“O-Olivia, just a moment!” Sable finds herself gasping. “Isn’t this corset tight enough already?!”

Olivia, her loyal maid, merely tuts disapprovingly, as though Sable is still a twelve year old complaining about having to wear her corset for the first time.

“This is quite standard for a normal engagement party, Miss Whittaker!” she replies too cheerfully as she tugs once more.

Sable’s lungs constrict for a moment from the tightness and she nearly yelps. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Miss Whittaker,” Olivia chides. “Mrs. Whittaker’s corset is even tighter, and she’s in her forties! You are twenty two, can’t you handle a simple corset?”

Yes, in fact, Sable can. Corsets usually help her with her back and give her support. But Olivia usually doesn’t tighten them so damn tightly.

She huffs, blowing a strand of curled hair from her face. Damn this engagement party, and damn Silas Montgomery. 

Sable nearly audibly groans at the very thought of her arranged fiancé. He should be marrying the money he actually loves, not me! 

Olivia yanks one final time on her corset, effectively pulling her out of her thoughts. 

The party is nearly as drab and dull as she expected. It’s beautiful in her eyes, of course, but it isn’t the visuals that keep making Sable return to the champagne and raspberry wine.

The room is filled with gossip, mostly about minor scandals that she finds tame, or the potential identity of the Tearer, the murderer stalking the streets and gutting innocent, usually lower class, women. 

Sable finds it rather crass to speak so boldly about him as if he were a spectacle. 

The Whittaker’s lovely ballroom, usually used three times a year for each family member’s birthday, is decorated to look like something out of a fairy tale from the Middle East. Father has wasted no expense celebrating his one and only daughter’s engagement. 

Small lights decorate the stairwells, and ornate lamps from grandmother’s home country circle the floor. Heavy mahogany and burgundy colored drapes hang onto the windows. 

Sable bitterly notes that none of the food or drinks are anything Grandmother Laila ever made. Although, the fruit punch is sprinkled with pomegranate seeds, just as she made it when Sable was but a child. 

She wishes father had at least included her favorite saffron rice. And there is no sheermal, or kebabs, or even fereni, her favorite dessert.

She pats down her lavender skirt. The dress is beautiful, an icy lavender gown with a thin golden overskirt made of tulle. Her heels, while hidden, are also golden, and she wears an outer corset made of a dark red leather that accentuates her curves. Her dark chocolate brown hair has been curled into an intricate updo as well, with a subtle lavender ribbon tying it back. 

Most of the other ladies here are wearing darker or more vibrant colors. Pastels have only just begun to grow back in fashion, and Madame Loretti, their family fashion consultant, took full advantage of that, despite Sable’s preference for darker shades. 

She’d merely clucked her tongue and flicked her eyes down Sable, as if saying, Your skin is dark enough, you don’t need dark clothes too. 

Even if Sable is a much lighter shade of brown than Grandmother or even Father, the soft tan of her skin evokes whispers amongst the fair skinned high society. She knows that is what most people talk about when her name comes up. And judging by the way people are still ignoring her at her own engagement party, instead surrounding Silas, she knows her skin is all they see. 

She hadn’t felt so uncomfortable about it before Grandmother’s passing. But afterwards was when the whispers started. 

A sudden tap on her shoulder jolts her out of her morose thoughts, and she turns around to see Evie’s light green eyes looking at her. “Sable!” she squeals, taking her hands in her own.

Sable feels all the tension of the night ease away at the sight of her dearest friend. “Evie,” she breathes. “Thank god you’re here, I thought I was going to go mad from all the mundane conversation!”

Evie winks at her before sighing dramatically. “You know better than to say the Lord’s name in vain!” she scolds mockingly, and Sable playfully groans.

Evie is adorned in a forest green dress with brass accents. It flatters her eyes, and brings out the darker hints of gold in her blonde hair. 

“That dress is lovely,” Sable says and Evie grins back at her. 

“Aw, thanks!” she chirps back. “But pastels and an outer corset? I know that’s popular in Sharmonte, but it hasn’t caught on yet here. Maybe you’ll be a trendsetter!”

Sable does laugh at that before taking one more sip of her wine. She’s starting to feel a little warm. It is her third drink so far. “Me, a trendsetter. Ha, that’s a good one. And maybe The Tearer will stop his slayings!”

Evie’s cheer dims down a little, and Sable suddenly realizes what she’s just said.

The Tearer had claimed one of his victims nearby Henderson’s Books, Evie’s father’s store and Sable’s favorite part of town. Business had declined drastically since then. In a way, it’s a miracle her beloved friend could even afford a new dress. The few times they’d been out in public together since the incident, more people had whispered about Evie than Sable.

“I’m sorry,” Sable hurriedly says before grabbing the first snack on the table next to her, offering it to Evie. “Here, have a raspberry and pistachio tart, they’re sublime!”

