It had been the way they stood—hunched, conspiring—that sent a chill through me.
The way their backs remained turned, indifferent to my existence.
Their murmurs, too low to catch, had coiled through the air like serpents sliding through grass.
I had told myself it was horrid to think of my father’s guests as scavengers, as beasts drawn to the scent of something rotting.
Even so?—
The unease in my gut had clenched too tightly to ignore.
A rustling sound snapped me from my reverie.
I turned, straightening.
From between two towering yews, my father emerged.
His gaze found mine, and without preamble, he spoke?—
“Elizabeth, you are summoned for tea at Lord Winston’s estate.”
My stomach plummeted.
The word summoned lodged in my throat like a stone.
“Now?”I asked, feigning a calm I did not feel.
“Immediately,” he replied.
Emotionless.Cold.
An executioner announcing a sentence.
I nodded—a hollow gesture of obedience.
And then I turned, moving toward the only sanctuary left to me.
My chamber.
Mary was already waiting, an array of garments across my bed.
She did not ask why.
She did not have to.
She merely began.
Fastening buttons.Tightening stays and smoothing lace.
Layer by layer, she built the cage I was expected to wear.
Layer by layer, she prepared me for the lion’s den.
And all I could do was stand there?—
And let it happen.
First came the stays, laced tight enough to ensure an elegant posture.My ribs compressed, and my breath shortened, but I did not complain.
