The gown was the color of blood.
Sheila stood on the platform, arms outstretched, while three seamstresses circled her like sharks. Pins protruded from the fabric at her waist, her shoulders, her hips—small silver needles that caught the light and flashed with every movement. The dress was heavy, layers of silk and velvet and something else, something that shimmered when she turned.
"It's too tight," she said.
"It's supposed to be tight," said the head seamstress, a woman named Elara who had been with House Karmis for thirty years. Her mouth was full of pins. "The nobility doesn't want to see fabric. They want to see the shape of who they're dealing with."
"I'm eleven."
"The nobility doesn't care how old you are. They care about your mother's blood and your grandfather's influence." Elara knelt, adjusting the hem. "Stand still."
Sheila stood still. The fabric scratched against her skin. The pins pressed into her ribs. She thought about running—out of the room, down the stairs, through the garden, anywhere but here. But there was nowhere to run.
Duke Karmis watched from a chair by the window. His hands were folded in his lap. His face was unreadable.
"You're quiet," Sheila said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
He didn't answer. The seamstresses continued their work, oblivious—or pretending to be. The only sounds were the whisper of fabric, the click of scissors, and the soft rhythm of Sheila's breathing.
The fitting lasted two hours.
By the end, Sheila's feet ached from standing. Her shoulders were sore from the weight of the gown. Her skin was dotted with small red marks where the pins had pressed too hard. She wanted to tear the dress off, throw it in the corner, and never look at it again.
But she didn't.
She stood still while Elara made the final adjustments. She stood still while the seamstresses stepped back to admire their work. She stood still while Duke Karmis rose from his chair and walked toward her, his footsteps slow, deliberate.
"You look like her," he said.
Sheila looked at the mirror. The girl staring back at her had Sarah's cheekbones, Sarah's pink hair, Sarah's narrow shoulders. But the eyes were different. Sarah's eyes had been soft, dreamy, always looking at something just out of reach. Sheila's eyes were harder. Sharper.
"I'm not her," Sheila said.
"No. You're not." Karmis touched her shoulder—a light pressure, barely there. "That's why you'll survive."
Later, alone in her room, Sheila sat on the bed and opened her mother's journal.
She had read it so many times that the spine was cracked, the pages soft with handling. She knew the entries by heart—the descriptions of the capital, the complaints about court politics, the dreams of running away. But there was one passage she didn't understand. One passage she kept coming back to.
"The King's Design requires a catalyst of pure intent. The banquet is not a celebration. It is an identification. They are choosing the lamb."
She read it again. Then again.
Catalyst. Intent. Lamb.
The words felt wrong in her mouth, like stones she was trying to swallow. She didn't know what they meant. But she copied them into her own journal anyway, pressing hard with the pen, as if the pressure would make the meaning clearer.
At dinner, Duke Karmis asked her about her lessons.
"History," she said, pushing food around her plate. "Politics. Etiquette."
"And?"
"And nothing." She looked up at him. "Why does any of it matter? The nobility already hates us. The King already wants us gone. What difference does it make if I curtsy at the right angle?"
Karmis set down his fork. The sound was soft, deliberate.
"The difference," he said, "is that a curtsy at the wrong angle is an insult. An insult gives them an excuse. An excuse gives them permission." He paused. "The King doesn't need permission to destroy us. But he likes having it. It makes him feel righteous."
Sheila stared at her plate. The food was cold. She hadn't touched it.
"I don't want to go to the banquet," she said.
"I know."
"I don't want to meet the Prince. I don't want to smile at people who hate me. I don't want to pretend."
Karmis was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer.
"Your mother didn't want any of those things either. She went anyway. She smiled. She curtsied. She played the game." He paused. "And then she ran."
Sheila looked up. "Do you think I'll run?"
Karmis met her eyes. His were tired, older than the rest of him.
"I think you'll do what you have to do. The same as the rest of us."
After dinner, Sheila stood at her window and looked out at the capital.
The city sprawled below her—gaslights flickering in the noble districts, factory fires burning in the industrial quarter, and beyond them, darkness. The slums. Where the poor lived. Where the light didn't reach.
Sheila turned from the window, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers to her chin. The journals were stacked on the nightstand. The candle guttered, the flame shrinking to a blue pinpoint before dying.