The streets of London had never seemed so alive. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, lanterns glimmered like captive stars, and the winter air carried the soft scent of roasted chestnuts and perfume. Word had spread through society like wildfire: the opera that evening would be the first grand affair of the season, and whispers of a "rare debut" promised intrigue, scandal, and fortune alike. Every noblewoman and gentleman of influence would be in attendance, and every eye would search for the mystery at the heart of the gossip.
Madame Roselle's carriage rolled through the more gilded avenues, its lacquered wood and brass fittings reflecting the gaslight. Beside her, her husband's expression remained polite, calm, though his eyes flickered with the satisfaction of a man who had carefully orchestrated this moment. Lily sat in the corner, her hands folded in her lap, her pale face framed by a silver-blue gown that shimmered in the carriage lanterns. Her mask, a delicate filigree of sapphire and silver, hid her expression, yet could not mask the tension coiling within her.
"Remember, my dove," Madame Roselle whispered, her gloved hand brushing Lily's, "this is your first step into society's favor. All will see you, all will desire you. Do not falter."
Lily nodded mechanically, her lips pressed into a thin, emotionless line. She did not answer; the words felt empty. The carriage slowed and pulled up to the opera house, a towering edifice of stone and gold, its grand doors opening like the maw of some magnificent beast. The air smelled of candle wax and velvet, and a low murmur of anticipation rose from the crowd gathered outside.
Inside, the opera house glittered with crystal chandeliers, their light splintering across gilded boxes and velvet seats. The audience's rustling, the whisper of silk skirts and polished boots, and the soft scent of perfume created an intoxicating blend of elegance and expectation. The air seemed to hum with rumor, and Lily could feel it pressing against her chest like a weight she could not lift.
Madame Roselle led her through a corridor lined with gilded mirrors and statues, murmuring introductions and reminders. The whispers had reached even the highest boxes. "A young girl of extraordinary beauty," some said, "the prize of the season." "Her first appearance… exquisite," others murmured. Lily's stomach tightened at the subtle cruelty of the compliments—the unspoken meaning behind each syllable.
The Prince had arrived earlier, accompanied by Viscount James, his younger sister Josephine, their parents, and the royal family. From the moment he entered the opera, his gaze swept over the audience like a hawk, alert to every movement. And then, as the crowd parted like water around a stone, his eyes found her.
The moment was electric. Lily stood in Madame Roselle's box with her adoptive parents, a poised, distant figure. The Prince's chest constricted. He knew her. The blue of her gown, the shimmer of her mask, the exact way she carried herself—it could be none other.
He followed her with measured steps, weaving through boxes and whispers, keeping his distance yet observing every detail. The world seemed to shrink around him; even the laughter of the crowd and the music from the orchestra became faint beneath the pounding of his heart.
Madame Roselle leaned toward him subtly, her eyes glinting. "Do you see, Your Highness?" she whispered, "the finest girl in the city, soon to be claimed. Even the Viscounts will compete for her."
Edward's lips pressed into a thin line. "I… I did not know," he said, voice low, the sting of jealousy and longing warring within him.
From her corner, Lily remained unaware of the Prince's attention. She exchanged polite words with her adopted parents, nodded to the other ladies, and kept her expression carefully neutral. Her heart raced, but she kept her composure. Every gesture was a mask, every smile forced.
Across the opera house, in the box above, Viscount James leaned close to his father, the now viscount, his voice a low murmur. "Look at her," he said, nodding toward Lily. "That's the girl the house is selling, I hear. The girl of whom the whole city speaks. The bidding will be fierce, I wager."
The viscount frowned, concern knitting his brows. "It is shameful," she whispered. "No one should be treated as an object."
James smiled faintly, a mixture of mischief and resolve. "Perhaps," he said softly, "but fortune waits for no one. And if she were free to choose…" His gaze lingered, contemplative, on the distant figure of Lily in the other box.
The Prince felt a sudden, sharp pang. His jaw tightened as he watched James speak with casual certainty about Lily. He could not yet reveal what he knew; the girl was his secret, and the thought that another man considered claiming her twisted something deep within him.
As the orchestra swelled, Madame Roselle leaned close to Lily's ear. "Remember, my dove, this is your moment. Make them see you. Make them desire you."
Lily's stomach churned. She had long stopped feeling desire for the world she now entered. Her limbs felt heavy, her heart hollow. She nodded, but no light reached her eyes.
In a shadowed corner of the opera house, the Prince followed the soft glint of sapphire and silver until he arrived at an unassuming box, where Madame Roselle had arranged for Lily's meeting with James and the Viscount. Casually, she presented her "merchandise" under the guise of propriety.
Edward's breath caught. The conversation flowed naturally, polite laughter, discussion of family estates, hunting seasons, and theatre—the sort of light talk any visitor might overhear. But beneath it, the tension was electric. He realized, in that moment, that Lily—the girl he had chased in the gardens, whose smile haunted his dreams—was indeed the one Madame Roselle had spoken of. She was to be part of the bidding.
James, oblivious to Edward's recognition, leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I might bid for her, you know," he said. "If fortune permits, I would see her as my wife."
Edward felt a surge of anger and despair. His fingers curled around the railing of the box. He could not reveal what he knew. Yet the knowledge made him ache—the girl he could not stop thinking about, trapped in a system of commerce and expectation, meant to be bartered.
From her own vantage point, Lily remained composed. She listened politely, contributed small words of greeting, but the mask she wore concealed the storm beneath. She could feel James's gaze resting on her, and though she recognized the attention, she did not recognize safety or choice.
The orchestra shifted, and the opera began. The overture swelled, notes climbing like flames to the rafters. The audience returned to their seats and boxes, the sound of rustling skirts and polished boots filling the hall. In Lily's box, Madame Roselle settled beside her husband, whispering faint encouragements. "See, my dove? All is as it should be. They admire you, and soon, they will compete for your favor."
Lily's hands clenched the edge of the seat. Her fingers turned white, nails digging into the fabric. She felt nothing. The beauty of the house, the gilded walls, the flicker of candlelight—all of it seemed hollow. She was a figure placed within a picture, observed but not heard, a creation to be appraised.
Above, in the Prince's box, Edward kept his eyes trained on her, heart hammering. James leaned close again, oblivious to his friend's knowledge. "Do you think she will fetch a high price?" he asked, his tone playful but speculative.
Edward's reply was measured, neutral. "Perhaps." He would not betray what he knew—not yet. He could only watch, tense and silent, as the girl in red moved with grace and poise, hiding the fear beneath her mask of a smiling face.
In Josephine's box, she exchanged polite smiles with the prince, her hand resting lightly on his arm during the opening notes. Her eyes, soft and trusting, reflected her hope that Edward's attention belonged to her. She did not know the storm already brewing, the secret between him and the mysterious girl in the opera.
The King and Queen observed from their box, noting the Prince's brief glances toward the distant figure of Lily. They suspected curiosity but not the depth of fascination, not the memory of the night in the gardens. The nobles whispered among themselves, speculation hanging in the air like smoke.
As the first act unfolded, the opera house became a labyrinth of intrigue and observation. Eyes followed every gesture, every glance, every flutter of a fan. The masks and gowns, the whispers and bows, all combined into a spectacle of wealth and power, desire and secrecy. Lily, trapped in her corner, felt each gaze like a weight pressing upon her chest. She kept her expression serene, but inside, she was collapsing under the strain of being both spectacle and prisoner.
And Edward, watching from above, felt the pull of the girl he could not claim. The one who had haunted him, chased him, and now stood at the center of a world he could not fully enter.