Moreau's promise doesn't settle well by the time I return to the castle. I'd been so blinded with rage-veiled compassion that I barely processed what I had done until I passed through the stone threshold of the outer walls.

I'd just killed two people.

Two lowly pieces of shit, but still . . . two lives whose blood now stains my hands.

They . . . they were the first humans I've ever killed. I've hunted animals before, and even in my first catch with my father, I cried and hid in a berry bush for hours. My father found me later, his honey-laced voice soft yet deep with consideration and pity.

Panic doesn't settle in my until I'm back inside the castle, sitting at the top of the short stairs of the entrance hall. The eyes of the three women in the painting at my back boring holes into my spine.

I try to control my breathing, but it continues to saw in and out of me. My heartbeat racing like it'll jump out of my chest. I think my hands are shaking, but I've been cradling my head between them, near covering my ears for some time, that I can't tell.

What am I going to do?

I don't regret what I'd done. I don't regret saving Moreau. And I certainly don't regret killing those two men; not when they reminded me of the same one who'd taken a piece of me that I'll never get back.

Even if Moreau can keep his word, if it involves telling Mother Miranda what I had done, I could still wind up in her golden-fingered clutches.

I don't realize how loud I'm breathing until Helga calls my name. "Erika, are you all right?"

I jerk my head towards her, surprised. The silence that follows is suffocated with embarrassment. The housekeeper is wearing a gown of silver-grey that nearly matches her eyes; the collar rounding at the base of her neck. Its long sleeves cuffing at her wrists, and the pleated skirt flowing off her hips.

I open my mouth to say something, but my throat is so clogged that I just mimic a fish out of water. "I . . . I-I don't know." I whimper.

"What happened?" she asks as she approaches, her clicking shoes ringing in my ears. She ends up sitting on the ledge of the stairs with me, appearing very un-Helga-like as she rests her hands on her knees.

My heart is still racing, making to jump into my throat. So I have to swallow three times before I can explain, "Lady Dimitrescu sent me to go shopping in the market?"

"Again?"

I nod.

"For what?"

I shrug. "Primarily clothes. Maybe something for the party she's supposed to be hosting."

"And what happened?"

I fold my lips in, my eyes starting to fill with tears and I have to look away from her and rest my chin on my knees.

"Erika, what happened?" she asks sternly.

The small, neglected child in me shies at the tone, but still responds with, "I spotted some villagers attacking Lord Moreau."

I can feel Helga stiffen next to me.

"And . . ." I take a deep breath, though it hitches upon inhale. "And I killed them."

A moment of silence.

"Killed them? How?" Is all Helga asks.

"I took a man's rifle and shot two of them. I knocked the third one out and broke his nose with the stock."

"And everyone saw this?"

"Yes. Including Moreau, and he promised I wasn't going to be held responsible."

"He said that?"

I finally look back to her. "Well, he said I wouldn't be burdened with it, as he gestured to the bodies."

Her expression yields nothing. "What happened then?"

"I just went back to the castle. There was nothing else I thought I could do."

Helga's gaze wanders, looking towards the door, but towards nothing at hall. Her mind carrying her into her thoughts.

After a minute, she blinks, as if her soul had returned to her body, and looks to me again. "Lady Dimitrescu and Mother Miranda will find out." My stomach sinks, but she continues, "But, what you did was . . . good."

"But I'll still be punished for it." I can't even tell if it's a question or a statement.

"The families might demand justice, if they have any, but the verdict will come down to Mother Miranda."

I think I'm going to be sick.

"She might use is against me." I whimper. "Might use it to get me close to her."

Something hardens in Helga's stare. "Perhaps, but is it still better than dying?"

"I don't know."

I certainly don't think it's worth being away from Bela for much longer.

Helga looks away again and sighs, her thoughts carrying her off for a few seconds. "I will not say a word to anyone. But you must be prepared for whatever happens once the Mistress and Miranda find out."

It's not exactly comforting, but it gives me something to do. Perhaps that's what she's hoping on.

No sense in trying to make light of things, nor trying to stop an inevitable event. All I can do is be prepared. I have enough evidence, and even a lord – hopefully – to advocate for my story.

