Bellmere, Ravenshade – Spring, 1823
The bell above the door of Wren & Co. didn't just chime; it screamed.
A raw, metallic shriek that sliced through the quiet hum of the workshop, followed by the splintering slam of the door against the interior wall. Every head in the shop snapped up. Needles froze mid-stitch. Even the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun seemed to hang suspended in the sudden, violent silence.
Isadora was elbow-deep in a bolt of midnight silk, its fine threads cool against her skin, the scent of dye and dust familiar as her own name. Before she could even straighten, a woman stumbled into the center of the room, her breath coming in ragged, panicked sobs.
She was a lady-in-waiting, that much was clear from the sober gray of her dress, but it was rumpled, the collar askew, her hair escaping its neat bun in frantic wisps. She clutched a gown of emerald green velvet to her chest like a shield, her knuckles white. Her face was a mess of terror—pale, sweat-slicked, her eyes wide and darting as if the devil himself were at her heels.
"Help me," she gasped, the words tearing from her throat. "Please, you must help me."
Elias Wren, Isadora's father, emerged from the back room, his measuring tape still draped around his neck. His face, usually a mask of calm precision, tightened with disapproval at the disruption. "What is the meaning of this?"
But the woman only had eyes for Isadora. It was always Isadora they sought when hysteria struck. Her father handled the accounts and the suppliers; Isadora handled the people. Especially the difficult ones.
"The dress," the woman choked out, thrusting the velvet gown forward. "It's for the masquerade. At the Hall. It needs… it needs to be fixed. Now."
Isadora gently took the garment, her fingers brushing against the woman's. The lady-in-waiting wore gloves—fine, pristine leather gloves, despite the cloying warmth of the spring afternoon. Isadora's gaze flickered up from the expensive gloves to the woman's neck.
Above the high, stiff collar of her dress, just under her jawline, was a faint, angry mark. Two small, deep bruises, perfectly parallel, like faded pinpricks that had blossomed into ugly, violet blooms beneath the skin. It wasn't a scratch or a rash. It was a brand.
Isadora's breath caught, but her expression remained serene. She'd seen marks like that before, in whispers, in rumors, on the milkmaids who delivered too early in the morning and the scullery maids who fled their posts without a word.
She didn't ask. In Bellmere, you learned what not to ask.
"What seems to be the trouble with the gown?" Isadora asked, her voice a low, soothing balm against the woman's panic. She laid the velvet dress across the large cutting table, its rich color a slash of wealth against the worn, scarred wood. A long, ugly tear ran along the side seam, from the hip down to the knee, as if it had been ripped by force.
"My lady… she caught it on a carriage door," the woman stammered, the lie thin and brittle. Her eyes darted toward the windows, toward the fading light outside. Dusk was coming. "It must be perfect. For tonight. For the Duke's Winter Masquerade."
"The Duke's masquerade is an invitation-only affair," Isadora's father stated, his tone clipped. He did not approve of the nobility's nocturnal habits, nor the frantic haste they inspired in their staff. "She should have taken more care."
"Please," the woman whispered, her gaze locking with Isadora's. It was a raw, desperate plea that went far beyond a torn dress. It was a plea for salvation. "He will be there. He expects to see her in it. If she doesn't appear…" She trailed off, a shudder wracking her thin frame. "You don't understand."
Oh, but I do, Isadora thought, her stomach twisting. She understood perfectly. She understood the fear that thickened the air in Bellmere after sunset, the unspoken rules, the reason she and her father hung dried garlic from the rafters of their small home above the shop.
"Clara," Isadora called, not taking her eyes off the terrified woman. "The finest emerald silk thread we have. And your quickest needle."
Clara, her oldest friend and the shop's most nimble seamstress, was already there, her round, kind face etched with concern. Together, they worked. Isadora held the fabric taut, her long, clever fingers smoothing the velvet, aligning the torn edges with a surgeon's precision. Clara's needle flew, a tiny silver fish diving in and out of a green sea, her stitches so small and exact they were nearly invisible.
The lady-in-waiting paced the floor, twisting her gloved hands, her gaze fixed on the darkening street outside. Every rattle of a passing cart made her jump. The setting sun painted the shop in hues of orange and blood.
It took them twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of held breaths and the rhythmic prick of a needle. When they were finished, the seam was flawless. A faint, almost imperceptible line was all that remained of the tear.
"It's done," Isadora said softly.
Tears of pure, unadulterated relief streamed down the woman's face. She fumbled in her reticule, pulling out a handful of silver shillings—far more than the repair was worth. "Thank you," she breathed, pressing the coins into Isadora's hand. "Thank you."
