The small box felt heavier than lead in Isadora's hands. The silver wax seal, with its raven and rose, was cool against her trembling fingertips. Her father's confession, a raw, open wound in the center of the room, made the arrival of this token feel like a deliberate, cruel stroke of fate. He had just told her of the cage, and now, here was a piece of the bars, delivered directly to her door.
Her father and brother watched, their faces pale in the twilight, as she broke the seal and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on a bed of crushed black velvet, lay a single object. A silver cufflink, intricately wrought in the shape of a snarled wolf's head, its eyes tiny chips of jet. It was the one she had noticed on his wrist as he led her to the dance floor, a glint of predatory silver against the stark black of his coat.
There was no note. There was no explanation. There didn't need to be. The message was perfectly, terrifyingly clear.
I know who you are. I know where you live. You are mine.
"What is this?" Her father's voice was a low, dangerous rumble. He rose from his stool and stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the silver object in the box. His grief had been burned away by a sudden, hot flame of fear. "Isadora. Where did this come from?"
Isadora snapped the box shut, her knuckles white. "It is nothing. A mistake."
"A mistake?" He snatched the box from her hand, his movements sharp with anger. He opened it, stared at the cufflink, and then looked at her. The whispers he had heard all day, the warning from Lady Albright he couldn't have known about but could surely sense in the air, her own exhaustion—it all coalesced into a devastating certainty in his eyes. "This is a nobleman's token. The seal is from Mirewood Hall. This is from him, isn't it? The Duke."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her pride was a shield, brittle and thin, but it was all she had left. She would not crumble before him, not after he had just called her mother a fool.
"You went there," he breathed, the words a death sentence. "Dear God, Isadora. You went to that place."
"Father—" Bram started, stepping forward, his hands outstretched as if to ward off the coming storm.
"Stay out of this, Bram," Elias snapped, his gaze never leaving Isadora's. The controlled, precise man was gone, replaced by a father terrified of history repeating itself. "Did you think I wouldn't hear? It is the talk of the town! A common girl, a seamstress, dancing with the Duke of Ravenshade! Did you think of your family? Of our name? Or were you so caught up in the fantasy, just like she was?"
The comparison to her mother was a deliberate cruelty, a knife twisted in a wound he himself had just opened. Isadora flinched as if struck.
"You don't understand," she said, her voice tight with unshed tears and fury.
"Oh, I understand perfectly!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the quiet shop. It was the first time he had raised his voice to her in years. "You put on a pretty dress and thought you could walk in their world! That world, Isadora, it does not have visitors. It only has victims! Your mother learned that. Must you learn it, too? Have you brought this darkness to our door?"
"I have brought nothing!" she retorted, her own voice rising to match his. "I went for one night! I did what I had to do, and I came home!"
"And this?" He shook the box, the cufflink rattling inside. "This is not the end of it! This is a claim! He knows who you are! They all know now! You have put a target on this family, on your brother!"
At the mention of his name, Bram paled even further. "Father, stop it! Leave her be!"
The bell above the shop door jingled for a third time.
Its cheerful, melodic sound cut through the rage, instantly silencing the argument. All three of them froze, turning toward the door. The last vestiges of twilight cast long, eerie shadows into the shop, and framed in the doorway were two figures.
One was the lady-in-waiting from the day before, her face swollen and tear-streaked, her posture hunched in terror. Behind her stood a woman of impossible beauty and cold, refined fury. She was tall and slender, dressed in a gown of deep crimson silk that seemed to drink the fading light. A veil of black lace was pinned to her dark, coiffed hair, but it did little to soften the aristocratic contempt carved into her features.
This was her mistress. Lady Valestra.
"What is the meaning of this?" Elias said, his paternal anger instantly replaced by a tradesman's wary deference. He stepped in front of Isadora, shielding her. "My apologies, my lady, but the shop is closed for the day."
Lady Valestra's eyes, the color of dark, polished jade, swept the room. They passed over Elias, dismissed Bram, and settled on Isadora with a chilling, possessive hatred.
"I am not here to shop," the noblewoman said, her voice like the chime of cold crystal. "I am here because something of mine was lost. In this room. Yesterday."
Isadora's blood ran cold.
"My invitation to the Duke's masquerade," Lady Valestra continued, taking a slow, deliberate step into the shop. The terrified lady-in-waiting shuffled in behind her. Isadora could now see a dark, ugly bruise blooming on the girl's cheek, a cruel testament to her mistress's displeasure. "An invitation my maid here so carelessly misplaced while having a dress of mine mended. Imagine my surprise when I learn the next day that while I was forced to remain at home, a common seamstress was not only in attendance, but was seen dancing with my Duke."
Her jade eyes narrowed, flicking between Isadora and Clara, who had emerged from the back room, drawn by the shouting, her face a mask of confusion and fear. "There are two of you. Which one is the thief?"
"My lady, you are mistaken," Elias said, his voice firm but respectful. He was trying to protect them, trying to build a wall with his words. "My daughters are good girls. They would never do such a thing. There must be some misunderstanding."
"There is no misunderstanding," Lady Valestra hissed. She gestured sharply at her maid. "Tell them. Tell them what you told me."
The lady-in-waiting flinched, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I… I dropped it, my lady," she stammered, her gaze fixed on the floor. "The envelope. I was in a rush… I dropped it right here. On the floor."
"And you saw who picked it up?" Lady Valestra prompted, her voice laced with venom.
The girl shook her head miserably. "No, my lady. I was already out the door. I didn't realize it was gone until it was too late."
"A likely story," the noblewoman sneered, before turning her cold fury back to Elias. "Your 'good girls' are thieves and opportunists. One of them stole my place, my dance. I want to know which one."
"I must ask you to leave," Elias said, his voice hardening. The fear was still there, but his protective instinct was stronger. "You have no proof of any wrongdoing here. These are baseless accusations, and I will not have you harassing my family in my own shop."
He took a step toward her, intending to escort her to the door, treating her as he would any other hysterical customer whose patronage he could afford to lose.
It was a profound, catastrophic mistake.
Lady Valestra did not move. Instead, a slow, cruel smile spread across her perfect, blood-red lips. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Baseless?" she whispered, and the sound was no longer human. It was the dry rustle of ancient leaves, the hiss of a snake before it strikes. "You think you can speak to me of proof? You think you can ask me to leave?"
She laughed, a short, sharp, ugly sound devoid of all mirth. "Oh, you foolish little man. You have no idea what stands in your pathetic little shop of rags and thread."
Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, and in the deepening gloom of the workshop, her eyes began to change. The polished jade irises seemed to dissolve, consumed by pupils that dilated until they were nothing but two endless pools of red. Her smile widened, and Isadora saw with a surge of pure, primal terror that her canine teeth were lengthening, sharpening into needle-fine points that gleamed wetly in the faint lamplight.
"You stand in my way," Lady Valestra hissed, her voice now a low, predatory growl that vibrated in the air. "You protect a thief who dared to touch what is mine. Let me show you what happens to those who displease me."