Chapter 19: Shrouded in rags.

Chapter 19

The day before the Royal Ball arrived beneath clear skies and warm sunlight, though little about Beaufort Estate felt peaceful. Preparations had consumed the household for weeks; servants hurried through the corridors carrying vibrant flora, silken ribbons, polished silver, and sealed invitations presumably for Men they were have supposed to have attracted.

Sigrid, however, paid none of it any attention. Since the incident at the boutique, Maria had attempted several times to approach her, but each effort had been met with complete indifference. Sigrid neither acknowledged her greetings nor responded to her attempts at conversation, until Maria eventually ceased her efforts altogether. As for Duke Vesper and Duchess Genevieve, their hostility had become far less direct. They no longer sought her out, offered lectures, or attempted to involve themselves in her affairs. For Sigrid, this was perhaps the greatest blessing imaginable, for she preferred silence. Silence was honest; silence demanded nothing.

That morning, she sat near the window of her chambers when Lilith entered carrying a silver tray. "My lady," the maid said, bowing slightly, "a letter has arrived for you."

Sigrid accepted the envelope without particular interest, but the moment she recognized the elegant, sweeping handwriting, a faint smile touched her lips. Lady Marigold. Breaking the wax seal, she unfolded the parchment to find a brief message: Good day Sigrid, your gown is complete. The final adjustments had been finished the previous evening, and you are welcome to collect it whenever it was convenient.

Sigrid folded the letter carefully. Perfect. She had intended to visit the boutique immediately, but unfortunately, fate appeared to have other plans.

"Sigrid!" The sharp summons echoed through the stone corridor before reaching her chambers. A moment later, another voice followed, dripping with false warmth. "Maria, dear, come downstairs."

The contrast was almost amusing—one name had been barked like a command to a hound, while the other had been called with coddling affection. Sigrid slowly rose from her chair, noting the immediate concern on her maid’s face. "My lady..." Lilith murmured.

"It appears we have been summoned to court, Lilith," Sigrid replied coolly. Together, they descended toward the first floor.

Upon reaching the drawing room, Sigrid immediately noticed several unfamiliar faces. A prominent seamstress stood near the center of the room accompanied by two apprentices, expensive fabrics draped over their arms and concealed beneath protective velvet coverings. Duke Vesper sat nearby with Duchess Genevieve standing imperiously beside him, while Maria occupied the seat closest to them. The entire arrangement was so transparently orchestrated that Sigrid nearly laughed as both daughters stepped forward.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Sigrid said, her voice a model of cold etiquette.

"Good morning, Father," Maria echoed sweetly.

The difference earned exactly the response Sigrid expected. Vesper’s features softened as he looked upon Maria, but when his gaze shifted toward his eldest daughter, his expression cooled to ice. "Sigrid. Maria," the Duke addressed them, gesturing toward the seamstress. "I have commissioned gowns for you both, fitting for tomorrow’s grand event."

Maria’s eyes immediately brightened with delight. "Truly, Father?"

The Duke nodded, and a pleased exclamation escaped her lips before she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. "You favor us greatly, Father. Thank you."

Sigrid merely stared, a quiet, mocking scoff escaping her lips. Ridiculous.

Maria immediately turned, her brow furrowing slightly. "Does something displease you, Sister?"

Sigrid offered no reply. Instead, she approached the seamstress directly, the woman shifting nervously beneath her piercing gaze. Without a word, Sigrid accepted the garment intended for her and disappeared behind the changing screen. Several minutes later, she stood before the mirror, and a soft, knowing laugh escaped her. She had expected exactly this.

The gown hanging from her shoulders was plain—painfully so. The fabric lacked quality, the design lacked elegance, and the craftsmanship lacked even a semblance of effort. It was the sort of attire an impoverished noblewoman might wear to a minor provincial gathering, certainly not to a royal ball, and absolutely not to an event hosted by the Crown Prince. The irony was almost beautiful; just like her past life, nothing had changed.

Sigrid studied her reflection for several silent moments, her fingers lightly brushing the rough fabric gathered at her waist. The gown was dreadful, and there was no point pretending otherwise. The cut was uninspired, the embroidery nearly nonexistent, and the material itself was scarcely worthy of a noble household.

Yet strangely, she found herself amused rather than offended. A distant memory from before she came back to the past, on the royal ball while the daughters of the high nobility arrived draped in rare jewels and heavy silks, she had been cast in something exactly the same as this one an obvious attempt to ensure she faded quietly into the shadows while others commanded the room.

And yet, Ragnar had still noted her presence. The future Emperor had crossed an entire ballroom filled with princesses, duchesses, and the ladies of every great house simply to speak with her. It had not been because of a gown, and certainly not because of inherited jewels. It was because, despite every effort to diminish her, she remained impossible to ignore. A frown adorned her face as she remembered Ragnar. Even if that night was somewhat worth remembering the thought that what happened next was a dreadful marriage and him ruining her was something that angered her so deeply.

However the thought that people truly believed majesty could be hidden beneath poor tailoring and cheap fabric brought the faintest of smiles to her face, treating elegance as though it were sewn into a hem rather than carried in the blood of the woman wearing it. How unfortunate for them. Sigrid laughed softly and turned away from the mirror.

