Morning sunlight spilled through the lace curtains of Rosaline's workroom, casting golden dapples across bolts of fabric and spools of thread. The scent of lavender soap lingered in the air, mixing with the faint tang of freshly brewed tea wafting in from the kitchen. It was the kind of morning that begged for peace.....and Rosaline clung to it like thread to needle.
She sat cross-legged on the floor beside a dress form, purple silk draped gracefully over it. Under her fingers, the fabric caught the light like the sky at dusk.
Her needle moved with the rhythm of breath....steady, sure. Stitching had become more than craft. It was therapy.
Each thread was a thought, each embellishment a feeling she couldn't say aloud.
Across from her, Ciara was knee-deep in lace trims, frowning in fierce concentration.
"Okay," she said, holding up two options, "silver shimmer or pearl-beaded border?"
Rosaline tilted her head, studying them like a seasoned judge at a fashion tribunal.
"Silver. She'll want something that sparkles."
Ciara huffed dramatically. "Of course. If Lysandra could, she'd demand a gown made entirely of starlight."
Rosaline chuckled, soft but genuine. "Let's not give her ideas."
They both laughed, and for a moment, the ache in Rosaline's chest eased. It didn't vanish....pain rarely does....but it dulled. Distant. Bearable.
"I've been thinking," Rosaline murmured, carefully pinning a length of embroidered tulle to the bodice,
"maybe I'll add some crystal beading at the waist. Not too loud. Just…a whisper of sparkle."
Ciara's eyes lit up. "Smart. Classy but not overbearing. That'll elevate the whole look."
"I want this to be my best work," Rosaline said, her voice low.
Ciara glanced up from her pile of trims. "It already is. And if I can be honest.....it's helping you, isn't it?"
Rosaline paused mid-stitch. Her gaze drifted to the soft light spilling over her desk, the hum of the village outside, the warmth of her friend sitting near. She nodded. "It is. I might not be able to fix what's broken inside me, but here...."
she held up the silk "....I get to build something beautiful again."
There was a knock at the door. Then her mother's voice called from the hallway, "Rosie! You've got a visitor, sweetheart!"
Ciara raised a brow. "Expecting anyone?"
Rosaline shook her head. "No. Maybe another customer?"
The door creaked open, and Liam stepped inside.
He filled the room with his presence.....tall, broad-shouldered, tousled dark hair slightly damp like he'd just come in from a morning run.
He wore a simple navy tunic tucked into black trousers, and though he didn't say anything at first, his amber eyes softened when they landed on Rosaline.
"Morning," he said, offering a warm smile. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
Rosaline blinked. "Liam. No, not at all." She set her needle aside and rose from the floor, smoothing her skirt. "Come in."
Ciara shot her brother a look. "You're early. What, did the forest spit you out?"
Liam smirked. "Training ended early. Thought I'd check in on my favorite seamstress."
Ciara rolled her eyes. "You mean your only seamstress friend."
"Details," he said with a shrug, then turned his attention back to the dress on the mannequin. "Is that the one?"
"For Lysandra Drake," Rosaline said.
Liam approached carefully, eyes scanning the fabric like it was sacred. "That's… incredible. You made this?"
Rosaline gave a modest nod. "Still in progress. The silhouette's nearly done, I'm finishing the beading today."
He looked genuinely impressed. "You're going to put every tailor in Silvervale out of business."
"I'll take that as a compliment," she said with a small smile.
"You should," he said earnestly.
Ciara stood, brushing fabric dust from her skirt. "She's not just talented, she's practically magic with thread."
Liam nodded. "I've been hearing rumors about the girl from Willow who stitched gowns fit for nobility. Didn't believe them—until now."
Rosaline's cheeks flushed. "I just want to finish this one. It's… important."
There was a beat of silence. Then Liam said gently, "You've been quiet since you got back from the capital. Everything okay?"
Rosaline's hands hesitated on the edge of the bodice, fingers curling slightly. "I just needed some time. That's all."
Liam didn't press. "Well, if you ever need someone to talk to, or to… I don't know, chase down misbehaving nobles...I'm your guy."
Ciara snorted. "He means it, you know. He scared off a boy who tried to flirt with me at the bakery last week."
"I prefer 'politely warned,'" Liam said innocently.
Rosaline laughed under her breath. "Thanks, Liam. Really."
He looked at her for a long moment, something unspoken passing in the silence. Then he gave a little nod. "Alright. I'll get out of your hair. Just wanted to say hi."
She walked him to the door, her hand briefly brushing his as he turned to go. "You didn't have to come all this way."
"I wanted to," he replied simply.
After he left, the room stayed quiet for a moment.
Then Ciara muttered, "He's in deep."
Rosaline pretended not to hear. "Hand me the fine lace, will you?"
Ciara handed it over but didn't let the moment go. "You know he likes you. Always has."
Rosaline sighed. "He's a good friend. I don't want to lead him on."
"You're not. You're just… existing. And healing. That's allowed."
Rosaline didn't reply. Her hands went back to stitching, more sure than before.
A little while later, Mrs. Hartley appeared at the door, carrying a tray of tea and yam cakes dusted in sugar.
"You two have been working all morning," she said, setting it down with a smile.
"Thought you could use a break."
Ciara's eyes lit up. "Bless you, Mrs. Hartley."
Rosaline smiled up at her mother. "Thank you, Mama."
Her mother's gaze lingered on her, soft and knowing. "You're glowing a little again."
"I am?" Rosaline asked.
Her mother nodded. "A mother knows. And I'm proud of you."
They shared the snacks in companionable silence before returning to work.
As the afternoon wore on, Rosaline moved from stitching to shaping, smoothing the fabric across the form, tucking seams with expert fingers. She added fine lace to the sleeves, creating elegant bell cuffs trimmed with delicate silver thread. A row of tiny crystal buttons adorned the back, each sewn with meticulous care.
Ciara helped with the hemline, crouched low and pinning the train as Rosaline adjusted the waistline embroidery.
"It's really coming together," Ciara said. "Lysandra might scream with joy."
"Or with criticism," Rosaline replied wryly.
"Either way, she'll be loud," Ciara teased.
They shared another laugh.
At some point, the sunlight dimmed just slightly, golden shifting to amber as the day stretched toward dusk. Rosaline stood back from the dress, wiping her hands on her apron.
The gown shimmered under the light. Regal. Feminine. Strong.
Ciara stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes wide. "Rosie… it's beautiful."
Rosaline blinked back a sudden wash of emotion. "Yeah. It really is."
And for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe again.
Not because the pain was gone....but because she was finding beauty beyond it.
She wasn't just a girl rejected by her mate.
She was Rosaline Hartley.
She was more than someone left behind.
She was a seamstress. A creator. A daughter. A survivor.
And with every stitch, she was coming back to herself.