The Gown No Servant Could Touch
The main hall of Bellamont Palace did not echo like an ordinary room.
It listened.
Every footstep crossed pale marble and rose into painted ceilings where saints, kings, and winged horses floated above the living with blue eyes and gold halos. Afternoon light entered through tall windows and spread softly over cream stone, carved doors, brass fixtures, red floor runners, and rows of nobles dressed as if hunger had never existed anywhere within the kingdom.
Chandeliers burned even in daylight. Their glow gave the hall a second sun, warmer and more dishonest than the one outside.
At the center of the room stood the ruby-red ceremonial gown.
It had been placed upon a carved cedar form beneath the royal canopy, its train spilling down three shallow steps and onto a velvet cloth. Gold thread curled through the fabric in vines and small crowned birds. The waist was narrow. The sleeves were long. The hem had been repaired many times, and if one looked closely enough, the splendor did not hide the old scars in the silk.
No one was meant to look closely.
The gown had belonged to Crown Princess Elianor Hale, who had died fourteen years earlier after giving birth during a winter of fever and rebellion. The child, the palace had announced, was stillborn. The princess was buried before the snow stopped. The gown was sealed in the south vault, then brought out only for ceremonies of succession and loyalty.
To the nobles, it was a relic.
To Lady Beatrice Morn, it was a weapon.
She stood near it in a weathered black gown with gold sleeves and a dark cape fastened at the throat. Her narrow face held the careful patience of a woman who enjoyed making others wait for mercy. Her dark green eyes watched the room without warmth. A severe braid lay over one shoulder like a rope. The small scar at her left jawline vanished whenever she smiled, which was not often.
Today she was to be named Keeper of the Royal Household, a title that would give her authority over the palace wards, the kitchens, the orphan houses, and every young life raised beneath the crown's charity.
She had spent years preparing for this hour.
Then Mara Finch entered carrying a tray of empty silver cups.
No one had meant for her to cross the center runner. A senior maid had shoved the tray into her hands and told her to move quickly, keep her head down, and vanish through the side door before the speeches began. But the hall was crowded, and nobles had a way of taking space from people who did not own any.
A laughing gentleman stepped backward without looking.
Mara twisted to avoid spilling the cups.
Her elbow struck air. Her bare wrist brushed red silk.
Only for a moment.
A thread caught on the cracked skin near her thumb.
May you like
She pulled back at once, frightened by the softness of it.
Lady Beatrice saw.
