The morning sun had barely broken through the clouds when Charlotte found herself knee-deep in fabrics.
Silk, satin, lace, velvet — all in shades Lady Agnes "might" wear to a royal ball yet would absolutely forget she owned by evening.
The sewing room looked like a storm had passed through, leaving the scraps of three centuries scattered on the floor. Lady Agnes stood in the middle of the chaos, holding a sketch she'd drawn herself. Charlotte squinted at it. It appeared to be a dress. Or a bird. Or possibly a teapot wearing a feathered hat.
"What do you think?" Lady Agnes asked proudly.
Charlotte hesitated. "It is… imaginative, my lady."
"Imaginative is the very spirit of the royal ball," Lady Agnes declared, twirling once and almost stepping on a pin cushion. "Now, which fabric speaks to you? The emerald or the sapphire?"
Charlotte held the two pieces of cloth up to her mistress's face. "The sapphire brings out your eyes. The emerald makes you look too pale."
"Wonderful, sapphire it is!" Lady Agnes clapped. "Begin cutting."
Charlotte froze. "Me, my lady?"
"Of course you. Mrs. Whitby can't be trusted with scissors. She once cut my hair instead of the ribbon. And the dressmaker won't arrive until tomorrow."
Charlotte wanted to protest — she was a maid, not a seamstress — but Lady Agnes had already begun rummaging through ribbons like a child hunting sweets. She took a steadying breath and spread the sapphire fabric across the table. It shimmered beautifully, the shade deep and rich. She ran her fingers over it, imagining how it would look beneath the glitter of palace chandeliers.
Maybe one day she would see such wonders.
But not like this.
With careful precision, she began cutting as Lady Agnes chattered excitedly about the ball, the music, and the possibility of seeing Queen Victoria herself. Charlotte could almost feel herself being drawn into that dream, stitching hope into every seam.
Hours slipped by until the half-finished gown draped over the mannequin, elegant and promising.
"Charlotte, you are a miracle," Lady Agnes gasped. "I look at this masterpiece and think — surely I must have commissioned Parisian couture!"
Charlotte smiled shyly. "It's only half done, my lady."
"But already magnificent! Now, fetch the white gloves, the pearl comb—"
A sudden CRACK shattered the moment.
The mannequin tipped. Charlotte reached too late.
The unfinished gown slumped forward — right onto the lit fireplace beside the sewing table.
"No—no—NO!" Charlotte cried, snatching the fabric back.
A singed line ran across the hem, dark and ugly.
Lady Agnes's gasp was theatrical enough to belong on a London stage.
"My gown! My glorious gown! Ruined!" she wailed, dropping into a nearby chair as if fainting were more convenient than standing.
Charlotte's heart pounded. "I'm so sorry, my lady. I can mend it!"
"Mend? Mend?" Lady Agnes pressed a hand to her forehead. "My dear, even a saint could not mend scorched sapphire silk!"
Charlotte swallowed hard. She felt a lump grow in her throat. "I… I'll fix it. I promise."
But Lady Agnes was already waving a hand dismissively. "No, no, don't fret, Charlotte. Truly, I never intended to go."
Charlotte blinked. "But you said—"
"Oh, I say many things. Besides, the idea of dancing beside dukes and earls exhausts me. No, no, the gown is gone, the ball will go on without me, and I'll stay home and read romances with Mr. Whiskerfield." She paused. "Though he refuses to read anything without illustrations."
Charlotte let out a small breath of relief — but her chest tightened with disappointment. She hadn't realized until this moment how desperately she'd wanted to witness the ball. Even from afar. Even just helping Lady Agnes prepare.
Something flickered inside her — a deep ache of longing.
Lady Agnes watched her for a long, thoughtful moment. "Charlotte?"
"Yes, my lady?"
"Were you hoping I'd still attend?"
Charlotte's cheeks warmed. "I… well… the ball sounds lovely. But it is not my place to—"
"Nonsense. You've been trapped in this manor far too long. One night of magic would do you good."
Charlotte shook her head quickly. "My lady, I cannot go to a royal ball."
"Why not?" Lady Agnes tilted her head. "You're graceful, polite, and far more clever than half the aristocracy."
Charlotte chuckled. "I am also a maid."
"Technicalities." Lady Agnes waved a dismissive hand.
"My lady…" Charlotte whispered, torn between fear and temptation.
Lady Agnes leaned forward conspiratorially. "I have a second gown. A simple one. And a mask. No one will recognize you."
Charlotte's heart skipped.
A gown? A mask? Her, at Buckingham Palace?
It was impossible. It was scandalous. It was— A dream. But dreams for girls like her always came with consequences.
"Please don't toy with me, my lady," Charlotte whispered.
Lady Agnes softened. "My dear, I am forgetful, not cruel. If anyone deserves one evening of enchantment, it is you."
Charlotte's chest tightened until she could hardly breathe. "And what if someone discovers me?"
"Then we shall say you were assisting me. Or that you faint easily. Or that you got lost looking for the washroom. Truly, Charlotte, we can invent hundreds of excuses."
Charlotte bit her lip. "But the rules—"
"Rules," Lady Agnes said firmly, "were written to be bent. Kindly. Gracefully. And only for noble causes."
Charlotte didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Lady Agnes clapped her hands suddenly. "It's settled then! You will attend."
"No, I—I shouldn't—"
"You must. And I won't hear another word. Tomorrow morning we shall rescue the second gown from my attic trunk."
Charlotte stared at her, trembling with disbelief. "My lady… truly?"
Lady Agnes winked. "Truly."
Charlotte felt her breath leave her body. She would go. To the royal masked ball. As the realization sank in, the room seemed brighter, the air sweeter, her heartbeat louder. Lady Agnes rose and patted her shoulder gently.
"Remember, my dear—sometimes life hands us a ruin… so that we may discover what we're meant to wear instead."
Later that night, when the manor was silent and the moon glowed like a polished pearl, Charlotte lay awake staring at the ceiling. Her mind spun with images of masked strangers, swirling gowns, music drifting through candlelit halls.
A night of being someone else. A night of being seen.
A night that could change everything. Unbeknownst to her, the royal palace — and a certain lonely prince — were preparing for the same night.
A collision of fate was already set in motion.
And Charlotte Ashby, maid of Fairwell Manor, was about to step into it.