I don't feel any lighter, but I feel, steeled. Strengthened.

I confess to Helga, "Those were the first people I've killed."

The housekeeper looks to with genuine surprise. "Really?"

My brows narrow. "You thought I've actually killed someone before?"

"I thought it was no better than hunting."

"It's completely different," I sneer.

"But I assume they deserved it more than the game you hunt?"

I suppress a smile. "The game actually has purpose."

"I apologize for my assumption. It's just with the upbringing introduced by your father, I thought you would've been exposed to it."

"How? My father didn't kill anyone in the village, and he certainly wouldn't just for a lesson." My words have a little more bite at the misjudgment of my father character.

"I apologize," Helga repeats. "I simply mean that I thought the idea of blood wouldn't affect you, no matter who it's coming out of."

"Of course it's going to be different coming from a human. But, you're not too wrong." I confess. "I didn't feel any, regret for killing them. Not after what they were doing to the lord. Who knows what they could've done to other people. But it, terrifies me that I don't feel regret. Is that normal?"

"I cannot say. I'm not trained in weaponry like you. And I'm certainly not trained to kill any living thing." There's a ghost of a smile on the housekeeper's lips. "Perhaps that is a question better saved for someone who, understands."

My head jerks to her, brows furrowed, but eyes hopeful even as I feel my cheeks warming.

Helga seems to smile – genuinely smile – at my distraction, and she sighs as she slaps her hands atop her thighs. "Well," she says, rising to her feet with a grunt, "I'm glad to see you have returned. And just in time for your fitting."

I groan, standing to my feet in one fluid movement.

Yes, I must be prepared, and I must think about it. But for now, I'll have to move on. Though I didn't exchange any details regarding the men, it's as if Helga had fetched the image from my mind, and even lauded me for removing such filth from our village.

I can't help but grin at her judgment of my character, of me. To have her believe in me as a person, to have her believe that I would do the right thing for the right people . . . to have her believe in me . . . it makes me feel, something that I can't even explain.

Pride? Joy? Gratefulness? Appreciation?

Not even my own mother had believed in me like she does.

And I hold onto that hope and warmth as she tuts at me in irritation at the state of my clothes, and at the loss of my cloak. All while I hold a smile on my lips.

Half an hour later, I stand in front of the cherrywood mirror frowning.

Gabriella runs a hand down the skirt of my gown, adjusting the green folds before kneeling down to brush the ruby-colored slippers that pinch mercilessly.

Sea-foam white lace blooms from the sweeping neckline, melting through the bodice of powder-green into the ocean of silk that makes up the dress. A white sash ties at the waist, forming an inverted peak that separates the bodice from the explosion of skirts beneath. Patterns of golden beads are embroidered in waves and vines across the whole of it, a glittering layer between the skirts.

"I hate how good you look in everything," Gabriella sighs with exaggeration, and I spare her a cringe of a smile.

When I'd arrived at the castle dressing room, she'd answered the door with a smile and even a hug despite her arms being full of sample dresses she'd already pulled. Basic pleasantries didn't last long, as the castle tailor barked orders at me to get up on the velvet square and to strip down to only my intimates. I was hesitant at first, until I saw Gabriella lock the gold filigreed door of the dressing room.

The tailor pitilessly took my measurements, pinching and prodding and adjusting and straightening my skin and posture; Gabriella furiously writing to keep up with the numbers that tumbled from the woman's mouth.

A kernel of pride does settle in my chest though, as I've gained weight and have rounded my hips more – my body now settling into a womanly figure.

Once she started ordering Gabriella to pull some fabrics for me, I hold my tongue on the ones that caught my attention. When the tailor was getting me ready for Lady Dimitrescu's masquerade party, I'd tried to suggest to her ones that I liked, but she ignored me and waved me off with a flick of her wrist. I'd given up shortly after.

Gabriella seems to notice though, winking and waggling her brows at me whenever she slips a particular piece among the pile. Particularly this shimmering golden fabric that looks like molten ore.

