The shop, once a sanctuary of familiar scents and quiet work, had become a tomb. The air was frigid, stolen by the monstrous presence of the woman in crimson. Isadora stood frozen, a statue of terror, watching as Lady Valestra's inhuman features twisted into a mask of predatory delight. Her father, his face ashen, was a bulwark of fear before her, while Bram whimpered softly behind him, the sound a tiny, pathetic punctuation in the bone-deep silence.
Lady Valestra savored their terror, her red eyes glowing in the gloom. She took a slow, languid step toward Elias, her movements unnervingly fluid, like a river of black ink. "You have a strong scent, old man," she hissed, her voice a silken rasp. "Fear, and old, old grief. A vintage I particularly enjoy."
She raised a hand, her long, pale fingers tipped with nails like sharpened ivory, reaching for Elias's throat.
"No!"
The voice that cut through the terror was not Isadora's. It was Clara's.
Clara stepped out from behind Isadora, placing herself directly in the monster's path. Her face was paper-white, her body trembled, but her eyes, though swimming with tears, were resolute. She stood between the vampiress and the man who had given her a home when she had none, who had called her daughter when the world had called her orphan.
"It was me," Clara said, her voice shaking but clear. "I am the one you want."
Isadora's heart stopped. "Clara, no—"
"I found the invitation," Clara continued, her gaze fixed on Lady Valestra, refusing to look at Isadora. "I took it. I wore the dress. I went to the ball. And I was the one who danced with the Duke."
Each word was a nail in a coffin she was building for herself. A lie constructed of love and a debt she felt she owed this family, who had taken her in as a scrawny, half-starved girl found sleeping in their doorway years ago.
"She's lying!" Isadora cried, finding her voice at last. The paralysis of fear shattered, replaced by a frantic, desperate need to stop this. "Clara, don't do this! Tell her the truth!"
"The truth is that you would do the same for me, Izzy," Clara whispered, a heartbreaking smile touching her lips for a fraction of a second. She turned her fierce, tearful gaze back to the vampiress. "It was me. Take me and leave them be."
"No!" Isadora shoved past her father, grabbing Clara's arm. "It was my fault! I was the one who—"
"Be quiet, Isadora!" Clara hissed, her grip on Isadora's arm surprisingly strong. "You have a father, a brother! You have a life to live!"
"And you don't?" Isadora's voice broke.
Lady Valestra watched the frantic, tearful exchange with an expression of profound boredom that slowly curdled into disgust.
"Enough," she said, and the single word was a physical force, silencing them both. The air grew heavy, pressing down. "How utterly… human. This pathetic display of self-sacrifice. It almost makes me ill."
She glided between them, separating them with her mere presence. Her red eyes bored into Clara, then into Isadora, a predator assessing her prey. "This loyalty is a weakness. A flaw in your design. You cling to one another like drowning rats, thinking it will save you. It only makes you easier to kill."
A cruel, knowing smile touched her lips. She turned her terrible gaze upon Elias Wren.
"Well, old man?" she purred. "Your daughters seem to have a conflict in their stories. So you will be the arbiter. You will tell me the truth." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Point to the girl who stole my dance. Choose which of your precious children pays the price for this insult. Choose now… or I will simply unmake you all, starting with the little boy."
She flicked her gaze toward Bram, who let out a choked sob and shrank further behind his father.
The world narrowed to the space between Isadora and her father. He stood there, a broken man, trapped in an impossible choice. He was being asked to condemn one of the girls he loved to save the others. His past failure, the loss of his wife, hung over him like a shroud.
Isadora met his agonized gaze. There was no choice here. Not for her. This was her folly, her sin. The consequences belonged to her and her alone. She gave him a small, sharp nod, a silent plea, a command. Tell her. It's me. It has to be me. She tried to pour all her strength, all her resolve, into that single look. She would not let Clara die for her. She would not let her father live with the guilt of choosing wrong.
He saw her plea. His eyes, filled with a pain so deep it seemed to cleave his soul in two, stared into hers. He saw her courage, her readiness to accept her fate. He looked at Clara, trembling but defiant, ready to lay down her life for them. He looked at Bram, his small body shaking with terror.
The silence stretched, taut and screaming. Lady Valestra's smile widened. She was enjoying this, drinking in their agony like fine wine.
Then, Elias moved. His hand, shaking uncontrollably, lifted. He pointed.
But his finger was not aimed at Isadora.
It was aimed at Clara.
"Her," Elias choked out, the word tearing from his throat like a shard of glass. "It was… her."
Time stopped. The air rushed from Isadora's lungs. A soundless scream built in her chest. No. No, no, no.
Lady Valestra's perfect brow furrowed. A flicker of genuine disappointment crossed her features. Her gaze slid back to Isadora, a slow, hungry appraisal. "A pity," she said, her voice soft with regret. "I was so hoping it would be the blonde one. She has a fire in her veins. I can smell it. A spark the Duke seems to find… compelling."
The words hit Isadora harder than any physical blow. He chose wrong. He chose to save me.
"NO!" The scream finally tore free. "He's lying! It was me! It was always me!"
She lunged forward, but her father's hand shot out, grabbing her arm in a grip of iron. "Isadora, no!" his voice was a raw command. He held her fast, his face a mask of terrible resolve. "It was Clara," he repeated, his voice cold now, deadened. He was cementing the lie, sealing the tomb.
Clara, understanding the horrific sacrifice Elias was making, gave a single, shuddering sob. Her brave facade crumbled, but she met Isadora's frantic, betrayed eyes and nodded. "Yes, my lady," she whispered to the floor, tears streaming down her face. "It was me."
"Excellent. I do so appreciate a tidy confession," Lady Valestra said, though her eyes still lingered on Isadora with a predatory gleam. She gave a sharp, imperious clap of her hands.
From the shadows outside the shop door, two figures detached themselves. They were the same silent, imposing servants from Mirewood Hall, their faces impassive and inhuman. They moved into the shop, their heavy boots making no sound on the wooden floorboards.
They seized Clara by the arms.
She didn't fight. She went limp, her body shaking with sobs. As they began to drag her backward toward the door, toward the waiting darkness, she twisted her head, her eyes finding Isadora's one last time.
"Izzy, listen to me!" she cried, her voice filled with a desperate, loving urgency. "Don't let this stop you! Don't you dare stop dreaming because of them! Live, Isadora! You live for both of us now! I love you!"
The sight of her friend, her sister, being dragged away to a fate worse than death… the sound of her last, selfless words… it shattered something vital inside Isadora. The fear, the guilt, the suffocating sorrow—they all combusted into a single, white-hot point of pure rage.
The world went red.
With a guttural cry that was more animal than human, she wrenched her arm from her father's grasp. He stumbled back, shocked by the raw, violent strength she had unleashed. Her eyes, wild and blazing, scanned the workroom. They landed on the cutting table, on the heavy, iron tailoring shears lying beside a half-finished waistcoat.
Her hand closed around the cold, familiar weight of the shears. They were an extension of her, a tool of her trade, but now they felt like a weapon. A fang. A claw.
She turned. Lady Valestra was watching, a faint, amused smile on her blood-red lips, as if observing a cornered mouse showing its teeth before the final snap.
That smile was the final spark.
With a scream torn from the deepest, most wounded part of her soul, Isadora lunged. She launched herself across the room, the iron shears held high like a dagger, aimed directly at the beautiful, monstrous, smiling face of the vampiress.