us into ballgowns, I was learning commodity futures. Supply chains. The real magic of commerce."
Anastasia touched one of the looms, feeling its latent power vibrate through her fingers. "But Mother always said—"
"That a lady's place is in the parlor? That our only value lies in making advantageous marriages?" Drizella's laugh was bitter. "Look around, sister. This warehouse moves more gold in a day than ten noble marriages. And unlike a husband's fortune, no one can take it from me."
The truth of it settled into Anastasia's bones. She breathed in the honest scents of oil and wool, so different from the cloying perfumes of the fitting room. "How did you learn all this?"
"The same way Father did. One ledger at a time." Drizella squeezed her hand. "You're not invisible, Ana. You're not worthless. You just haven't found your real worth yet."
They reached a heavy oak door studded with iron. Brass numbers gleamed on its surface: WAREHOUSE 7. Drizella reached for the ring of keys at her belt, the metal catching the light from the gas lamps above.
"Ready to see how deep the rabbit hole goes?"