She snatched the gown and practically ran for the door, clutching it to her chest. But in her haste, something else slipped from her bag. A second envelope, thick and heavy, made of creamy, scented paper. It fell to the floorboards with a soft, expensive thud.
"Wait," Isadora called out. "You've dropped—"
But the woman was gone. The bell shrieked once more, and then there was only the lingering scent of her perfume—jasmine and fear—and the heavy, crested envelope lying on the dusty floor.
Isadora bent down to pick it up. The paper was warm, impossibly smooth. On the front, an elaborate crest was embossed in silver wax: a raven with its wings unfurled, clutching a thorny rose. The seal of Mirewood Hall. The seal of Duke Caelan Virellion.
The invitation was unsealed. Unnamed.
"Well, now," Clara said, her eyes wide and sparkling with a dangerous light. "Look what fate has left on our doorstep."
"It's a mistake," Isadora said, her voice tight. She should run after the woman, return it. It was the proper thing to do. The safe thing to do.
"Is it?" Clara took the invitation from Isadora's fingers, her touch reverent. She slid the thick card from the envelope. "The Duke of Ravenshade requests the pleasure of your company at the Winter Masquerade," she read aloud, her voice a dramatic whisper. "Tonight. At Mirewood Hall."
Clara looked up, her expression alight with a madness Isadora knew all too well. "It's a sign, Isadora. It has no name on it. It's for anyone."
"It is for a noblewoman, not a shopkeeper's daughter," Isadora replied, turning away to tidy the scattered threads on the table. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Mirewood Hall. The name alone was a cold stone in her gut. A place of shadows and secrets, ruled by a Duke who hadn't been seen in society for years, a man known only through terrifying whispers.
"One night," Clara pressed, following her. "Just one. To see it. To see their world. What harm could it do?"
The words echoed in the sudden quiet of the shop, stirring something deep within Isadora. A memory, sharp and painful. Her mother, standing by the window seven years ago, her face illuminated by moonlight, a strange, haunted look in her eyes. She had been dressing for a noble's soirée, a rare invitation for a merchant's wife. Isadora, only twelve at the time, had asked why she had to go.
Her mother had knelt, taking Isadora's hands in hers. Her skin was cold. "Because, my love," she had whispered, her voice laced with a sorrow Isadora wouldn't understand for years, "one night with them changes everything."
Her mother never came home. They found her cloak snagged on a thorn bush by the river two days later. Nothing else. She had simply vanished from the world, declared dead, leaving behind a husband who withered into himself and a daughter who learned to be practical because dreams were too dangerous a luxury.
"Isadora?" Clara's voice was soft now, gentle. She knew the story. Everyone in Bellmere knew the story of the missing silk merchant's wife.
"No," Isadora said, the word tasting like ash. "It's reckless. It's not for us."
"What about the lavender gown?" Clara persisted, her voice barely a whisper. "The one Lady Annelise ordered before she… disappeared. It's still in the back. Paid for. Unclaimed. It would fit you perfectly."
Isadora froze. The lavender-and-silver gown. A masterpiece of silk and moonlight, commissioned by a young noblewoman who, like her mother, had attended a party at a noble estate and was never seen again. The dress was a ghost hanging in their storeroom, a beautiful, tragic thing.
To wear it felt like sacrilege. It felt like tempting the same fate.
And yet.
One night with them changes everything.
Was it a warning? Or a clue? For seven years, Isadora had been haunted by that question. She had managed the ledgers, designed gowns, soothed hysterical ladies-in-waiting, and locked the doors at night. She had been good, and quiet, and useful. She had been safe.
But she didn't have answers. She didn't know what happened to her mother. She didn't know what world had swallowed her whole.
Maybe, just for one night, she needed to stop being safe.
She looked at Clara, at the unnamed invitation in her friend's hand, at the last rays of sunlight dying outside the window. A quiet, terrifying rebellion began to bloom in her chest, fragile and fierce. She was a realist who had forgotten how to hope. But tonight, hope felt like a weapon.
"Just for an hour," Isadora heard herself say, the words sounding like they belonged to someone else, someone bolder. Someone like her mother.
Clara's face broke into a grin so wide it looked painful.
She didn't tell her father. She told him she was staying late with Clara to finish an urgent order, a lie that sat uneasily on her tongue. While he ate his solitary supper downstairs, Isadora and Clara slipped into the storeroom.
The lavender-and-silver gown was even more beautiful than she remembered. It shimmered under the single lantern Clara held, the color of twilight, with delicate silver embroidery that snaked up the bodice like frost on a windowpane. It felt forbidden to even touch it.
