Both Stasia and Drusilla began barking frantically at their mistress’s despair. Calcifer hissed, hair standing up as he leapt off Brielle and onto the wardrobe.
“Is that-” Brielle began.
The door opened, and Mrs. Blakesley entered, face blank as she assessed the chaos of the room. In fact, Drusilla had taken that opportunity to bite at the end of Luci’s dress, growling as she pulled at the fabric. Luci couldn’t bring herself to care, though, as her imaginary horses neighed louder and the carriage wheels bumped and groaned.
“Mrs. Blakesley, we are doomed!” Lady Margaret wailed, finding the discarded letter and shoving it into the housekeeper’s hands.
To her credit, Mrs. Blakesley scanned the letter and then neatly folded it up, mouth pursed in consideration.
“It seems to me that it was amaskedball where plenty of drink was shared. Memories often differ from reality. This is likely true for princes as well.” Mrs. Blakesley said simply. “Now, Luci, get up off the floor and grab the charcoal and rouge from Lady Margaret’s room. Lady Margaret, please remember that you are a proud Treveon now, and we do not give in to despair. Put on your finest dress as fast as you can and finish your face. Brielle, darling, you are going to meet your fiancé.”
Luci sat up and stared at the older woman, truly seeing her. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was, in fact, a plan. Brielle is engaged to Prince Ira. Something about it pulled at her, but the truth was that Luci believed he was a good person. Would Brielle be happy?
“He doesn’t want to marry me; he wants to marry Luci,” Brielle said.
More neighing.
“We are out of time.” Mrs. Blakesley said. “If anyone is to offer up a second plan, now is the time.”
The carriage noises stopped. At least the phantom noises were gone from her mind. Except, now there were voices.
Dread crept over her. Oh no. Swatting away Drusilla, who barked indignantly at the insult, Luci crawled to the window next to where Lady Margaret sat muttering to herself about begging forgiveness. Pulling herself up, Luci squinted her eyes against the summer sun. The moment the black spots receded, a litany of carriages formed before her. With Lord Treveon at the head.
“They’re here,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Mrs. Blakesley said, “Which is why the three of you will now pull yourselves together and remember that you are all strong and capable women. I will delay their party as muchas I can while you all get ready yourselves. Lucinda, I trust you remember the time you and Ms. Treveon thought it wildly funny to use the henna to draw mustaches on Cook while she slept.”
“We were nine!” Luci said with exasperation.
“Yes, well, if you have any more, I suggest you put it to use on that hair now.” Mrs. Blakesley said before turning around and leaving.
Luci ran her fingers through her blond hair. It was actually a good idea, though exceptionally devious. She made a mental tally to bring this character trait up to Mrs. Blakesley if they survived long enough.
“Luci,” Brielle groaned, hands wrapped around her stomach.
Oh, light above. Luci picked herself up off the ground and pressed a kiss to Brielle’s forehead.
“We can do hard things,” she said, “I’ll get Lady Margaret up, and you get yourself ready. I’ll bring the rouge and charcoal. It’ll add color to your face, Mrs. Blakesley is right.”
“Are we really doing this?” Brielle asked.
“Yes. Yes, we are.”
“Let’s get you ready to meet your fiancé.”
Now that Luci knew magic was real, she was inclined to credit it for the fact that Lady Margaret was standing and acting like the pure-bred lady she was. As well as Brielle standing at the top of the stairs and not crying. It was practically a miracle, given that Brielle’s immediate reaction when overwhelmed was often to leak from her eyes at an alarming rate. This was different, though. It was in the steel set of her eyes and the way she lifted her chin into the air. She was doing this for Luci. That was what kept her going.
The thought warmed Luci’s blood and steadied her breathing. They could do hard things. Like, convince the prince he had spent last night with Brielle. The truth was, a small and chaotic part of herself wanted him to see through the ruse. That maybe those tiny moments she had felt had been something more, but that was just ridiculous. She was an orphan. He was a crown prince. The end.
“I hate it.” Brielle wrinkled her nose as she eyed Luci.
Luci lifted a dark strand of hair and stared at it. Black as midnight. The truth was, she hated it too. It didn’t feel like her, and despite everything, Luci had never wanted to change anything about herself. It was unconventional, but she liked everything how it was. Yet, this sacrifice, the loss of her honey hair, was a small price to pay for keeping Brielle safe.
Carefully, Luci lifted the blue ribbon she was holding and wrapped it up into her hair and into a neat bow.
“I’ll go first,” Lady Margaret said, quite restored. “Brielle, you will come to the parlour in five minutes. Luci, well, dear, it’s best if you stay out of view altogether.”
That was true enough even if it stung a little. What stung more was that Brielle didn’t argue. Instead, she stared down the rounding stares as if it were a mountain she had to conquer.