Chapter Two – Painted Faces & Poison Words
The morning sun brought no warmth. Only pressure.
"Lyraaa, if my hemline is uneven again I swear I'll scream until I rupture the moon!" Zera's voice echoed through the halls, shrill and dramatic.
Lyra adjusted the bodice of the rose gown, fingers working with practiced calm. The air was thick with perfume and steam from curling irons, the entire Vexley household in a frenzy. The Marquette Garden Soirée was the social event of the week, and Zera and Zina were determined to outshine every girl in attendance.
"She hasn't even plucked my brows yet!" Zina wailed from her chair, already in full makeup. Her purple hair was coiled into tight spirals, and she was currently applying gold shimmer above her already glittering eyelids.
"Maybe you could pluck your own for once," Mira mumbled under her breath from the corner.
Zina whipped around. "What was that?"
"Nothing." Mira kept her eyes lowered, brushing the skirts of her own plain gray dress.
Lyra glanced at her and offered the faintest smile. Mira, ever soft-spoken, was the only oasis in this storm of venom. They exchanged silent understanding like they often did, too used to the chaos to even flinch.
Aunt Marva swept in like a winter wind, lips pinched, robe trailing behind her. "What's taking so long? These girls need to look like royalty by dusk! Do you want them laughed out of the Marquette estate?"
"They won't be," Lyra said, pinning a silk rose to Zera's sleeve. "The dresses are done."
"Well, they should be. You've had all week to get it right, haven't you?" She leaned in close, whispering sharp into Lyra's ear. "Don't embarrass this family. I raised you. I can just as easily get rid of you."
Lyra's throat tightened, but she didn't respond. Her fingers moved to the final hem, still smooth despite how hard she was clenching the needle.
---
The day moved like mud.
Zina threw a tantrum over a hair ribbon that didn't match her earrings.
Zera refused to wear a necklace unless Lyra cleaned each gem "until it sparkled like a noblewoman's smile."
Mira stayed quiet, sewing in the corner when her mother wasn't watching.
By late afternoon, Lyra's hands were burning. Every joint ached. But the twins twirled in their gowns—rose gold and lavender silk, both designed, dyed, and stitched by Lyra's own weary fingers.
"You should be grateful we let you make our dresses," Zina said with a smug smile as she admired herself in the cracked full-length mirror. "People will think you have some value now."
Zera giggled. "Some."
Lyra didn't answer. She just brushed lint off the shoulder seam and stepped back.
"Now where's Garrin?" Marva snapped, peeking out the window.
The question was answered by the sound of stumbling boots and slurred cursing. Garrin Vexley staggered in through the front door, shirt unbuttoned, reeking of ale and regret. His left eye was bruised, and he held a tattered velvet pouch.
"Gambled again?" Marva's voice was ice.
Garrin tossed the pouch on the table. Coins clinked inside—too few. "I almost tripled it, but the dealer cheated. I swear by the Goddess, he—"
Marva raised a hand. "Don't swear anything to me, Garrin. You're a disgrace."
Zera stepped past him in her gown, nose wrinkled. "Mother, he's not coming with us, is he?"
"Heavens no. He'd make us look like peasants."
Garrin leaned in close to Lyra as the women swept toward the carriage. "They'll be selling you next," he muttered. "You're the only one here who works."
She didn't answer. Because he was right.
---
The house was quiet when they left. Only Lyra and Mira remained.
They sat on the back porch steps, Mira sipping weak tea from a cracked mug, Lyra resting her head against the post. The air smelled of dust and wilted roses.
"I hate those parties," Mira said. "They smile so wide, but you can see their teeth underneath."
Lyra chuckled softly. "That's how wolves smile before they bite."
"You think they're really like wolves?"
"Some of them," she said. "Some are worse."
Mira glanced sideways. "Do you ever dream of leaving?"
"All the time."
"Will you?" Her voice was soft.
Lyra didn't answer. She just looked up at the sky, where the clouds were thinning and the first pale stars blinked to life.
She didn't know that tonight, Marva would return home furious—Zina had spilled wine on her gown, and the Marquette matron had complimented another girl's hemline over hers. She didn't know that Garrin would lose another twenty silvers the next morning. Or that in two days' time, her aunt would storm into her room, slap her awake, and say:
"Pack your things. You're being sent to the palace."
But she did know that whatever freedom looked like—it wasn't here.