When I was a boy and tried on a ball dress, it looked like the fabric was falling apart around me. I was so skinny then that the gown hung loose in places, almost forgiving in its ill fit. Yet beneath the wrongness, my body had felt strangely right—aligned, for one fleeting moment, with something I couldn't name. But as I grew older, muscle thickened my arms, my waist hardened into something unmistakably masculine, and the beard that shadowed my jaw made the whole sight grotesque. I couldn't bear to look in the mirror. Disgust rose like bile. Inevitably, I gave up dressing up altogether; the mirror became an enemy I avoided.
But now…
My arms and shoulders are beautifully carved beneath the gown's hold—delicate yet strong, framed perfectly by the red layers. Why had I ever complained about having small breasts? This curved waist alone is enough—cinched tight by the corset, flowing outward in soft, feminine lines. The sheen on my collarbones catches the light, skin soft and smooth, brown hair falling like silk around my face. And my eyes… emerald green, bright with unshed wonder. For someone who once had none of this, the sight is heaven.
I couldn't hold back the tears. They came with a smile, breathless and trembling, dripping warm down my chin and onto the bodice. The world narrowed until only I remained—the mirror, the gown, the girl staring back. My hand rose, fingertips brushing the cool glass as though I could reach through and touch her.
Is this really me?
I'm glad it's me.
"Miss Lucia," Tamsin said softly from behind, voice thick with awe and gentle reassurance. "If you are worried about marriage, then just don't. You truly look spectacular—a fairy. You are killing men with this dress."
"Thank you, Tamsin…"
I turned back to her, voice cracking in a wet, happy giggle that blurred the line between tears and laughter. I caught my breath, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts beneath the corset's hold, then added,
"I'm not worried. You know… periods… I wish I could explain what I just experienced."
I cried almost every time I wore something pretty and looked in the mirror—tears of overwhelming rightness, of finally seeing myself reflected without shame. It had happened so often that at one point Mother and Father grew genuinely concerned, hovering, asking gentle questions I could never fully answer. They could never truly understand. Tamsin stepped closer and placed her hands on my shoulders, steady and warm, offering silent comfort as the last of my tears slowed.
"So… do you want to try ribbons or put on hand gloves first?"
She broke the quiet with a soft, practical question, voice still bright with excitement. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, drawing in a steadier breath.
"It already looks perfect, but if I wear gloves and apply makeup then—"
Tamsin gave my shoulders a playful wiggle, giggling as she interrupted, eyes sparkling.
"Then it will look even better! You'll catch everyone's eyes at the party."
We burst into shared giggles—light, breathless, bubbling up from the sheer delight of the moment—until a loud, angry, yet unmistakably worried voice cut through from behind us.
"You are not wearing that dress to the party."
The sound jolted us both silent. Our laughter died instantly. We turned as one and found Mother Elowen standing in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, expression a complicated storm I couldn't quite read—motherly anger, annoyance, protectiveness, worry, all tangled together in the lines of her face.
Tamsin lowered her head, fingers twisting nervously at her skirts as overthinking began to tickle her mind. I took a few careful steps forward, stopping just a few feet from Mother Elowen.
"But why?" I asked desperately. "Just look at this dress…"
I backed up a step to give her room, then spun slowly—arms out, skirts flaring. The gown caught the air and spun magically around me, red layers swirling in a graceful arc that made the room feel suddenly brighter. I knew my mother well.
Fashion had once been her passion; she had been brilliant at it—you could see the proof in the overflowing wardrobe behind us, every piece chosen with care and flair. But like so many other things, she had let it fade under Morwenna's suffocating influence, that disgusting old-minded woman who crushed anything that didn't fit her narrow rules.
Yet the love for it still lived in her. I saw it flicker in her eyes as I completed the turn—the way they traced the balanced shape I'd forced from two mismatched gowns, the subtle discomfort of the over-stuffed corset beneath, the clever compromise I'd made. Of course I got my fashion sense from her; my father's genes had simply surrendered early and let Mother's win without a fight.
She loved my efforts—I could tell. The gentle approval softened her gaze, a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. But she was bound. Morwenna's shadow loomed over every decision, every allowance.
"See?" I pressed, voice steady with determination. "Why can't I wear this to the party? It's not even revealing."
Her expression gentled further, the hard edge of disapproval melting into something quieter—resigned tension, perhaps even pride. Tamsin let out a soft, relieved breath beside me. Mother Elowen wasn't angry at our efforts, not truly. She was only caught between wanting to say yes and the invisible chains that kept her from it.
"The two gowns really complement each other," Mother Elowen said softly. "You did an impressive job…"
She paused, eyes drifting once more over the layered red fabric, tracing the clever seams and the balanced silhouette I'd wrestled into existence. My eyes lit up at the praise—hope flaring bright and sudden. Then she reached out and placed her hand firmly on my head, patting gently in that familiar, grounding way. Inside, I cheered like a child given unexpected permission, heart leaping despite everything.
"But you know your grandmother and father will not approve," she continued, voice steady but laced with quiet regret. "My approval doesn't matter. You're not old enough to wear it, and your collarbones are still visible."
The words landed like a gentle but final door closing. My lips drooped; the cheerfulness drained away in an instant, shoulders sagging as my hands lost their excited grip on the skirts. Tamsin lowered her head again—this time in shared disappointment, the earlier spark dimmed. Frustration surged through me, hot and familiar.
"But that's the whole point of the dress," I protested, voice tight. "How am I supposed to cover that?"
Now I was just frustrated—at everything, at the stupid old hag who still cast her long shadow over every small victory. I had worked so hard, poured creativity and effort into this one act of change, and she remained the immovable obstacle. I'd done too much for this; I wasn't going to give up.
"You understood, right…?" Mother Elowen asked, her tone softening as she glanced around the chaos we'd created. "And look at the mess you made. The whole room is just clothes."