The dream always began the same way- moonlight spilling like spilled milk over marble, the air perfumed with night-blooming jasmine and deceit. The garden behind the palace was a labyrinth of roses and silver fountains, a place where the world felt bewitched by its own reflection.
In her dream, Lily could still hear the music from the ballroom drifting through the open doors—violins trembling with laughter, silk skirts sweeping the marble, the Prince of England waltzing with his chosen lady. Yet it was not Josephine's name the night whispered. It was her own.
She had been standing by the terrace, the cool wind licking at her bare shoulders, when she first felt his eyes. That gaze—sharp as glass and warm as sin—cut through the sea of masks until it found her. He was the golden heir, all promise and power. And she, the uninvited, the unseen, a shadow in borrowed silk.
When their eyes met, the orchestra seemed to falter. His hand, once poised upon Josephine's waist, slackened. The court held its breath as the Crown Prince stopped mid-dance and, to everyone's astonishment, stepped away from the floor. Josephine turned, confusion blooming on her perfect features as he moved through the crowd—past dukes and debutantes, past whispers and fans snapping shut.
And then Lily ran.
The dream always made her run. Down the marble steps, through the terraces veiled in ivy, her slippers whispering against the gravel. Her mask—blue as twilight—slipped slightly with each hurried breath. Behind her, she could hear him calling. Not her name, for he did not know it, but a command. A voice used to being obeyed.
"Wait," he called. "Stop."
But she did not.
The garden unfolded before her like a secret kingdom. White roses glowed under the full moon, their petals like frozen fire. The fountain sang its lonely song, droplets scattering like diamonds over stone. For a moment, she thought she had escaped.
And then he was there.
The dream always blurred here—his figure half in shadow, half in moonlight. His face looked almost gentle beneath the pale glow, yet his eyes burned with something unholy. "Why do you flee?" he asked softly, stepping closer. "You wear a mask, yet your beauty outshines them all. Tell me your name."
But Lily could not speak. Her throat ached with unshed fear. The scent of roses turned sickly sweet, like perfume masking rot.
When she turned to go, his hand caught her wrist. Not in kindness, not in love, but possession. The dream twisted here—petals fell like snow, time fractured into heartbeat shards. She remembered the brush of his glove, the forced closeness, his breath mingled with hers. The taste of danger masquerading as desire.
Her first kiss—stolen, not given.
She had pushed him away, struck him across the face. The sound echoed through the garden like a shot. Her mask slipped, falling to the ground with a soft sigh. It lay there, shattered blue and silver beneath the moon.
He saw her then. Truly saw her.
For a moment, the world stopped. The Prince of England stood before a girl not of nobility but of poverty—a face too radiant to belong to ruin, eyes too blue to belong to sin. Love and fury warred within him, his pride burning hotter than his awe.
And then—darkness.
The dream never showed what happened next. Only the sound of a cry swallowed by the night, and the moon turning its face away.
Lily woke before dawn, her skin clammy, her breath ragged. The thin walls of Madame Roselle's house creaked with the sounds of the waking city—vendors calling, wheels clattering, laughter too coarse for morning. For a moment, she could not tell whether the dream had been a memory or a haunting.
She rose from her narrow bed, still in the blue gown, now wrinkled and sullied from her secret flight. The hem was torn, her mask gone, her hair tangled with petals that did not belong to her world.
Moving as if in a trance, she poured water into the tin basin and stripped away the gown. The water was cold, biting her skin like penance. She washed once. Then again. And again. But the scent of roses clung to her like shame.
It was not just her body she tried to cleanse—it was the memory of his touch, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding with confusion, fear, disbelief. She rubbed until her skin reddened, whispering prayers to a God she was no longer certain listened to women like her.
When she looked into the mirror, the girl who stared back was not Lily James, the maid or the mystery of the ball. She was someone else—something forged from loss and silence.
"Beautiful," Madame Roselle had once called her."Useful," another man had said."Mine," the Prince had whispered.
None of those words felt like her own.
Outside, the morning light crept through the shutters, painting gold upon the worn floorboards. The city of London stirred to life, unaware that its newest scandal had already begun to bloom.
Whispers spread quickly in Mayfair. The Queen's Ball had ended strangely—the Crown Prince leaving the floor mid-dance, his partner Josephine left bewildered before the eyes of all. The King had excused it with a strained smile, insisting his son was "unwell." But mothers whispered otherwise. Daughters dreamed of the mysterious woman in blue who had stolen the Prince's attention.
Josephine, fair and mild as spring, sat alone in her gilded chamber, replaying every glance, every step. She told herself it was nothing. Yet her heart, loyal and naïve, trembled. She had loved him quietly for years, as women of good breeding were taught to love—modestly, with hope disguised as duty. Now she feared that hope had been misplaced.
Back in the dim light of Madame Roselle's house, Lily dressed in plain muslin and tied her hair with a ribbon that had seen better days. Her hands shook as she folded the ruined blue gown into a chest, burying it beneath rags as though that might bury the memory itself.
Madame Roselle entered without knocking, her painted face unreadable. "You were gone long last night," she said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as glass. "The gentlemen noticed."
Lily said nothing.
"Be careful, my dove," Roselle murmured, reaching to tilt Lily's chin upward. "You fly too close to the sun, and even the most beautiful wings can burn."
Lily flinched from the touch. "It was only a dream," she whispered. "A foolish dream."
But she knew it was not.
As the sun rose higher, the city's whispers grew louder. Somewhere in the palace, the Prince sat in his chambers, the scent of night-blooming roses still clinging to his memory. He did not know her name, yet her image haunted him—the pale skin, the eyes like blue fire, the slap that had stung more deeply than any wound.
And in the Queen's private rooms, another woman stared from her window, recalling a fleeting glimpse of a girl in blue—a beauty out of place, yet unforgettable. The Queen did not yet know her name either. But she would.
For in that single night beneath the moon, two women's fates had been set on a path that would one day collide—with love, with ruin, and with the crown itself.