As soon as my eyes open, my stomach fills with dread. Today is my debut. There is absolutely no way to cancel it—invitations had gone out as soon as father had learned of the king’s command. Whether I was ready or not, my debut into high society would happen tonight.

I rub my eyes with my hands, but my hands begin to tingle.

Mary enters my chambers full of cheer and brings me a basin of steaming water to wash my face. The warm water makes the tingles go away.

Strange.

“I’m so excited for you, my lady,” she says, her cheeks flushed. “I wish I could see you all dressed up…”

But she won’t.

For the first time in seven years, I will move to my old chambers in the main house, where a new set of maids will wait on me. There, Madam Rosanna will oversee my transformation into a debutante throughout a day of what I’ve been told consists of skin treatments, manicures, hair styling, cosmetics, and "whatever else might be necessary."

After my debut, Madam Rosanna informed me, I will be allowed to stay in the main house.

“Once our guests see that there is nothing behind the rumors about you,” she had said, “His Grace plans to reinstate you into the household.” 

Why do I feel like this is just another carrot being dangled in front of my nose? And I'm the stupid donkey trying over and over to reach it.

Part of me wants to tell Mary, “Don’t worry, I’ll see you later tonight,” because I know father’s words are too good to be true. But the other part of me doesn’t want to voice those doubts aloud, giving them power. 

There’s no time to tell her anything—once I’m dressed, I’m escorted to the main house by two guards, as if I am a prisoner on my way to the guillotine. They take me all the way to my old chambers, giving me no time to prepare my mind before handing me over to the maids, who bustle me inside the space that had once been mine—it clearly no longer is. 

Everything has been redone. The chamber's location within the mansion might be the same, but nothing else is. All the furniture is new. All the colors are different. There is a sitting area and a sleeping area, divided by a partial wall—that’s new. 

The bathing chamber is also completely renovated, with a large, sunken tub as the main feature, with relaxing pale blue and ivory tile instead of the pink I had adored as a girl. 

Had they made all these remodels with me in mind? Or did my chambers now serve as a guest room? The tingliness in my hands returns. Maybe all the stress is affecting my body, now, too.

I press my lips together while the maids strip me. If they’re surprised by the number of bruises and welts hidden under my shift, they do not mention it. They’re better trained than Mary, it seems. She could never stop herself from gasping at a fresh mark, or grumbling her disapproval as she washed me.

It’s difficult to enjoy the large, lavish bath when I know what waits for me throughout the rest of the day. Besides, the maids’ touch is not Mary’s—their fingers do not know my preferences for pressures and speeds as they scrub and rinse, and I do not have the wherewithal to mention this to them now. What’s the point?

They let me soak in the scented water for a short while after they complete their scrubbing, so I close my eyes and try to imagine that the day is over. 

No such luck.

“It’s time to get out now, Lady Florence,” one of them says, shattering my fantasy. 

The rest of the day passes quickly as a flurry of women poke and prod my body with various instruments, applying more products than I can keep track of. The tingliness in my hands comes and goes, so I figure it's not worth mentioning.

I’m given sips of tea and small bites of food throughout the day, but no lunch. The steady flow of comments about “staying trim” and “keeping the dreaded puffiness at bay” tells me starvation is a normal part of the debutante preparation process. How barbaric! 

By the time the emerald green ensemble is installed on my body, with the curly red wig viciously pinned to my head, I’m ravenous. 

“May I please have a bite to eat,” I beg. “Even a biscuit would do. Anything, please?”

“You’ll survive,” Madam Rosanna says, glancing over me with a critical eye. “Once the debut starts, you’ll forget all about your stomach. Now, come along.”

She pulls my wrist, heavy with an emerald bracelet, and we depart my chambers. The noise hits me immediately—I hadn’t realized the guests had arrived. 

It's already time? My heart pounds faster in my chest, echoing against my hollow stomach below. My vision blurs and I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or because I haven’t eaten, but Madam’s pull is strong and she leads me to the end of the hall, where I can see my family gathered on the platform at the top of the joint stairs, looking out over the grand entrance. The strange tingling I've been feeling in my hands all day intensifies for a moment.

Mama, Miles, Elaine—

“Chin up, shoulders back, waist in,” Madam Rosanna whispers sharply in my ear from behind, surprising me. The tingliness fades. Then, she gives me a gentle shove, and suddenly my feet begin to move me toward my family, most of whom I haven’t seen in seven years.

Keep it together, Florence, I tell myself. It’s not your fault they didn’t want to meet with you before this. Smile. Smile and act happy. Happy and mature. Happy, mature, and calm. Chin up, shoulders back, waist in. 

