(The Velvet and the Whisper.)
༒☬༒
"Miss Blackwood, which of these materials would you prefer for your dress?" the seamstress asked, spreading three fabrics across the low table before Becca.
The woman's hands were pale and quick, her fingers brushing each cloth as though they were petals of something sacred. The fabrics shimmered faintly in the candlelight, one of light blue silk, another of dark green suede, and the last of deep blue velvet, threaded with black embroidery that caught the firelight like inked flowers.
Becca's sigh was quiet but heavy. She had returned from the library only hours ago, her mind still circling the strange weight of the book she had borrowed. Yet before she could even rest, Mina had come to inform her that the seamstress was waiting downstairs to take her measurements for the dinner tomorrow night.
Her father's dinner.
It seemed he was leaving no room for imperfection this time. A perfect dress. A perfect smile. A perfect daughter to hand over like an offering.
The irony almost made her laugh.
The Earl had not cared for such details in years, not since her debut season two winters ago, when he had insisted she attend merely to silence gossip. Every dress she had worn since then was either something Mina had stitched together from scraps or a piece cast off from Lisa's wardrobe. And Becca hadn't minded; comfort and freedom meant more to her than lace and attention.
But now?
Now he wanted her adorned in velvet and silk.
"Choose one, milady," the seamstress said softly, as if afraid her voice might break the fragile quiet of the room.
Becca's eyes drifted between the fabrics. The pale blue was too soft, too bright, a color that belonged to her half-sister Melissa, not her. The green suede looked heavy and coarse; she could already feel it itching against her skin. But the third the dark blue velvet caught her attention. It was quiet, elegant, and cold. The black embroidery wound across its surface like vines under moonlight.
"This one," Becca said, touching the velvet with her fingertips. It felt like dusk caught in cloth.
"An excellent choice, milady," the seamstress murmured approvingly. "Would you wish the corset made of the same material?"
Becca hesitated. The word itself stirred something unpleasant in her chest.
"Must it have a corset?" she asked at last.
The seamstress blinked in surprise. "It would improve the shape, miss. The Earl requested something proper for the occasion."
Becca's brows drew together faintly. "Proper," she repeated, the word like ash on her tongue. She still remembered Mother's insistence during Father's forty-fifth birthday how the corset had been pulled so tight that she could barely breathe. The room had spun, her lungs had screamed, and she'd sworn never to wear one again.
"If Father wishes the dress proper," Becca said evenly, "then make it so. But I'll keep my breath, if you please."
The seamstress hesitated, then bowed slightly. "As you wish, Miss Blackwood."
She gathered her tools and folded the chosen fabric carefully, as though handling something fragile. With a final curtsy, she took her leave. The faint scent of chalk and thread lingered behind her.
Becca exhaled slowly, rubbing at her temples. The room seemed to breathe again once the woman had gone.
The quiet did not last long.
The door opened sharply, and Lisa stepped in, her perfume filling the air before her voice did. "Has the seamstress left?"
Becca turned slightly, her tone calm but cool. "Yes. Just now."
Lisa's eyes widened a fraction, surprise flashing into irritation. "She came here? To take your measurements?"
"She did."
Lisa's jaw tightened. "That's odd. I would have thought she came for me. Father mentioned the dinner tomorrow surely he'd want me properly dressed for it."
"Perhaps he already finds you proper enough," Becca said quietly, returning to her seat. Her tone carried no malice, only weary detachment, but Lisa's face hardened all the same.
"Don't mock me, Becca," she snapped. "You think this means something? That because Father ordered a new gown for you, you've suddenly become what? his favorite?"
Becca rose slowly, meeting her half-sister's glare with unnerving calm. "You may have that title if you want it. I assure you, it brings nothing worth keeping."
Lisa's lips parted, but no words came. Her anger seemed to falter for a heartbeat before it hardened again. "You're only jealous," she said bitterly. "You always have been."
Becca's expression remained unreadable. "If that's what helps you sleep, sister."
She brushed past Lisa and walked toward the door. The faint sound of rain still lingered outside, soft against the windows.
"Rebecca!" Lisa called sharply. "Don't you dare walk away from me."
But Becca didn't stop. She stepped into the dim corridor, her skirt whispering against the wooden floor, and didn't look back.
Her room was cold when she entered, the fire having burned itself down to faint embers. She closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, and leaned against it for a moment.
Silence. Blessed, heavy silence.
Her gaze drifted to the dressing table, where the leather-bound book from the library lay waiting. Its cover seemed darker in the candlelight, the faint engraving of a crescent swallowed by shadow almost pulsing faintly under her stare.
Becca crossed the room, her bare feet soft against the rug, and sat before the mirror. Her reflection looked paler than she remembered, her eyes too dark. She traced her fingers over the book's cold surface, then opened it.
The pages exhaled the smell of dust and something older iron and smoke, perhaps blood. The handwriting was uneven, the ink faded to a deep brown.
And at the top of the first page, written in a hand that trembled even in stillness, were the words:
"To walk with the night is to lose one's name, but to be chosen by it is to never die."
Becca stared at the words for a long moment, the faint tremor of unease creeping up her spine.
Outside, the rain had begun again soft at first, then steadier, whispering against the window like a heartbeat.
She turned another page.
The candle flickered, casting restless shadows across her face.
And somewhere in that silence, between the rustle of paper and the sigh of wind, something seem to whisper her name.