I don't bother knowing the tailor's name, I don't care to. Only recognizing her by her silver-grey hair that is always gathered in a twist at the base of her skull. Her distinct pointed nose making her resemble the many woodland witches I'd envisioned from fairytales.

I suppress a smile as I spot her in the reflection, rummaging around a sewing machine, her back hunched, furthering her likeness to wicked women of the woods.

I run my hand over the skirt, my palm coming bath lathered in golden glitter. "Something just doesn't fit, though."

That's an understatement – this thing is a circus tent of silk and lace and glitter, and I'm not even wearing a cage. Every bit of movement sends a shower of glimmer trickling to the floor like snow dust.

I half turn to watch the skirts of the dress flow and ripple around the corner of the velvet square I stand upon. I snort at the few clips pinching the back of the dress to better fit to my form.

"It certainly isn't you." Gabriella agrees, her finger poking her cheek in ponder. "But the color seems nice."

I shrug my shoulders. Indifferent.

"You don't like it?" she pouts.

I almost recant at the childlike expression, offering another pained smile before lifting my chin to better observe the cumbersome piece. "I just don't like how full and heavy it looks."

Gabriella's golden brows rise. "You want something more, formfitting?"

I remember the black and gold dress I'd worn to the masquerade party and bite the corner of my mouth. "Maybe something less . . . round than this. Unless the Mistress has something else in mind." I sharpen my tone as I cast a glance over towards the tailor again. Gabriella follows, folding her lips in.

Without turning towards me, she says, "I didn't receive any specific instructions – she just told me to make you look presentable."

I poke my tongue out at her as she continues to rummage through some bolts of fabric, adding and subtracting designs and patterns and colors.

Gabi shakes her head as she turns back to me. "Well you know, I've been working on some designs for the daughters, maybe you'd like one of them."

My eyes widen as I whirl face her, scattering more glitter. "You mean, you'd make me an original piece?"

"If you want." Gabriella shrugs. "It would involve some more meetings to try and find your style, as well as a color pallet that works for you. But I wouldn't mind."

I can't help but smile as I turn back towards the mirror, almost snorting as I see myself in the ridiculous dress the tailor ordered her to pull. This is only the second dress I've tried on, but if this is how the rest of them look, I'm not sure I'll reach a decision before the party. And if the tailor and I come to blows, I can't guarantee I won't stab her with her own scissors.

"Aren't there only a few days before the party? I don't want to stress you out. It seems like a lot of work."

Gabriella waves her hand at me, "I don't really consider it work. It's something I love to do. Something I want to do in the future; make lovely dresses that women faun over and adore." She steps closer while gazing at the tailor bickering to herself about not finding the proper color. "That's what I like about you. You seems appreciate the craft, even if you don't know much about it."

I smile. "I just love the way they look. One of the few qualities my mother didn't ruin."

Gabriella's brows bundle. "What do you mean?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. So you're really okay with making me a dress?"

"Of course! I need to test my skills somehow. Or at least, gain some criticism. Remember the one you wore at the party?"

My mouth pops open, and I exhale, "You made that?"

A shy but triumphant nod.

"That was incredible."

And certainly one of a kind.

"But I'm not sure I'm supposed to be attracting too much attention away from the Mistress and her family. In fact, I think that was something she kind of mentioned to me: to not be too, dazzling, I guess."

"I can make it work."

"Enough!" the wicked witch suddenly barks. "You will not be giving one of the daughter's dresses to some invalid!"

Gabriella, to her credit, doesn't back down. She faces the tailor and says with a steady voice, "The daughters have already chosen their dresses. How can they miss a design they haven't even seen?"

The tailor snorts, and I want to yank her hair clean out of her scalp. "You think you can just make up a brand-new design for the Dimitrescu Whore?"

"Excuse you?" I say with deathly quiet.

The tailor faces me with crossed arms, lips pulled back in her own degrading snarl. "Nadine's been whispering about how your Lady Dimitrescu's new pet. How it's been granting you your special privileges around the castle."

I fist my hands, wishing I could just turn my fingers into claws and tear her and Nadine to shreds. "Nadine needs to mind her own damn business. And you probably shouldn't gossip such nonsense. I don't think the Mistress would be pleased to hear of such wasted time."

