Chapter 14
On the night of the Eve of the Resurrection Festival, Charlotte paced anxiously before the door, waiting for someone with mounting impatience.
She kept glancing between the dim hallway and the warm interior of the room, before finally pulling out a pocket watch.
“It’s been well past the appointed time!”
A bead of cold sweat slid down her pale forehead.
“Has the dress still not arrived?”
“No, Your Grace… Time is running short and… Ah!”
At that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.
“Your Grace… Hah…”
A young page appeared, breathless and unable to catch his air.
“I… I am terribly s-sorry for the delay. There was… an accident with a carriage just out front…”
Grunting under the weight, the page set down a trunk, its surface caked in mud.
Charlotte darted forward and snatched the trunk from his hands like an arrow loosed from a bow.
“Truly, today seems filled with events the likes of which I have never seen.”
Henriette, who had been watching the absurd scene unfold in her undergarments, felt her mind go blank and let out a dry laugh.
Her relief was short-lived. Charlotte returned with the packaged dress clutched in her arms, looking even more distraught than before.
“Y-Your Grace… The dress you are to wear…”
At her reaction, Henriette lifted the crinoline skirt with both hands and stepped toward her.
The moment she saw the condition of the dress, her face paled.
The gown Charlotte held was in such ruin it could scarcely be called clothing.
It had been shredded so badly it seemed deliberate, as though someone had taken pleasure in tearing it apart.
Charlotte’s face, stricken at first, quickly flushed with anger.
“Who would dare such a vile thing! Oh, what are we to do?”
She stomped in frustration, then suddenly glanced between Henriette and her own dress.
“Your Grace, I know this is an impossible idea, but…”
Before she could start undressing, Henriette hurriedly stopped her.
“Calm yourself. The fit between your gown and mine would be far from perfect… And if you take yours off, what will you wear?”
“B-but! This Charlotte could go bare for Your Grace’s sake!”
Henriette felt a wave of dread at the thought of yet another rumour taking root.
And if she were to appear in Charlotte’s frilled and ribbon-laden frock, the gossip would be endless.
“Don’t speak like that. Best you calm down first.”
Who could have done this? While Charlotte adjusted her own attire, looking on the verge of tears, Henriette studied the ruined gown with a sharp gaze.
The Walter couple, the tailors who took immense pride in their craft, would never have sent her such a thing.
They must have delivered it in perfect condition. Which meant there was only one possible culprit…
“We must hurry before it’s too late. Let’s repair the dress as best we can. If everyone here works together, we might just make it.”
Henriette unfolded the gown with a steady expression.
Fortunately, the bodice was intact; if they worked quickly on the skirt, they could at least make it presentable, if not restore it fully.
With the maids’ help, Henriette shed her crinoline and gathered everyone close.
“You start mending the torn overskirt. We can replace the petticoat and underskirt with others from my wardrobe, so leave those aside. Let’s reshape the skirt to hide the stitch marks by adding as many folds as possible. Once I’ve finished my own preparations, I will join in the sewing.”
The moment she finished, the maids leapt into action without hesitation.
While they busied themselves stitching the skirt, Charlotte began to work on Henriette’s hair without pause.
Her hands trembled as she twisted and pinned, but Henriette gazed at herself in the mirror with perfect composure.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the damaged dress taking on new form.
“I had thought to play along with the little games… but.”
A flicker of fury crossed Henriette’s eyes.
Yet with time slipping away, there was little she could do now.
She had returned even from death, would she truly be stopped at the threshold of a festival meant to celebrate the Empress?
Thanks to the maids’ tireless work, the repairs were completed with astonishing speed.
Once Charlotte finished with her hair and makeup, Henriette began shaping the skirt with skilled hands.
“If we lift this section here and gather it like so, it should work. Let’s attach a ribbon inside to fix it at the waistline in the back. Charlotte, fetch the petticoat that best suits this fabric. Since the gown is wine-red, white would be perfect.”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
The maids scarcely had time to marvel at Henriette’s quick thinking and deft orders before setting off again at a run.
Suppressing her anger, Henriette opened her long-unused sewing kit and slipped a thimble over her finger.
Every change of season, she had sewn Emilia a new dress by hand; this was hardly beyond her skill.
Of course, she had never imagined she would be mending her own gown for the Eve of the Festival.
