The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Celeste's estate, casting golden beams onto the polished marble floor. Isadora stood in the center of the drawing-room, hands loosely clasped before her, trying to keep her posture straight. Her expression was one of quiet frustration, but she said nothing as Celeste's voice drifted across the room.
"Back straight, chin up—not too high—and when you curtsy, your weight should remain balanced," Celeste instructed gently, demonstrating the motion with practiced grace.
Isadora tried to mimic the curtsy again. It was better this time, but still a little stiff.
Beside Celeste, the etiquette tutor watched with a critical eye. He was a lean man with a sharply tailored coat and a precise little mustache that twitched whenever Isadora's timing was off. He let out a slow breath, clearly unimpressed.
"You must glide as though your feet barely touch the ground," he said. "There is no urgency in refinement. Move with intent, not haste."
Isadora straightened, brushing her palms against her skirt. "I understand," she said quietly. "But… may I take a break?"
The tutor's brows drew together. "We've only just begun. A proper young lady must learn endurance as well as elegance. You've hardly completed a full session."
Celeste raised a hand, her tone calm but firm. "That's enough, Master Thorne. She's trying, and she knows her limits. Let her rest."
The tutor pressed his lips into a thin line but gave a polite bow. "As you wish, my lady."
Celeste gave Isadora a small nod. "Take an hour. Walk the garden if it helps. We'll continue after."
Relief softened Isadora's face. "Thank you," she said, her voice sincere.
She turned and left the room quietly, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. As she stepped into the quieter halls of the estate, she let out a soft breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The air outside would do her some good.
Isadora didn't wait for her to change her mind. She slipped out of the room before anyone could stop her, snatching a shawl off a hook by the door as she escaped.
The estate was quiet, servants going about their duties without paying her much attention. As she passed through the front hall, her footsteps slowed.
Boredom. Curiosity.
All two pushed her toward the doors leading outside. She hesitated for a moment, then opened one and slipped into the garden, heart pounding with a thrill she hadn't felt since landing in this strange, historical world.
If she was going to be stuck in this place… she might as well explore it on her terms.
The garden walls weren't high, but they were elegantly intimidating—lined with vines and guarded by iron gates. Isadora found a quieter side entrance near the stables and slipped through, avoiding the main path. No one stopped her.
The town just beyond the estate was a patchwork of cobbled streets, stone buildings, and open markets. Horses clopped by, vendors shouted out the day's specials, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharper smells of livestock and forge smoke. It was like stepping into a living postcard—except far louder, grimier, and without the benefit of modern plumbing.
Isadora pulled the shawl tighter around her and kept her head down. "Blend in, don't do anything reckless," she muttered.
A narrow street branching off from the main market caught her eye. It was quiet, oddly still, with crooked signs and shops tucked into the shadows. Something about it pulled at her.
Then she saw it.
An antique shop—small, dust-covered, and nestled between a seamstress and a candle maker. The faded sign read: "The Timeless Trinket." Isadora's heart skipped.
She pushed the door open, and a soft chime echoed.
Inside, the air smelled of lavender and old parchment. Shelves overflowed with strange objects: cracked mirrors, silver compacts, hourglasses that dripped glowing sand. Everything looked aged, but not broken—like it still held stories inside.
"Welcome," came a voice, soft and scratchy like silk over gravel.
Isadora turned to see a woman behind the counter, silver-haired with sharp eyes that glinted like they knew things she hadn't said aloud. The woman's skin was lined with time, but her posture was straight, regal even.
"You like old things," the woman said.
Isadora blinked. "How'd you know?"
The woman smiled, then slowly walked from behind the counter. As she passed a nearby shelf, her hand hovered—and her gaze changed. Her pupils dilated. She stilled.
At that moment, something shifted in the room. Like the air held its breath.
Her eyes snapped back to Isadora, sharper now. A flicker of something unreadable passed over her features.
"What?" Isadora asked. "Is there something on my face?"
"No," the woman said. "But there's something in your future."
Without another word, she turned and retrieved a small glass vial from a drawer—filled with liquid the color of moonlight.
She held it out. "A gift."
Isadora stared at it. "What is it?"
"Something you'll need," the woman said. "Your mind will know when the time is right to use it."
Isadora hesitated. "You're just giving it to me?"
The woman nodded. "Some things… are meant to find their way to the right hands."
Isadora took the vial slowly, slipping it into her shawl pocket. "Right. Normal antique shop behavior."
The woman only smiled.
Isadora stayed for a moment longer, curiosity burning in her chest—but she said nothing. She turned and left, the door chime sounding once more behind her.
As she stepped back onto the quiet street, the city noise resumed like it had never paused.
The cobbled streets of Veridion were buzzing with late-morning chatter—market stalls bustling, children weaving through alleyways, and nobles passing by with little more than a glance at the commoners working around them. Isadora moved through the crowd with careful steps, clutching the small, corked vial the witch had given her. The liquid shimmered faintly inside, almost glowing.
