CHAPTER 44: SILKS & SHINES

The dining hall gleamed in the gentle afternoon light, golden tones spilling through the tall stained-glass windows and catching in the polished marble floor. Silver platters sat upon the long, carved oak table, steaming with dishes and desserts. The aroma of herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle metallic scent of fresh blood in the goblets.

Vincenzo, seated at the head, maintained his usual composed posture, his gaze sweeping the hall once with careful vigilance, leaving nothing unnoticed.

The murmur of servants attending the table faded when Lady Cassia’s voice cut through the quiet. "I have sent the invitations for the upcoming ball," she said, her voice smooth but edged with a subtle sharpness. "I also sent the list of invitees. If you are interested, you can review it in your work chamber."

Vincenzo lifted his gaze but did not meet hers directly, one brow arching. "When is the ball?"

Cassia’s eyes slipped shut for the briefest moment as she drew a measured breath. "On Roslin’s birthday."

Vincenzo’s eyes flicked to her. "And when is that?"

Cassia’s lips twitched in annoyance, a flash of irritation crossing her features before she said, "Two weeks from today."

Roslin’s clipped voice followed at once. "You could have managed to remember your only sister’s birthday, Brother!"

Vincenzo leaned back, the goblet poised at his lips as he remarked with dry sarcasm, "If only I remembered having a sister, perhaps then I might have remembered her birthday."

Anneliese stared, dumbfounded, before her gaze shifted and caught the brief, knowing smile tugging at Adomas’s mouth—quickly smoothed away into formal composure.

Roslin’s lips pressed into a thin line, though she said nothing.

The rest of the meal passed with Adomas and Vincenzo in steady conversation, their voices filling the quiet between courses, leaving little room for interruption.

By the time the last dishes were cleared, the soft scrape of the doors opening drew all eyes. Lucas stepped forward, his bow crisp and precise.

"My Lady," he addressed Cassia, his tone steady, "the royal seamstress has arrived. She awaits in the dressing chamber."

Cassia inclined her head in brief acknowledgment and rose from her chair, already turning toward the doors.

"Take Anneliese with you," Vincenzo’s voice called after her, smooth and unhurried. He set his goblet down with deliberate ease. "She will require a gown as well—and I doubt you would wish your future daughter-in-law to appear anything less than fitting."

Anneliese stilled, the words striking her with a mix of surprise and unease. She had expected to be overlooked, left in the quiet of her chambers, not drawn into something as deliberate as gown fittings for a royal ball.

For the briefest moment, Cassia’s fingers curled into her palm. "As you wish," she replied, her chin dipping just enough to mask the strain in her features.

Vincenzo’s gaze shifted toward Lucas, his tone leaving no room for question. "Stay at her side."

Lucas inclined his head with crisp precision. "Yes, my Lord."

Roslin’s silken skirts whispered against the marble floor as she rose.

Anneliese remained still for a heartbeat longer; the idea of gowns and measurements felt strangely distant and unreal, yet she rose when Lucas moved to her side.

Cassia swept toward the doors first, her pace purposeful, Roslin gliding behind her with that practiced grace, and Anneliese, between them and Lucas’s steady presence, let herself be drawn forward, the echo of their steps carrying them out of the dining hall.

The air within the dressing chamber carried a faint perfume of lavender and pressed fabrics. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, falling across bolts of fabric arranged like treasures—crimson, ivory, midnight blue, their folds glimmering faintly under the light. A mannequin stood poised, already draped in a sparkling sea-green gown that whispered of grandeur.

At the center waited the seamstress, her back straight despite her years, hands folded with the patient poise of one accustomed to serving royalty. Her eyes, sharp yet reverent, swept over them as they entered, pausing just a heartbeat longer on Anneliese.

"Lady Cassia, Lady Roslin," the woman greeted with a curtsy, her voice carrying the weight of long familiarity.

Cassia’s eyes flicked over the display, as though the finery belonged to her daughter by default. Roslin, meanwhile, slowed, her gaze lingering on the gown with a breath of admiration. Anneliese, stepping in behind them, felt the hush of the chamber close around her—its elegance pressing in, foreign and gleaming, as though it belonged to a world she had only just been invited to touch.

The seamstress lowered her gaze with practiced deference. "I have brought the finest silks and fabrics, Lady Cassia. Also, some gowns are prepared to your measurements, with fabric enough for alterations or embellishments should you desire."

Cassia gave a small nod, already moving toward the bolts of fabric, her expression coolly appraising. Roslin lingered, fingertips brushing the edge of a midnight-blue fold, her eyes catching on the jeweled shimmer of the sea-green gown as though it were made for her alone.

Then the seamstress’s gaze drifted once more to Anneliese, curiosity blooming in her expression. After a small pause, she turned politely to Cassia. "If I may ask, my Lady... who is this fair young lady?"

Anneliese felt the weight of that brief glance. Before Cassia could answer—and perhaps dress her name in unnecessary titles—she bowed her head lightly, her voice calm but courteous. "I am Anneliese Levine."

Taken aback by the polite gesture, the seamstress replied a second too late, "Estelle Bloom, the royal seamstress, Lady Anneliese."

Estelle’s eyes lingered on Anneliese a moment longer, her sharpness easing into something closer to measured warmth. "I have also brought a selection of fabrics in shades I believe will flatter you, Lady Anneliese," she said with practiced grace. "If it pleases you, we may look at them."

Anneliese lowered her gaze slightly, the corners of her lips softening into a faint smile. "That is very generous of you, Lady Bloom. I am... not well-versed in such things, but I would be grateful for your guidance."

Estelle’s lips curved, the faintest shadow of approval flickering through her expression. "Then you are already wiser than many who sit in gowns they do not understand, Lady Anneliese."

Before Estelle could reach for her fabrics, Cassia’s voice cut the air with delicate authority. "She may wait."

The seamstress froze mid-motion, lowering her hands at once. Cassia did not look at Anneliese but at the sea-green gown draped on the mannequin, her eyes lingering with proprietary interest.

"Begin with Roslin," she commanded smoothly. "And afterward, we may see to my... future daughter-in-law."

Anneliese ever so graceful said, "Yes, please attend to Lady Roslin first—it is her birthday."

Roslin’s lips curved in satisfaction as Estelle moved to her side, drawing out rich lengths of fabric. The seamstress began draping midnight blue against her shoulders, murmuring soft appraisals, praising her complexion and posture, yet there was a measured restraint in her words—polite but lacking the warmth she had so quickly offered Anneliese. Roslin’s eyes gleamed at her reflection in the tall mirror, her voice quick to claim the gown as though it had been waiting for her alone.

Anneliese, meanwhile, sat quietly to the side, the hush of lavender-scented air pressing closer. She folded her hands, watching the shimmer of silk glide across Roslin’s form when she heard faint footsteps.

Atticus, who had been in the city since morning, stepped inside—the tall figure moving with an ease that spoke of long habit rather than permission. His stride was unhurried, his posture cut from the same steel as his mother’s. Dark hair caught the spill of light as his gray eyes swept the chamber before settling on Anneliese.

The weight of his gaze lingered—neither hostile nor kind, but a study, assessing. Beneath the practiced composure, however, flickered a reluctant admiration: an unwilling awareness of her beauty, and of the quiet simplicity that set her apart from the chamber polished in excess.

Roslin’s face lit up at once. "Brother—you must see how the gown falls!" Only then did Atticus’s eyes shift toward his sister.