Later, in her room, Martha noticed.
"You're quieter than usual," Martha said as she helped Elissa out of her dress. "Head worse?"
"No," Elissa said. "Head's fine."
"Liar," Martha said mildly. "Out with it."
Elissa stared at the floorboards. "Alistair looks like he wants to bite something every time he sees me," she said, the words tumbling out before she could swallow them. "More, lately. Not less."
Martha paused. "He's watching you more?"
"Yes," Elissa said. "And the more I improve, the worse his face gets."
"Maybe he's just…intense," Martha suggested.
"He was intense before," Elissa said. "This is…more. Like I'm doing something wrong every time I breathe."
Martha sighed. "Men," she said. "Especially royal ones. He's got a head full of worries and no idea where to put them."
"It feels like he's putting them all on me," Elissa murmured.
Martha sat on the edge of the bed. "Has he said anything sharp to you?"
"No," Elissa admitted. "He barely says anything at all."
"Then until he does, you don't borrow trouble," Martha said. "If he has a problem, he can use his words like a big boy. You focus on your sparks."
Elissa huffed a tiny laugh. "That's…one way to put it."
"Sleep," Martha said, patting her knee. "You'll need your strength to keep proving him wrong tomorrow."
Some days passed with the same routine.
The ball was close enough that the castle started to feel…tighter.
Servants rushed more. Voices were sharper. Even the air in the corridors seemed to carry the word "tomorrow" in it.
"Princess," Martha said after breakfast, "Madame Bisser sent word. Fitting today."
Elissa's stomach did a small, nervous twist. "Already?"
"Be grateful," Martha said. "Some girls don't get to approve theirs before the night."
They took a carriage into the town—not far, but far enough that the castle's looming weight softened behind them. Madame Bisset 's shop sat tucked between a bookbinder and a spice seller, a neatly painted sign swinging above the door.
Inside, it smelled like soap, pressed fabric, and a hint of lavender.
"You're late," came a familiar voice.
Kestrel lounged on a cushioned bench, already out of her cloak. Her eyes glinted with mischief. "Madame Bisser has threatened me twice in your absence. I was beginning to hope you'd run."
"I considered it," Elissa said. "Martha wouldn't let me."
Martha sniffed. "Someone has to make sure you don't face the court in rags."
Madame Bisset herself appeared from behind a curtain, measuring tape around her neck, pins stuck into her cuff.
"Princess," she said briskly. "Good. You're here. We will do this quickly. No wriggling."
"I'll try," Elissa said.
Madame Bisset went on, already moving. "You and the lady Princess Kestrel have given me very different headaches."
Kestrel smiled sweetly. "You're welcome."
Madame Bisset waved her toward the back. "You first, Princess."
The dress waited on a mannequin behind the curtain—a soft, flowing thing in a warm beige that almost glowed in the lamplight. Tiny pearls were scattered across the bodice and along the sleeves like captured drops of milk.
Elissa's breath caught.
"That's…mine?" she asked, stupidly.
"Unless someone else stole your measurements," Madame Bisset said. "Up. Arms out."
With Martha's help, Elissa stepped carefully into the gown. The fabric slid over her skin like water—light, not stiff, not suffocating. The skirt fell in clean lines, not too wide, not too narrow.
Martha fastened the back. Madame Bisset circled her, pinning here, tugging there.
"Lift your arms," Madame Bisset commanded.
Elissa did. The dress moved with her, not against her.
"You will be able to dance," the seamstress muttered. "And run, if you insist. I have allowed extra room here." She tapped the skirts with a knuckle.
Kestrel poked her head through the curtain. "Well?" she demanded. "Do you look like a queen or a very pretty tablecloth?"
Elissa turned, suddenly shy.
Kestrel's expression shifted. Teasing faded for a moment, replaced by something like approval.
"Oh," Kestrel said softly. "That's…good."
"Too plain?" Elissa asked, glancing down at the simple lines, the subtle pearl scatter.
"It's you," Kestrel said. "Soft, but not…weak. You look like yourself. Just shinier."
Madame Bisset sniffed. "Of course it is good. I did it."
Elissa smoothed her hands over the fabric. Beige had seemed like a strange choice at first, surrounded by all the dark northern colors. But now, with the pearls catching the light like tiny stars, she felt less like she'd been swallowed by someone else's world and more like she'd brought a piece of her own into it.
"Next," Madame Bisset said. "The lady Kestrel."
Kestrel vanished behind another curtain with a grin. When she stepped back out, she wore deep red—dark as wine, rich as spilled velvet. Gold thread traced along the bodice and cuffs in sharp, clever patterns that caught the light whenever she moved.
"You look like trouble," Elissa said, smiling despite her nerves.
"That's the idea," Kestrel replied, turning so the gold embroidery flashed. "If they're staring at me, they'll leave you alone."
Madame Bisset clucked. "Stand still," she ordered, pinning the red fabric. "Both of you will be stared at. That is the point. Now stop breathing like you're going to faint, Princess. You'll wrinkle the bodice."
Elissa laughed once, shaky but real.
In the mirror, beige and red stood side by side—soft warmth and sharp flame, pearls and gold.
For the first time, the ball felt not just terrifying, but…almost possible.