"Use it when your mind knows the time," the witch had said cryptically, her eyes distant after witnessing a glimpse of Isadora's future.
"Great," Isadora muttered, slipping the potion into her pocket. "Because that's helpful."
As she turned the corner toward the estate, a sharp voice broke through the hum of the street.
"You filthy little wretch! Do you know what this coat costs?"
A nobleman—mid-forties, dressed in plum and silver—was standing over a hunched boy who had accidentally splashed muddy water onto the man's boots and hem. The boy stammered an apology, eyes wide with fear.
Isadora's brow furrowed.
The noble raised his hand as if to strike the child.
"Oh, hell no," Isadora growled.
She strode forward without a second thought. "Hey! Step away from him."
The noble froze, eyes narrowing at the interruption. "And who are you to speak to me in that tone?"
Isadora planted herself between the man and the boy. "Someone with functioning eyes and a conscience. He's a kid. You're a grown-ass man having a meltdown over mud. Get a grip."
Gasps echoed around her. A few onlookers backed away, murmuring. No one spoke to a noble like that but by her dressing, she looked like a noblewoman.
It seems this was going to be a fight between two nobles.
The man's face turned red. "You dare—!"
"You swing at him, I swear I'll make you regret it," she snapped, her voice firm. "You wanna be respected? Try acting like a human being first."
From across the square, a black carriage had come to a silent halt. Behind its dark glass, Duke Lucien D'Aragon watched.
He hadn't meant to stop—he was on his way to a meeting with the king. But the sound of the woman's voice, the bold defiance in it, had caught his attention.
He saw the stance, the posture, the unshakable nerve. She was no ordinary noblewoman. He couldn't see her face—her hood was slightly up—but her tone… her words… they were unlike anything he had ever heard from a lady.
He leaned slightly forward, his crimson eye-catching the light.
Back in the square, the noble scowled but backed away, muttering about insolence and ruined clothes before storming off. Isadora crouched next to the boy, brushing dirt off his arm.
"You okay?"
The boy nodded quickly, eyes wide with admiration. "Thank you, miss."
She smiled, tousling his hair. "Stay out of trouble, yeah?"
He ran off, and Isadora turned to continue her walk back—unaware of the crimson gaze that followed her retreat.
Isadora crept along the edge of the estate wall, her boots muddy from cutting through town. The wind tugged at the hem of her slightly tattered skirt—her custom-cut creation. The antique shop's velvet pouch rested safely inside her pocket, the faint clink of glass reminding her of the strange, cryptic gift from the witch.
She reached the main gate—locked. Of course, it was. She squinted up at the towering wrought iron, then turned her gaze toward the side fence. Lower. Climbable. Probably.
"Easy," she muttered, testing the strength of the iron bars. "I used to climb the fire escape like a pro."
She hiked up her skirt and hoisted herself halfway up—right before she heard a throat clear behind her.
"Would you like a ladder, or shall I fetch a grappling hook?"
Isadora froze mid-climb, her hands still gripping the bars.
She turned her head slowly.
Celeste stood a few feet away, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line that was halfway between stern and amused.
"Oh. Hey, Celeste. Fancy seeing you here."
"Do you usually scale fences in full view of the staff quarters?"
"I was…uh, practicing upper body strength?" she offered.
Celeste sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Inside. Now."
⸻
Moments later, Isadora sat perched on a velvet-cushioned chair, covered in dirt, skirt wrinkled, hair wind-blown.
Celeste paced the room slowly. "You could have been caught. Again. What if someone recognized you?"
"I wore a hood. Mostly."
"This isn't a game, Isadora."
Isadora leaned back, folding her arms. "I just needed some air. Some freedom. I'm not used to… all of this."
Celeste's tone softened, just barely. "I know. But next time, at least use the servant's entrance."
Isadora blinked. "Wait—you're not locking me in?"
"I'm not your jailer. But I am trying to keep you alive."
Isadora blinked, almost touched. Almost.
Celeste turned, straightening her gown. "Now. Since you're back and—somewhat—in one piece, there's an event you must attend."
Isadora groaned. "Another etiquette lesson?"
"Worse." Celeste smiled. "A masked banquet. The nobility will be there. The court. Even members of the royal family."
Isadora's eyes widened. "You're kidding."
"This is the perfect opportunity to reintroduce you to society. My long-lost daughter has returned, perfectly timed. But if you want the story to hold, you need to look and act the part."
Isadora slumped in her seat. "So, what, I get turned into a walking porcelain doll for one night?"
"No," Celeste said, walking over and smoothing a bit of mud from Isadora's sleeve. "You'll be turned into Veridion's most talked-about mystery. And hopefully, no one will guess the truth."
Isadora stared at her. "And if they do?"
Celeste's smile never wavered. "Then you better make sure they like what they see."