The words seem to unnerve the tailor a bit, her chest heaving ever so slightly.

"I earned my privileges through my usefulness and skill."

"At what, spreading your legs?"

"Well, no one's complained yet." Despite my grisly grin, a piece of my soul withers at how my voice mimics my mother – near identical from the day I'd left her, alone and bitter.

Gabriella wisely steps between the tailor and I, saying as gently as she can, "What's wrong with giving Erika a single design? I can make more, and the daughters will barely acknowledge it like they always do."

"And what if they go about asking where she had gotten her dress from? You think they'll be happy to know you made something for her, and if it looks better than what they're wearing?"

Gabriella only lifts her chin. "Who said it was to be better? What is worse, having her wear a dress that falsifies the Mistress's influence, or have her wearing something that promotes dignity and grace upon the Lady's behalf?"

"Don't think I can't see what you're playing at girl." The tailor seethes, having shifted her target of venom. As she takes a step closer to Gabriella, I shift my hand within casual reach of the dagger I'd hidden in my boots. The only benefit of this dress is that it was pulled over my head, rather than having to step into it. "You want to use this chance to show how better you are than me."

I say coolly, "That doesn't take much."

The old woman bristles, but she doesn't remove her focus from Gabriella as she continues, "I knew you've always wanted to surpass me. I knew you wanted my position, wanted to replace me"

"That's not –"

"Oh please, no one at this castle can be as happy and as smiley as you. In fact, seeing it irks the hell out of me!"

Gabriella remains rooted in place, but silver lines her eyes. I can only stand there in shock, ready to spring should the tailor try to claw at the girl's throat. But even I am surprised by the sudden onslaught of verbal hostility.

And then I angle my head, "You poor thing. You must be terrified."

My voice must've iced over, because when Gabriella whirls to face me, fear and caution swim her eyes.

"What are you talking about, girl?"

"You must feel so threatened by her to act like this."

I don't back down as the tailor advances. "Like I'm going to feel insulted at anything coming from the mouth of Dimitrescu's Whore."

"Gabriella can do better – so much better than you. And you know it. And you're afraid of her replacing you. Just like they did Kathryn, just like that laundress."

The tailor halts.

I laugh, cold and lifeless. "You're so scared of her, scared of dying, that you'll do anything to hold her back. Won't you? Maybe even sabotage?"

The tailor spits, "I know what you're trying to do, whore, and it won't work.

I examine my nails, frowning at nonexistent dirt. But I don't miss the shift in Gabriella's expression; a muscle feathering within her jaw, a brief vacancy in her eyes – as if remembering that exact event.

Gabriella steps in. Says to the tailor, "Is that why you never liked my designs?"

My heart fractures at the pain in her voice, the betrayal. At the puzzle pieces suddenly falling into place. As if she'd never noticed such things until now.

I'd taken a gamble on the tailor's fear, like Kathryn's – just looking to give her a reason to hate me, to target me, and not Gabriella. But it seems I've unearthed something the older woman wanted to keep buried.

"Every time I asked you for your advice, you always just brushed me off – gave it a quick glance, but never told me what was wrong. I always thought it was something obvious, or you were testing me to see if I could notice the mistake myself, but . . ."

I want to skin the tailor alive for crushing that hope in Gabriella's shamrock green eyes. She almost reminds of Gretta with that optimism and joy, and though I can understand it's annoyance, it's really a sign of hidden strength that I admire even more so. To continue looking for a light – even creating your own – when the shadows get too dark.

I bat my lashes at the tailor, "I can't wait to tell this to the Mistress during our pillow talk. How long has been looking for some fresh ideas?"

To hell with the work this woman does for Dimitrescu – to hell with the shit she goes through with the Mistress and her daughters. To be so willing to crush a heart as pure and as bright as Gabriella's . . .

The woman simmers with rage, but hisses, "I'll see to it you're carrion girl," and storms from the dressing room.

After a few minutes of charged silence, I step down from the square, skirts rustling as I ask Gabriella, "Are you alright?"

