The harsh scrape of curtain rings against the rod was the first sound Annabelle heard, followed by a cruel intrusion of golden morning light. She groaned, burying her face deeper into the plush velvet of her pillow to escape the day.
"Young miss, look at the time," Sara's voice tsk-tsked from across the room. "The sun is already high. Are you not feeling well? Usually, you are pacing the halls by now."
"I have a headache," Annabelle muttered into the fabric, her voice thick and muffled. It wasn't entirely a lie; the sobbing of the night before had left a dull, throbbing pressure behind her temples.
"Oh, my. Let me fetch the powders," Sara said, her footsteps fading toward the dressing room. When she returned with a glass of water and the medicine, Annabelle finally sat up, the heavy silk sheets sliding down her shoulders.
Sara froze, the glass rattling slightly on the silver tray. "Heaven help us. Have you been crying, dear? Your eyes... they're swollen nearly shut."
"No," Annabelle lied, taking the medicine with a trembling hand. "I'm fine. It's just the light. I think I'll stay in bed today."
"Perhaps that's for the best," Sara sighed, beginning to tidy the vanity. "I was supposed to go down to the village forge today to collect the new fireplace irons, but since you are unwell—and since your parents have already departed on their next business trip—I suppose I should stay here to tend to you."
Annabelle's heart gave a violent, painful kick against her ribs. She shot upright, the "headache" forgotten in a surge of adrenaline. "Wait. You were going to the forge? The one near the market square?"
Sara blinked, startled by the sudden electricity in the girl's posture. "Well, yes. But not anymore. Your health is more—"
"No!" Annabelle scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. "We have to go. We must."
"But why?" Sara asked, her confusion deepening. "Is there something you need from the village? I can simply bring it back for you."
"Going out... the fresh air will do me good," Annabelle insisted, already moving toward her washbasin. "The confinement of this room is what's making me sick, Sara. I need to be among people. I need to walk."
"Young miss, you're pale as a ghost and sweating," Sara said, reaching out to feel her forehead. "I suspect a fever. You belong under the covers, not in the mud of the village."
"I am perfectly well!" Annabelle snapped, a rare flash of fire in her eyes that silenced the nanny. She took a breath, softening her tone. "Please, Sara. Let me go with you. Give me just a few minutes to prepare."
Sara watched her with a wary, lingering stare before finally nodding and stepping out to wait in the hall.
Minutes turned into a half-hour. Sara paced the landing, glancing at the grandfather clock. "What is taking her?" she muttered. "Did she collapse? Did the fever take her?" Just as she reached for the door handle to check, it swung open.
Annabelle didn't look like a girl with a fever. She looked like a vision. She had carefully applied rouge to hide the paleness of her cheeks and darkened her lashes to mask the redness of her eyes. She wore a structured gown of emerald green silk—the exact color of a forest after a rain—that made her eyes look like burning jewels.
Every hair was pinned into place, shimmering under a delicate lace veil.
"Are you... going to the market like that?" Sara asked, her mouth agape. "You look as though you're headed to a royal ball, not a soot-filled smithy.
"Annabelle offered a small, mysterious smile that didn't quite reach her anxious eyes. "Why, Sara? Do I look too pretty for a Tuesday?" She smoothed her skirts, her pulse racing. "Let's go. We're losing the light."