Evie chuckles from Sable’s poor attempts to console her. “Thank you,” she replies, voice soft, as she eats the tart in one quick bite. Some jam smears on her lower lip, and both women find themselves laughing despite themselves.

A harsh cough behind Sable nearly makes her jump, but instead, she slowly turns around to see her fiancé, Silas Montgomery, standing behind her, and judging by the tightness of his mouth, he’s been waiting for a while.

“I hate to interrupt you two,” he says, tone short and curt enough for both of them to know he doesn’t really mean it, “But the party is already half over, and I have yet to dance with my lovely bride to be.”

Sable resists the urge to roll her eyes. Not like Silas himself has been dancing with the ivory skinned, strawberry-blonde Cornelia Bellowes whenever he has the chance. All Sable has been doing is snacking lightly, drinking, and chatting with Evie. Not dancing with another man at her engagement party.

She almost has to respect his nerve.

She offers her glass of wine to Evie without breaking eye contact with Silas, forcing a respectful, polite smile on her lips. “Oh my,” she begins. “Where has the time gone?” She takes his hand and watches Evie teasingly take a sip from her glass, causing Sable to exaggeratedly frown as she walks away with her arranged fiance. 

It’s a classic waltz, perfect for such an arranged marriage. His grip on her waist feels a little tight, but Sable can manage. 

They dance in silence for a few minutes. She’s never had much to say to Silas before. She wouldn’t mind this engagement half as much if she and he could get along, but unfortunately, Silas’ love of money and dull personality makes that a near impossibility. He has no interest in the arts, nor even in archery or horseback riding. He instead likes the occasional gamble, his work as head of his family’s factory, and not much else. He’s more of a gossip than most of the ladies she knows. 

She also knows that he feels similarly about her as most of the town does, despite how his eyes linger on her more often than she would like. 

“It’s odd to think,” Silas begins, “That by the end of next month, we’ll be married.”

Sable forces herself to smile politely. “It is strange to think that,” she replies.

“What have you been doing this evening?”

Sable shrugs. “The odd dance, chatting with Evie, enjoying the refreshments.”

“A little too much, I do say.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?” she asks.

“I was watching you. You drank practically three glasses of wine, and one glass of champagne.”

Sable swallows a chuckle. “I have a high alcohol tolerance, as you know,” she says as he dips her.

His lips tighten together. “I know that,” he says, raising her back up to continue the dance. “Yet I can’t help but think of your Aunt Mary-Rose, and what her life is like. I don’t want my wife to be gossiped about like that.”

Suddenly, Sable loses the urge to laugh. “Watch what you say about my aunt,” she spits. 

Aunt Mary-Rose is infamous for three things. Her being in her forties and unwed, her love of liquor, and her striking resemblance to her Grandmother Laila. Sable adores her. She’s the only person she can talk to about how isolated she feels apart from Evie, and how helpless she is to change that. Because she’s the only person to understand how that feels.

“Besides,” Sable continues, a smirk on her face. “I would think that you are more likely to have problems with alcohol, considering…everything,” she chirps.

His grip on her waist tightens hard enough that she nearly yelps.

It’s a well known fact that Silas’ father, Arnold Montgomery, is an alcoholic whose unfaithfulness led his wife to an early grave.

She’s nearly tempted to apologize, but his next words dash that desire to bits.

“No,” he snaps back. “You be mindful of what you say, Sable. If I weren’t marrying you, do you think any other man in this town would? Someone like you?”

Sable scoffs. “Pretty words coming from someone who practically undresses me with his eyes every time we meet.”

She can almost hear his teeth gnash together. “You’re only good for two things, Sable. Your money and your body. Please keep that in mind, if you ruin either of those two things, you’ll be nothing.” 

Although Sable acknowledges that the slight about his father was likely too much, such vulgar, nasty comments are also crossing a line. They sting more than she’d like to admit.

But she only smiles politely, and says, “I’ll do well to keep that in mind, Mr. Montgomery.”

The waltz ends. They separate. Sable hurries back to Evie, who hands her the glass of wine. She drinks it in one gulp.

“How was it?” Evie asks cautiously.

“Hellish,” Sable replies, now aware of a small slur in her voice. 

Evie looks sympathetically at her, and Sable finally has had enough.

The room is damn hot, Silas is back to dancing with Cornelia, and the genuine sadness in Evie’s eyes makes her want to scream.

Sable may be confident, but she has to wonder if Silas has a point. If she truly does barely have any worth. 

Aside from Evie, her family, and a few polite acquaintances, barely anyone talks to her. Their eyes linger on her, some as if they’re appraising her value, some like Silas do. 

And Sable is sick to death of it.

She turns to Evie. “I’m going outside for air,” she tells her.

Evie’s brows furrow. “Sable, it’s raining outside.”

“I need the air,” is all she replies, brushing past her friend, walking across the ballroom, and opening the doors to the garden. 

Despite her head slightly swimming, the moment Sable feels the cool air and the heavy rain on her skin, she finds herself running without looking back.