The next weeks unfolded in a quiet, breathtaking blur.
By daylight, Penelope was the overlooked youngest Featherington daughter — silent, compliant, gray in the corners of every room.
But after governess lessons and household responsibilities ended, she slipped into the Delacroix shop through its back entrance, and the world came alive.
Genevieve trained her with ruthless precision.
Not just in stitches and draping, but in the language of clothes — the subtle vocabulary of nobility, where a hem length whispered secrets and a neckline declared allegiances.
"Fashion is politics, ma petite," Genevieve said, pinning a sleeve with quick, deft hands. "The ton speaks in silk and subtext."
Penelope absorbed everything.
Line by line.
Color by color.
House by house.
And she began to map society in her mind.
Anthony Bridgerton rose quickly to the top of her "high attention, high impact" column — not because of fate or system resonance, but because he was a linchpin. His approval shifted rooms. His disapproval froze them.
Useful information… for later.
Penelope practiced soft enchantments beneath her breath as she worked:
A seam that eased stiffness.
A lining that calmed nerves.
A bodice that corrected posture without pinching.
Magic subtle enough nobody could identify — but everyone could feel.
The system chimed at the end of one particularly clean stitch:
[System Reward Unlocked: Infinity Nikki — Fabric Insight (Tier 1)]
[Passive: Increased understanding of weave, drape, and structure.]
A warmth settled over her fingertips.
Threads no longer felt like threads — they felt like stories.
Their breakthrough came with a commission from a minor noblewoman — Lady Worthing's daughter, a debutante no one cared much about.
Perfect.
Low stakes.
No attention.
Penelope sketched a gown in deep midnight blue, soft as water and dark as secrets, adorned with blooming rose motifs stitched from shadow crimson thread.
A dress that promised elegance.
A dress that whispered rebellion.
Genevieve crafted the pieces. Penelope breathed life into them.
When the young lady put it on, she gasped.
"I feel…" she whispered, hand over her heart. "I feel beautiful."
Penelope smiled quietly from behind the curtain.
---
At the small musicale that followed, the dress moved through the candlelight like a living thing.
Lady Danbury, sharp as a blade and twice as quick, narrowed her eyes over her cane.
"Delacroix?" she murmured to no one. "Since when did that woman learn finesse?"
A whisper spread.
"Have you seen the Worthing girl's gown?"
"Delacroix, allegedly…"
"Improved lately, hasn't she?"
Genevieve pretended not to glow.
Penelope stayed home, mending a hem in silence — hidden, invisible, forgotten.
But her thoughts flickered with satisfaction.
---
Within days, other modistes were complaining:
"Impossible!"
"That silhouette is not her usual work!"
"She must have stolen a French pattern!"
Penelope simply tied her thread and said nothing.
Let them guess.
Let them panic.
Anonymity was a shield and a weapon both.
She intended to use it.
Later that evening, Genevieve set the ledger down with a trembling laugh.
"We did it," she whispered. "They are noticing."
Penelope, sorting spools of thread, looked up with calm certainty.
"It's only beginning."
And Genevieve — wise enough to believe her — felt a shiver of truth run down her spine.