Her head is down, fiddling with the tips of her fingernails, her ash-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. It's not encouraging when she sits on the very velvet-covered block I'd just vacated.

She puts her head in her hands, and I move to stand in front of her before crouching down, using the thick skirts of this confounded dress as a cushion.

"Gabs?" I try again, but she recoils from the nickname, as if it struck an uncomfortable chord.

Great.

"I'm sorry if I did anything. I was only trying to help."

"You did." She finally looks up with a sigh, brushing her hair out of her face before looking to me. "You helped me realize what a fool I'd been; believing that she would somehow help me."

Her red-rimmed eyes don't make me feel better.

"So, you were serious? You really want to make dresses for these women?" I ask, lifting a brow.

Gabriella looks towards the door, half-expecting the tailor or any of the Dimitrescu family to come barging in. But she says, "I mean, they're not my first choices, but who else would I be able to make dresses for of this scale? I've wanted to be a dress designer since I was a little girl, looking into the glass storefronts and seeing all of the beautiful fabrics, seeing the designs and the glitter and the lace."

"Yeah" – I pout as I slap my hand on the skirt of my dress, sending a plume of glitter erupting into the air – "glitter." Her mouth quirks up a bit. "But I understand. I never wanted to be a designer, but I loved looking at all the dresses in the windows.

Gabriella's eyes alight with elation. At the connection, the understanding.

Could there have been a time, when we were both little girls, that we looked at the same window of a store in the village?

"You took quite a gamble, coming here."

"I don't regret it." Gabriella says it tightly enough that I know to drop it. "What style is your favorite?"

I fluff up the skirts of my dress. "I particularly favored ballgowns, with the wide skirts. When I was little, I loved watching the women spin in them, and the way they flare out. I was read so many stories about princesses in ballgowns that they inherently became by favorite. I think they're so pretty."

Gabriella folds her arms over her knees, resting her chin atop them. "Bianca mentioned you liked to dance."

I'm grateful for the shift in our conversation, even if for a few minutes. "I do, or – I did."

She angles her head, resting her cheek on the back of her hand. "You don't anymore?"

"Not since my father had passed." I bite my lip. "I had . . . other responsibilities."

Gabriella's brows furrow, a solum smile on her rose-pink lips. "Did you take formal lessons?"

I nodded. "It was more at my mother's behest, but yes, I took lessons."

"Doesn't sound like it was a compromising agreement."

I shrug. "It was the only thing of high society that I enjoyed, and my mother saw me as a hopeless invalid, so she latched onto it with her talons. But I still enjoyed it."

"I bet you were the best dancer in the class."

I blush, fiddling with a loose bead on the dress. "You know, you don't have to make me a fancy dress. I could pick another one of these and just have you alter it. I don't want you to get in trouble. Besides, she was right – I can't surpass anyone of the Dimitrescu family. That'll get my head rolling."

Gabriella's finger taps at her cheek as she sighs, "It's just a shame to let your beauty go to waste. You could win a king with how you look."

The compliment is so easy, so smooth and natural and . . . genuine, that all I can do is blink. "T-Thank you."

Gabriella reads my face and angles her head. "Have you never been complimented before?"

I blink again. "I mean I have, but when it comes from a parent or friend, it's kind of, expected."

"Well, it's true." She states brightly. "And in case I need to verify, I would still love to make a dress for you."

"Even if it's not going to be so fancy and pretty?"

Gabriella looks to me with narrowed brows, but a playful pout. "A dress doesn't have to have sequence on it to be fancy. There's beauty in simplicity."

Indeed, she made an example of that with the dress I wore to Alcina's masquerade party.

"You really want to do this?" I confirm, airing caution in my tone.

"I really do. So long as you promise to help me with Laudna."

So that's the name of the tailor – I'll be sure to forget it.

After I finish telling Bela, or Alcina about her. Whoever I encounter first. I'll be damned if I let Gabriella go to the dungeons because that old cunt mouthed off to her.

I giggle as I hold out my hand to Gabriella, all fingers folded safe for my pinky.

"I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," Gabriella smiles as she takes my pinky with her own. "Come," she says brightly, "let's see if we can map out your favorite colors before she gets back."