CHAPTER 173: [173] MY MOTHER’S SPIRIT

The silk caressed Calypso’s skin with deceptive gentleness—beautiful and exquisite, yet designed with the same purpose as a spider’s web. She remained perfectly still on the elevated fitting platform while three seamstresses bustled around her with meticulous attention, like devoted workers serving their queen. The gown was undeniably magnificent, its fabric capturing and reflecting the volcanic light that poured through the chamber’s crystal windows, thanks to threads of actual gold woven throughout.

"Please don’t move, my lady," Mira whispered, her fingers working with practiced precision as she adjusted the neckline yet again. "The Duke has very... particular requirements for the cut."

I bet he does. Calypso maintained her placid expression while her divine senses methodically identified each enchantment hidden within the garment. The golden threads served a far more sinister purpose than mere decoration—they formed an intricate suppression matrix, each pattern carefully designed to contain her godly essence. Every delicate stitch functioned as a miniature cell, every embroidered rose another seal binding her power.

"The sleeves must be tighter," declared Agna from her watchful position by the window. The chamberlain spoke with the unquestionable authority that came from decades overseeing noble households. "His Grace was exceptionally clear about how they should fit."

Calypso offered a demure smile. "We mustn’t disappoint the Duke, must we?"

The words felt poisonous on her tongue, yet she delivered them with flawless aristocratic poise.

As Mira pulled the sleeves tighter, Calypso felt something else—a familiar warmth blooming in her chest. Xavier. Their soul bond, weakened by distance and suppression magic, still carried echoes of his emotions. Right now, those emotions were a chaotic storm of panic, rage, and something that felt like... despair?

She tried to push back through the connection, to send him reassurance or warning, but the golden threads in her dress absorbed the attempt. The enchantments were more sophisticated than she’d realized. They didn’t just suppress her power—they actively fed on it, growing stronger with each divine spark they consumed.

"My lady seems pale," observed Cordelia, the youngest seamstress. "Perhaps we should—"

Calypso swayed slightly, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I feel... dizzy. The room is so warm."

The reaction was immediate. Agna rushed forward, her face creased with concern. "Fetch Brother Aldwin at once! And bring cool water!"

"No, no," Calypso said weakly, allowing herself to sink onto a nearby chair. "I just need a moment. Perhaps the fitting could wait?"

Mira looked stricken. "But my lady, the Masquerade is tomorrow evening! There’s still so much work—"

"The lady’s health comes first," Agna declared, though her tone suggested she was calculating the inconvenience. "We’ll resume in an hour."

As the seamstresses packed their materials, Calypso caught Mira’s eye. "I’m so sorry about the delay. Perhaps... could you bring me that lovely perfume from the table? The crystal bottle? It might help clear my head."

Mira hurried to comply, lifting the delicate bottle of Midnight Rose—a scent worth more than most people earned in a year. As she approached, Calypso shifted slightly, her elbow bumping the girl’s arm just enough to send the bottle tumbling.

Crystal shattered against the stone floor, releasing a cloud of precious fragrance that would take months to replace. More importantly, the perfume soaked into a pair of ornate gloves laid out on a nearby table—gloves that, according to the seamstresses’ whispered conversations, were meant to complete her Masquerade ensemble.

"Oh no!" Mira gasped, dropping to her knees among the glass shards. "My lady, I’m so clumsy—"

"Accidents happen," Calypso said gently, though she noticed how the gloves were already beginning to smoke where the perfume touched them. Whatever enchantments they carried clearly didn’t react well to the exotic oils. "Please don’t blame yourself."

Agna’s face had gone white. Those gloves were clearly more important than mere accessories. "Send word to the Duke immediately. Tell him we need... alternatives for tomorrow’s ceremony."

Ceremony. Not celebration. The word choice was telling.

As the room emptied, leaving only Agna and two guards, Calypso settled back in her chair and gazed out the window at Hearthome’s terraced streets. Somewhere out there, Xavier was fighting whatever trap Haverford had laid for him. She could feel his emotions shifting—less panic now, more cold anger. Her assassin was adapting, planning.

Good. She’d taught him well about playing the long game.

"Agna," she said softly. "Would you ask Uncle Torval to visit? I’ve been thinking about my mother lately."

The chamberlain’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Lord Torval is very busy with preparations—"

"Please." Calypso let a note of genuine longing enter her voice. "Tomorrow night changes everything. I’d like to know more about her before... before I become the Duke’s wife."

After a long moment, Agna nodded. "I’ll see what can be arranged."

An hour later, Lord Torval Flameheart entered the chamber like a man walking to his own execution. The High Burner still cut an impressive figure in his ceremonial robes, but Calypso’s divine perception caught the details others missed—the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes avoided meeting hers directly, the careful distance he maintained between them.

"Selene." He said her name as if it were a prayer and a curse. "Agna... mentioned your mother. You wished to speak of her?"

Calypso rose gracefully, noting how he flinched when she moved toward him. "I’ve been having such strange dreams lately, Uncle. Dreams of a woman with kind eyes, singing lullabies I’ve never heard before."

Torval’s face went ashen. "Dreams can be... misleading."

"Can they?" Calypso tilted her head, studying his reaction. "In my dreams, she tells me stories about a little girl who could make flowers bloom in winter. A girl who saw too much, felt too much, until the cold came to claim her."

"Selene—"

"Did my mother like to dance?" The question came out innocent, curious. "I ask because sometimes I feel like I’m dancing to music only I can hear. As if my body remembers steps my mind has forgotten."

Torval’s composure cracked slightly. His hand rose toward her face, then stopped, hovering in the air between them. "You have her... defiance," he whispered, the words catching in his throat. "Your mother... she could find sunlight in a sealed tomb. That brightness was a danger to a world like this."

"Was she afraid of the dark?"