Stepping into it was like stepping into another life. The silk whispered against her skin, cool and smooth. Clara laced her into the back, her fingers deft and sure. The gown fit as if it had been made for her, cinching at her waist and flaring out into a skirt that moved like water.
For the first time in a year, since the official mourning period for her mother had ended, Isadora unbraided her hair. The thick, golden-blonde waves tumbled over her shoulders, heavy and unfamiliar. She brushed it until it shone, a defiant halo in the dim light. From the small wooden box where she kept her most precious things, she took out a simple ribbon of dark blue velvet. The last thing her mother had left on her dresser. She carefully wove it into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder.
When she looked in the small, warped mirror, the girl staring back was a stranger. Her mist-gray eyes, usually so serious, held a spark of wildness. She was no longer Isadora Wren, the dutiful daughter, the clever seamstress. She was a mystery, cloaked in lavender and silver.
Clara had arranged for a carriage, a small, discreet one that waited for her at the end of the cobbled lane. As she slipped out into the cool night air, the sounds of Bellmere seemed to fade, replaced by the frantic thumping of her own heart.
The journey to Mirewood Hall was a journey into another world. The carriage left the bustling Merchant Quarter, climbing higher into the hills of Upper Bellmere, where the air grew colder and the houses turned into sprawling, silent manors, their windows like vacant eyes.
Then she saw it. Mirewood Hall didn't sit on its hill; it clawed at it, a sprawling beast of black stone and sharp turrets silhouetted against the moon. Light blazed from every window, but it wasn't a warm, welcoming light. It was the cold, predatory glow of a bonfire.
The carriage rolled to a stop. A footman, his face hidden behind a simple black mask, opened her door. The moment she stepped onto the gravel drive, the air changed. It was heavy, scented with woodsmoke, expensive perfume, and something else… something metallic and feral.
She walked towards the grand entrance, her borrowed slippers crunching on the gravel. Inside, the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of overwhelming sensation. The light of a thousand red candles dripped from golden chandeliers, casting everything in a blood-red glow. Gold filigree climbed the marble columns like grasping vines. Music, a haunting and seductive waltz, drifted from a chamber deep within, pulling the masked guests into its rhythm.
Masks. They were everywhere. Feathered masks, jeweled masks, simple domino masks of silk and velvet. But as she watched the figures gliding through the shadows, she realized not all of them were for anonymity. Some of the nobles, the ones with an unnerving grace and eyes that glowed too brightly in the crimson light, wore their own faces as masks—beautiful, perfect, and utterly inhuman.
Her breath caught in her throat. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the fragile veil of her courage. This was a mistake. A terrible, fatal mistake.
One hour, she told herself, her hand tightening on the velvet ribbon in her hair. I will stay for one hour, and then I will leave.
She would keep to the edges of the ballroom, a ghost in lavender, and just watch. She would see what world her mother had entered and never left.
She found a shadowed alcove behind a marble column, a safe harbor in the sea of swirling silks and dark whispers. From here, she could see the dance floor, a dizzying whirl of color and grace. The women were exquisite jewels; the men were elegant predators. They moved with a languid power that made the hair on her arms stand on end.
She scanned the room, looking for… she wasn't sure what. A sign. An answer. A face that held a flicker of recognition.
And then she saw him.
He wasn't dancing. He stood near the enormous hearth on the far side of the room, one hand resting on the marble mantelpiece. He was a figure of absolute stillness in a world of frantic motion. Dressed in black so deep it seemed to drink the candlelight, his mask was simple, unadorned silver, covering only his eyes.
But it couldn't hide the intensity of his presence. It radiated from him like a physical force, a quiet gravity that bent the room around him. People gave him a wide berth. Even from across the crowded hall, she could feel the cold, restrained power he held in check. He was observing the festivities with a detached, almost bored air, his head slightly tilted.
Isadora couldn't look away. He was mesmerizing, like a storm gathering on a distant horizon. She felt a strange pull toward him, a dangerous curiosity that defied all reason. Who was this man who commanded a room without saying a word?
As if he could feel her stare, his head slowly turned. His masked gaze swept across the room, past the dancers, past the drinkers, past the whisperers.
And then it stopped.
Directly on her.
Across the vast, crimson-lit ballroom, through the sea of masked faces and swirling gowns, his eyes found hers. The world around Isadora simply fell away. The music, the chatter, the heat of the room—it all vanished, sucked into the sudden, silent vortex that opened between them. It wasn't just a glance. It was a collision. A shock of recognition for a soul she'd never met.
He didn't move. He didn't smile. He just watched her from the shadows, and in that single, searing gaze, Isadora Wren knew her promise to herself was a lie.
Her one hour was over. Her one night had just begun.