Page 101 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Stop squirming,” Opalina told her. “Between Lilibeth, the Potts, Mrs. Tilly, and me, the verdict is in: You’re getting a new gown. Madam Corvina already sent the invoice to Arkenoth. So be quiet and don’t move. I’d hate to accidentally poke you and get blood on this divine silk.”

Said silk was the colour of a winter morning sky just before the snow fell—cool blue with the faintest undertone of silver. Fine embroidery in pale ice thread swept down the bodice and pooled into waves of beaded shimmer across the skirt, catching the light like frost on stone. Every movement made it ripple—quiet, opulent, and beautiful beyond belief.

The full skirt flowed in soft folds around her feet. The dress hugged her waist and shoulders but left her movement unrestrained, the sheer neckline adding just enough mystery without slipping into scandal. She turned slightly, eyeing the long sleeves and intricate beadwork stitched like frozen vines cascading down to her wrists.

Behind her, Opalina crouched with a mouth full of pins and a gleam of stubborn pride in her eyes.

“You stitched this entire overlay yourself?” Cassia asked, stunned. Opalina didn’t answer—just nodded, careful not to dislodge the pins between her teeth.

From the corner of the room, a clipped voice floated out like chilled wine. “Mind the draping at the hips. Old masters used three tension points—not two, unless you want the silhouette to collapse the moment she walks.”

Cassia glanced over her shoulder toward the source: Madam Corvina, sitting in the upholstered wingback at the far end of the atelier, legs crossed neatly beneath a stiff plum-coloured skirt. Her white hair was twisted into an elegant knot, and a quill floated beside her, inscribing notes into a ledger without pause.

“I’ve used the tri-point drape, madam,” Opalina replied, calmly and without pause, “but I adjusted for the asymmetrical beadwork, or it would’ve puckered at the waistline.”

“She’s too short-waisted for the storm-cut panels. Use the winterfold seam and lower the bustline half an inch. And do not over-tighten the waist again, Opalina. Mrs. Winthrop had complaints about the dress you altered for her last week.”

Opalina didn’t flinch. “Yes, madam,” she said smoothly, adjusting her grip.

There was no fire in the reply—only professionalism, but Cassia saw the tension tucked beneath it. The way her friend’s shoulders held just a fraction too tight, a string drawn taut.

Madam Corvina swept away to her office in the back, muttering something about the foolishness and overconfidence of apprentices.

Cassia leaned in. “Why does she treat you this way?”

“Hard to say,” Opalina murmured, threading a needle through the lining. “I suspect I remind her of herself, when she was younger.”

Cassia pressed her lips, raising her arms obediently as instructed. No, that’s not it.

She’d witnessed it for years; how Opalina, always composed, always impeccable, shouldered the weight of someone else’s fading legacy while quietly crafting her own. The stitches on this gown were hers. Every pleat, every shimmer, every hidden support that made the fabric cling like moonlight and fall like water. Still, she was expected to stay in the wings, while others took bows under gaslights they hadn’t even lit.

“Frankly,” Lilibeth whispered, “I think Corvina is terrified. If she praises you too loudly, someone might realize your work has been carrying her atelier for the past decade.”

Opalina’s mouth twitched. “Nine years. Let’s not give her an extra one.”

Cassia caught Lilibeth’s gaze in the mirror, and they both pressed their lips together to keep from saying what they knew. Madam Corvina might’ve been Angelene’s most celebrated couturier once upon a time, but she hadn’t so much as threaded a needle since Opalina joined as an apprentice.

It was Opalina who drafted the patterns. Who cut, stitched, draped, and conjured structure from silk and shimmer. It was Opalina who worked through dim lighting and callouses to finish every hem. Half the gowns on display in the showroom—no, now that Cassia really looked, all of them—were Opalina’s. Corvina’s name was simply the one stitched onto the label.

“One day,” Opalina murmured, adjusting a tuck along the waistline, “I’ll open my own atelier. I just need to endure this a little longer.”

“You’ve scrimped and saved for nearly a decade,” Lilibeth said gently. “You must be close.”

Opalina glanced toward the storeroom, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before whispering, “Close. Really close.”

“You deserve it,” Cassia said vehemently. “And when that door opens, Lili and I will be the first in line—flowers in hand, chequebooks ready.”

That earned her a real, luminous smile.

Lilibeth popped another truffle into her mouth, brushing the cocoa powder off her fingertips. “I say this with love, Cass, but if you don’t wear this dress and break hearts at the ball, I will sneak in wearing it myself. And I am not built for that neckline.”

Cassia rolled her eyes. “You’d outshine everyone, Lili, and you know it.”

And she meant every word. Lilibeth’s beauty should stop conversations without trying, even if life as a half-blood had taught her to make herself small. Half-blood Amorets rarely got the attention full-bloods did, and Cassia always thought that was stupid.

“Flatter me again and I might cry.”

Cassia smiled at her friend, then glanced out the window. The darkening sky had her checking her watch. She’d missed the train to Starlight—Imogen would be asleep long before she got there. She sent a message to one of the teachers, asking for someone to help the half-elf girl one-on-one. They would, she knew. They always did, but the familiar guilt sank in her chest anyway.