The night had grown long and quiet. The fire in Vivienne's room burned low, giving the walls a soft golden glow. Hours had passed since the dressmaker nearly tried to kill her with all those silks and velvets. Her body still ached from being squeezed, pulled, and pinned into a hundred layers of fabric.
Now, Vivienne lay on her bed, wrapped in a light robe, her skin smelling of lavender and vanilla. It was some new nonsense Genevieve had decided to mix into her bathwater. She said it would make Vivienne's skin "as soft as the wings of an angel." Vivienne didn't care. She would have bathed in mud if it meant being left alone for one evening.
But of course, Genevieve didn't know how to shut up.
