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With a dreamy sigh, I draw close to Dante’s side and place my hand at his elbow. My posture is loose, sultry, my muscle memory snapping into place as I take on a persona I discarded decades ago.
“Darling,” I say, batting my lashes at the spy. His cheeks flush, which fills me with a long-forgotten sense of pride. “Take me back to my hotel. My feet ache, and I really must get my beauty sleep. We have many more social events to prepare for, you know.”
His brow furrows as he stares down at me for a few silent moments. Then he dons that grin, one that surely has sent countless maidens swooning, and places his hand over mine. “Whatever you wish, my dearest.” We proceed down the street, where another public house illuminates the sidewalk. Several patrons chat in front of the door. They go silent as we pass, but we keep our eyes locked on each other.
He leans closer, speaking loudly enough for his voice to carry. “Although I assure you, my love, you need no beauty rest at all. If you got any prettier you just might take my breath away.”
“Oh, Albert,” I croon in a sing-song voice, “you say the sweetest things.”
11
Two days later, I bolt upright in my bed, awakened from a dream of blood. It makes sense that I would dream of such a morbid topic, after what happened in the alley. Those men were the first corpses I’ve witnessed since the war. Back then, gory nightmares were standard for me. I often woke screaming, unable to recall where I was. Sometimes not evenwhoI was. Remembering my name was my only anchor to sanity, but even then, visions of death, of the lives Prince Cobalt forced me to end, plagued me.
I’ve had decades of healing to process such things. To end such horrid nightmares. I stopped dreaming of death after I came to terms with the things I did under compulsion. Forgiving myself for falling for the wrong man…now that is another story.
I’m not surprised I dreamed of blood. What I am surprised about is that it wasn’t a nightmare. It may have started as one, with shadowed figures nipping at my heels, of alley walls closing in. But then Dante was there, spinning into action with his cane, much like he had in real life. A sense of safety came over me, and as soon as he spilled the first drop of blood, the dream shifted. The blood wasn’t gory or terrifying but…beautiful. Something to be fascinated by. It became a trail of rubies littering bodies that weren’t corpses at all but dress forms. I bent over, plucked a bloodred gem from the nearest faceless form, and marched out of the alley with Dante at my side.
I blink into the hazy morning light streaming through my curtains in my cottage bedroom, seeking any sign that I’m about to crash. That the blood and violence I conjured in my dream state will bring back unwanted memories. I’m aware that I should be disturbed by the dream itself, but I’m only shaken by my sudden jolt of wakefulness. No matter how long I sit and wait for the fear to take me, it doesn’t. Instead, the final strain of thought I had in my dream grows stronger.
This would make the perfect button for my derby gown.
That’s what held my fascination as I left the alley dreamscape. It was a glowing spark of inspiration.
A smile curls my lips and my limbs grow restless, desperate to move and get to my studio at once. Throwing back my blankets, I leave my strange dream behind and follow the pull it left instead. Because now I have a dress to alter.
* * *
An hour later,I’m in my downtown Hawthorn studio, fixated on the gown in my lap. Three members of my design team have already arrived, but they don’t pay me much mind. They know better than to interrupt me when I’m as frantic as I am now. I like to think of it as being one with my inner fire magic—my creative spark.
Who doesn’t know better than to interrupt my state of urgent creativity, however, is Foxglove. “Amelie, I haven’t seen you sew this fast since that one time you vowed not to use the toilet until you finished your sister’s wedding veil.”
I glance away from my work to cast a quick smile at my friend before I return my attention to the glittering ruby button I’m sewing in place. “Yes, well, I’m wearing this to the Zephyrus Derby tomorrow afternoon, and I only had the idea to change all the buttons from black to red this morning. I have to catch a train to the Wind Court tonight, and I have clients to see beforehand, so I must finish this soon.”
He leans over my shoulder to assess my work. “Ah, the red certainly stands out against the black and white silk. And I do love how those rubies sparkle. It looks nice.”
“It looks more than nice. It’s perfect. I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before. I’ve had these ruby buttons just waiting to be used all this time…” I trail off and secure the thread, the tip of my tongue poking out at the corner of my mouth.
Foxglove says nothing in reply, and it takes me several beats to note the weight in his silence. I lift my gaze to his and find him grinning at me. “What is it?”
He pushes the bridge of his spectacles and gives a smug shake of his head. “Oh, nothing.”
“Darling Foxglove, can’t you see I’m busy?” I say it not with ire but a soft chuckle. “Take that ridiculous grin out of here or tell me what has you so amused.”
He purses his lips to hide only a fraction of his growing smile and leans to the side until his elbow is propped on my worktable. “It’s just…you seem inspired.”
I give him a pointed look, then resume my work on the buttons. “Why do you think I’m sewing so fast? I’m in my creative spark.”
“I do wonder, though. What’s gotten you so inspired?”
His tone is suggestive, but I can’t fathom what he’s hinting at. Does he somehow know a bloody nighttime vision sparked my idea of ruby buttons? If so, I daresay he should be more mortified than smug.
He leans a little closer. “Or should I say…who.”
Realization dawns, and my heart leaps so violently, I prick the tip of my finger with my sewing needle. I jolt at the sting but don’t bother inspecting the wound. My fingers are used to such pricks and have the callouses to show for it. I already know for certain I didn’t draw blood.
I pretend I didn’t hear Foxglove and lower my brows as if I’m deep in concentration. The rustle of paper snags my attention. I hazard a glance at my friend just in time to see him extract a folded newspaper from his waistcoat. He clears his throat, and I avert my gaze.
“‘Miss Amelie Fairfield and her brand-new beau, Prince Albert, were caught canoodling at the grand opening of the Golden Stone restaurant in Jasper, Earthen Court, this weekend. Prior to this, speculations had circulated over whether the couple was a true love match or merely a convenient ploy to help the fae fashion designer escape scandal. But after witnessing much hand holding and smoldering glances, it seems the match just may hold true adoration.’”