✮⋆˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The palace hall, awash in sweet music, was crowded with nobles come to enjoy the celebrations.
They sparkled like gemstones beneath the chandeliers, yet among them stood Lady Clara Augustine, dazzling in an ostentatious gown.
Linked arm-in-arm with her nominal husband, the Marquess Augustine, she looked as though she had poured her all into this one moment.
Adorned with enough jewels to shame a princess, her excessive display overshadowed the Marquess himself.
Not everyone viewed her fondly.
All of high society knew Clara had married a man old enough to be her grandfather for his wealth alone, and her haughty behaviour, bolstered by the Emperor’s favour, had long been the talk of the salons.
Few dared to criticise her openly, not when she had the Emperor wrapped around her finger.
“I wonder how that stiff Empress will manage to show her face? At best, she’ll have changed into some old evening gown… Or perhaps she’ll come bare just to steal the crowd’s eyes?”
Clara chuckled to herself at the indecent thought.
Just then, the herald’s voice rang out.
“Her Majesty Empress Henriette approaches!”
Clara’s eyes widened.
She had made sure the Empress’s dress was unwearable, beyond salvage.
Yet Henriette entered in a gown of deep violet, its rich fabric embroidered with antique gold thread, transformed into a bold, striking new style.
It was a design none had ever seen, but its novelty only made it more elegant and beautiful.
The once-tattered skirts were sewn and gathered into graceful puffs, the rich red folds contrasted against a pristine white underskirt, giving her a majestic air.
The nobles could not contain their admiration, and even Wilhelm, usually indifferent toward her, was taken aback.
Henriette Neva Ortensia commanded the hall with her beauty and presence alone.
Recovering from his surprise, Wilhelm schooled his expression, for custom dictated that the Emperor and Empress lead the first dance.
This was the symbolic opening of every great festival.
Wilhelm extended his hand.
They clasped hands with the barest formality and stepped to the centre of the floor, where the image of a dragon sprawled beneath their feet.
The musicians raised their instruments, and together they began the dance that marked the festival’s start.
Under the brilliant light and music, all held their breath and watched.
✮⋆˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
“Your Majesty, you were so beautiful just now I could hardly breathe!”
“Indeed! I have never seen such a gown before… It seems no one could rival Your Majesty’s taste.”
Several young noblewomen chirped their praises like larks.
It was clear that many more wished to approach the Empress, their interest piqued by the striking dress that had so dramatically opened the night.
Henriette knew their fascination was for the gown, not for her, but she did not mind.
She even felt a strange gratitude toward the “someone” who had tried to ruin it. Smiling graciously at the young ladies, she said,
“Thank you. To receive praise from flowers such as yourselves is surely an omen that this festival will end in splendour.”
Elsewhere, Zakhar watched her from afar, surrounded by admirers.
The sight of her, radiant even in a salvaged gown, unsettled him more than he liked to admit.
Why did the fact she was surrounded by others bother him so?
A frown creased his brow.
‘Why can’t I take my eyes off her?’
Irritated by the thought, he dismissed it as nothing more than annoyance and turned away, only to come face to face with Wilhelm and Clara.
Clara’s eyes were faintly swollen, whether from genuine tears or the pretence of them, and she clung to Wilhelm’s arm as if unwilling to concede defeat to the Empress.
“Your Majesty,” Zakhar greeted stiffly.
Wilhelm smirked, his voice dripping with arrogance.
“Well, if it isn’t Sir Zakhar Heil. What are you doing here?”
Though younger than Zakhar, Wilhelm spoke down to him without a second thought.
Zakhar forced himself to reply with the etiquette he had been taught.
“I am unaccustomed to such lavish parties, so I was simply observing the atmosphere.”
“Is that so? Then why have you not asked ‘my Empress’ to dance?”
Clara, delighted by the tension, peeked from behind Wilhelm before quickly retreating again.
Zakhar wanted nothing more than to plant his fist in both their smug faces.
“The Empress introduced you to me on the very first day. If you are her paramour, is it not your duty to mingle and please her?”
“I shall take to heart the Emperor’s gracious advice…”
But Wilhelm had already brushed past him without waiting for an answer.
“Tch!”
Zakhar drained his glass of wine in a single swallow, swallowing down his anger with it, before setting off in search of Henriette.