They had learned absolutely nothing.

Outside the screen, excited voices filled the room as Maria and Genevieve marveled over the seamstress’s work alongside the Duke. When Sigrid stepped out, she immediately understood the source of their joy. Maria stood at the center of the room wearing a masterpiece. Intricate gold embroidery traced the contours of the fabric, and lustrous pearls adorned the sleeves, making the gown shimmer beneath the sunlight like an artifact from a fairy tale. It was beautiful, truly beautiful—a dress fit for royalty, a dress fit for the favored daughter.

Maria spun happily before her parents. "Father! Mother! It is an absolute triumph!" Genevieve beamed with pride while Vesper looked on with satisfaction.

When Maria noticed Sigrid emerging, a subtle, triumphant smirk flashed across her features before being quickly masked by a veil of innocence. "Sister," she said sweetly, twirling once more to catch the light. "Do you not agree that the craftsmanship is sublime?"

Sigrid would have been lying if she denied the beauty of the garment. "It is exceptional," she murmured.

Maria’s smile widened, and nearby, Duke Vesper nodded toward the seamstress. "You have performed excellently. My daughter is well pleased."

The words were so absurd that Sigrid wondered if the Duke was entirely deaf to his own hypocrisy. A soft, mocking laugh cut through the room, causing everyone to turn toward her. "Pleased?" Sigrid repeated, her voice laced with quiet disdain. "You deliberately array me in garments a commoner would hesitate to wear before the royal house, and you expect me to applaud the insult?"

Genevieve immediately stiffened, her posture turning rigid. "Watch your tongue, Sigrid. Do not let your jealousy cloud your judgment; Maria simply carries herself with an elegance you cannot hope to match."

Sigrid’s amusement only deepened. "This display is becoming thoroughly embarrassing."

The Duchess’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "You try my patience."

"Do you truly believe me blind to how this came to pass?" Sigrid continued, stepping forward. "You spent weeks selecting Maria’s gown personally, ensuring it was a work of art. Mine was clearly a careless afterthought or perhaps a calculated one. Perhaps considerable thought went into ensuring I could not possibly outshine your precious angel."

"Enough of your insolence!" Genevieve snapped.

Maria lowered her gaze, her voice trembling in a practiced show of distress. "Sister, I swear to you, I had no knowledge of this..." Yet the venomous excitement dancing in her eyes utterly ruined the performance.

"Of course you didn’t," Sigrid replied dryly. A heavy silence followed before she looked down at her own attire with profound indifference. "The sole reason this garment appears remotely passable is because it has the privilege of draping my frame. Were anyone else to wear it, it would look fit for rats."

Several of the apprentices nearly choked, and even the seamstress looked visibly horrified. Sigrid turned her gaze directly upon her father, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "I am your firstborn, the true blood of this house, yet you dress me beneath the station of your stepdaughter."

The seamstress visibly paled, perhaps only now realizing the true, treacherous dynamic of the household, or perhaps having assumed Sigrid was merely an illegitimate child.

Genevieve looked ready to explode with fury, and only Vesper’s heavy hand upon her arm prevented an outright outburst.

Sigrid calmly began to undo the fastenings of the plain gown, stepping out of it and handing the fabric to her maid. "Dispose of it, Lilith."

The room froze at the absolute defiance. "Sigrid!" Vesper barked, his voice echoing off the walls. "What do you intend to wear to the royal court?"

She did not even deign to glance at him as she walked away. "Do not distress yourself, Your Grace. I am certain something within my own wardrobe better reflects my noble station than that ragged cloth." Without waiting for his dismissal, she turned and swept from the room.

Lilith hurried after her, tightly clutching the discarded gown. By the time they reached the quiet of the upper corridor, Sigrid was smiling—an expression that thoroughly confused the young maid. "My lady... why do you smile after such an insult?"

Sigrid laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly against the stone. "Because they are entirely predictable, Lilith."

The maid blinked in bewilderment. "Predictable, my lady?"

"Of course they would attempt to shroud me in rags," Sigrid replied, her eyes gleaming with cold brilliance. "They are utterly terrified."

"Terrified of what?"

Sigrid’s smile widened into something sharp and dangerous. "Terrified that, despite all their plots, I might still take the Crown Prince." The sheer absurdity of their desperate plotting amused her enormously; people became so delightfully simple the moment fear entered the equation.

Returning to her chambers, she seated herself at the vanity and withdrew a fresh sheet of parchment. Carefully dipping her quill into the dark ink, she began to write a letter addressed to Lady Marigold. She penned her gratitude for the woman’s flawless efforts and explained that she would not be collecting the gown today. Instead, she would arrive tomorrow, directly before the commencement of the ball.

A proper entrance required impeccable timing; more importantly, it required absolute shock. Once the letter was complete, Sigrid folded it neatly, impressed her seal upon it, and slipped it into an envelope. Rising from her chair, she crossed the room and pulled open her chamber door, only to freeze on the threshold.

Maria stood waiting in the shadows of the corridor, and her predatory gaze had settled directly upon the letter in Sigrid’s hand.