“You think he hasn’t done the same to all of us?” Alton said. “He breaks people by inches. Not all at once.”
Aoife closed her eyes. That was precisely what terrified her.
“But,” Clara said gently, “broken people still choose how they stand.”
Aoife gave a hoarse laugh. “Stand? I can barely breathe.”
Clara hesitated a moment, then reached into the wardrobe. “Then let us help you do it.”
She drew out the midnight-blue gown, dark as storm light, embroidered with quiet threads of silvered flowers.
Aoife stared at it, uncomprehending.
“You were right,” Clara murmured. “You shouldn’t wear the dress he chose. A small act of defiance is exactly what today needs.”
Alton nodded. “You don’t need to be brave. You just need to show up.”
Aoife’s throat closed again, not with despair this time, but with the flicker of a stubbornness she’d almost forgotten.
The day was coming whether she rose to meet it or not.
Aoife exhaled, slow and shaking. “All right,” she said. “Dress me.”
Clara’s shoulders dropped in relief. Alton slipped out of the room as Clara prepared her. It felt different today. The dress wasn’t a fashion statement; it was armour. It was defiance and a refusal to bend.
When the last pin was set, Aoife stood before the mirror. The girl who looked back at her was pale, hollowed and exhausted, but upright.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said.
Aoife followed Clara out of the room with the faint, unsteady sensation of walking through fog.
She found Halverton in the corridor outside the breakfast room, shrugging on his coat. He turned at the sound of her steps, and his face lit with bright, unsettling delight.
“There you are.” His eyes swept her from head to toe. He pursed his lips but made no comment on the dress. “The village will see today what I have made of you.” He stepped close enough that she felt his breath against her temple as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “A perfect lady.”
Aoife kept her face carefully still. She felt nothing. Or she felt too much.
“This colour suits you,” he said cheerfully, missing the point. “Far better than Florence.” Halverton adjusted her sleeve as though arranging a doll for display.
She recoiled inwardly at the touch but forced herself to remain neutral, to keep the mask on.
She looked up at the footman, James, standing at the breakfast-room door, hands clasped behind his back, wearing the same expression she had just adopted: bland, composed, opaque. Behind him, the butler. Not revealing a thing.
In this house, she was far from the only one playing a part.
Halverton turned, barking an order at James. The man moved instantly, bowing his head, expression flat as a shuttered window.
It was brutally clear.
This was not power.
This was a performance. It was no more real than the visiting minstrel shows she’d enjoyed as a child.
Halverton wasn’t a tyrant ruling through fear. He was a puppeteer whose strings worked only because every person around him allowed the illusion. He needed obedience the way the rest of them needed air. His authority existed because everyone had agreed, consciously or not, to play their part.
Without the cast, the play collapsed.
Her heart raced, a thrill running up her spine.
