Lonely forests, thick with fog.

Deep blue moonlight.

Hands fluttering over a broken heart.

Duchess followed the fluid rise of her hand with her eyes, her movements were slow and pleading, then suddenly determined. Her slippers struck the hardwood now, her limbs hit their marks with more force, and her heartbeat soared with the crescendo of the orchestral music.

It was her favorite part of the performance, the moment the protagonist forsook her bitter romance and made her first decision truly for herself, and it was easily the part that spoke to her the most. It was an occasion when everything beyond the stage seemed to melt away and there was only Duchess and that forest.

Duchess' eyes connected with her partner's as he took her by the hand and waist. Like ribbon, she unwound herself from his embrace and turned away. The next time he went to reach for her, she pushed off of him, hard, and that was when she heard it. The unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

–

"Shit!" she spat.

Duchess tossed the curtains aside, then pinched the silken fabric of her bodice where it had torn. She wasn't a seamstress, but even she knew that, because the split ran right along the seam that traveled her ribcage, it was guaranteed to continue tearing if she performed another dance, and she still had two scenes. She gritted her teeth. She didn't need this now, not on the opening night of her college's grandest performance of the year. Not with the critics out in the audience, watching, waiting for her to make a mistake. She didn't get this far to be ruined by a secondhand costume she could hardly afford.

"You!" Duchess barked at a passing stagehand, a boy a few years younger than herself. She grabbed him by the collar of his all-black uniform and lifted so that the toes of his shoes just scraped the stage. "Get me the seamstress now."

"S-Seamstress? I don't—?"

"Figure it out," she said dismissively, pushing him back with enough force to send him stumbling into the heavy curtains.

The boy looked up just long enough to gape at her before shuffling backstage.

Duchess turned around to peek onto the stage. The next scene had already begun and, at this point, she knew there were only so many steps until her next entrance. She had twenty minutes, tops, and her patience dwindled with each one.

Five minutes into the scene and Duchess felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Finally," she said, knowing no one bothered to talk to her between scenes unless they had to. No one liked her enough for that.

Duchess spun around to find an unexpected face looking back at hers and whatever snide comment she had prepared withered on her tongue. The woman before her was petite with dark, full-bodied waves and tasteful clothes that hugged her curved form. It didn't take more than a glance for Duchess to figure out that the woman's favorite color was red since it was the color of the twin highlights that framed her face and a featured color in her blouse. The red melted right into the cool brown of her eyes, which were somehow both sharp and disinterested.

"You're not Jessica."

Scarlet lips twitched at Duchess' curtness. "No, I'm filling in for her as a friend, but I am the costume designer for the pieces in this performance, so I think I can handle it."

Duchess hesitated. Of course she knew who the woman was, just like she knew her parents were from Shenyang, despite her London-bred accent. She'd only seen her name in the back of every costume her college prided itself in, admired every lavish piece she'd done for exclusive ballets across Europe. Elizabeth Hearts. Standing in front of her. Speaking to her in a backhanded manner that no one dared to use on her in return. It all left her with an odd feeling, not unlike the way Elizabeth's eyes made her feel.

"I need my costume mended," Duchess offered limply.

She nodded. "Where?"

Duchess lifted her arm, gently folding her knuckles against her neck and tossing back ebony hair to expose the loose threads that poked from her side.

Elizabeth examined the tear, then looked over the entire ensemble and made a few, considerate hums. "You're better off getting a new costume. It looks like this one is falling apart."

Duchess bit her cheek at the first sign of a blush warming her skin. "I can't," she said falteringly. There was no way she was admitting to someone as wealthy as this woman that she couldn't afford a lousy costume. "Can you fix it or not? My next scene is in ten."

Elizabeth raised her eyes to Duchess, again sending odd sensations fluttering through her stomach. Instead of a response, she began to dig in her patterned bag and pulled out a needle and spool of pale thread. She placed the needle between her lips and got to knotting the thread. She smoothed a hand over the tear and, the instant Duchess felt the brush of her hand against her skin, she jolted. Elizabeth stared at her in a way that made Duchess wonder what she was thinking before silently going back to work.

"You surprise me, Miss Duchess," Elizabeth finally said whilst sewing.

Duchess stiffened at the use of her name, puzzled by the fact that Elizabeth Hearts would even concern herself enough to know it. But of course the oddly rigid woman's next words cut straight to the point.

"Your performance tonight has been both elegant and impassioned. You have an obvious stage presence too good for your role. And yet, your costume is tattered and your disposition… Well." Elizabeth paused, clipping the excess thread from the mend. She moved to put away her tools and took something from her bag in one, deft movement. "Interesting, indeed."

Duchess stared, unsure what to say to the unusual comment, when she heard the crowd offer their applause. Dancers poured in through the stage's side and Duchess began to tuck the escaped locks of hair underneath her hairpins in preparation. Suddenly startled by a nearby presence, she looked down to find Elizabeth handing her a card. Honestly, she was surprised the designer hadn't opted for ignoring her yet. Most people would have at that point.

"This costume really should be retired, Miss Duchess. Allow me to offer you a custom one sometime. My treat."

Duchess paused before accepting the card. "Thank you… Miss Elizabeth," she said, though the thanks tasted funny in her mouth. Probably because it wasn't used to forming the words. Thanks usually meant owing someone something and Duchess wasn't in the habit of owing others.

Elizabeth shook her head, but never broke her gaze. "Call me Lizzie," she insisted, her fingers fanning over Duchess' knuckles as she pulled back.

Duchess shivered so deeply that she could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise. Bewildered by the reaction, she rubbed at her wrist. By the time she thought to look up, Elizabeth—no, Lizzie—was already leaving, but not before Duchess was able to catch the faint smile on her lips.

She stilled, caught between looking at the card in her hands and the empty space Lizzie left behind. She replayed every second of the last fifteen minutes in her head, from the strange comment to the drawn stares to the brush of hands, when she realized just how wrong she was about Lizzie's offer. It wasn't about owing her something. It was about seeing Duchess again. It was about a date.

"Holy shit."