“And now,” my father announces, his deep baritone carrying throughout the entrance, “I have the great honor and pleasure of introducing my youngest daughter, Lady Florence Ophelia Renata LaVelle!”

Polite applause buzzes in my ears as I carefully descend the few steps to the platform, reaching for my father’s outstretched hand. I do not look at my mother, brother, or sister. 

I already know they aren't looking at me.

“You look beautiful,” my father says quietly. “Madam Rosanna did well.”

Madam Rosanna? I manage to keep the smile frozen on my face as my father announces the beginning of the festivities in the ballroom, which I do not hear. Madam Rosanna is the one who did well? 

Father and I descend the left staircase while the rest of the family takes the right.

Was Madam Rosanna beaten black and blue until she could correctly recite the complete royal family lineage, dating back to Dorandia's founding? Was Madam Rosanna forbidden from taking a single bite until she was judged to have flawless table manners? Was Madam Rosanna shouted at and her feet stepped upon until she could perform the dance steps correctly?

No, I am the one who suffered through all of that! 

My inner monologue is so loud, it drowns out whatever father was saying to me. 

He looks at me, expectantly. 

“I’m sorry, father, but might I have a glass of punch before anything else? I’m terribly thirsty.”

He narrows his eyes but nods to the nearest servant, who rushes off to get it.

“As I was saying,” father continues, pointedly, “who you dance with is of utmost importance. I’ll dance with you first, of course, but after that, you must seek out the Windsor boy, he should be here. Dance with him as soon as you can and be charming. He’s Madam Rosanna’s nephew.”

Oh, well we can’t disappoint her, can we? I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. 

“Then there’s the Tyrell boy. He should be here, too, somewhere. Dance with him sometime tonight as well.”

“Yes, father,” I say, taking the glass of punch the servant finally brings. It takes everything in me not to gulp it down immediately. 

“The Rowanward boys are here somewhere, too,” father mumbles, raising his head to scan the crowd. “Dance with the eldest, though it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you paired up with the younger…” He trails off, distracted. 

I don’t know what any of these men look like. Everyone in the crowd is faceless—just one part of a gigantic, writhing monster. It reminds me of the hellscape.

A chill viciously crawls up my back, as if I'm overtaken by a swarm of frozen insects. The hair on the back of my neck and arms stands on end. The tingliness in my hands almost feels like stabs from a tiny knife now, and I can feel the fear start to—

“Florence.” Father looks at me, then holds out his arm.

The insects instantly fall away. I take a few deep breaths, as deep as I can in the corset, and smile widely at my father. The tingliness fades once again.

It is time for us to dance.

 ♥♥⸸

She looked nothing like the woman from the forest. Then again, he probably didn’t look much like he did that day, either. At least his hair was the same, though. 

Did they dye her hair? Or make her wear a wig? 

“A wig?” Tyrell asked, handing him a glass of punch, then pouring a healthy splash from his flask into each of their glasses. “Who, the LaVelle wench?” He belched.

Trevor hadn’t realized he’d spoken his thoughts out loud. Shit. 

“Forget about it,” Trevor said, floundering for a distraction. “You probably shouldn’t call her a wench in her own home, mate. I heard they have a full dungeon in the basement.”

“I’d love to see that,” Tyrell replied, sipping his drink, his eyes somewhat glazed. 

Trevor did not consider Vester Tyrell to be one of his friends, yet they often found themselves in one another’s company at functions like these, simply because they were not typically the ladies’ first choice of partners when it came to dancing. Trevor because he was a second son and not entitled to much of an inheritance, and Tyrell because he was, in short, an ass. 

Especially when drunk.

Trevor eyed Tyrell’s suddenly empty glass warily. Surely, he wasn’t drunk so soon, was he? Lady LaVelle’s debut was already the talk of the town—the last thing the LaVelle’s needed was a drunk Tyrell making a scene. 

Trevor moved to set his glass down on a side table, but when he turned around, Tyrell had disappeared into the crowd.

“Shit,” Trevor mumbled under his breath. 

Thankfully, Trevor was tall, so he was able to see above most of the ladies’ heads in the ballroom. He found Lady Florence easily—her unsightly emerald green ensemble was garish in comparison to the sea of soft lavenders, creams, and pinks. 

Tyrell reached for Lady LaVelle, grasping her elbows. She froze, listening to whatever he had to say, then wrenched her arms free to hold onto her hair.

But it was no use.

Tyrell, eyes wild and grinning wide, grabbed onto her hair with both of his large hands and ripped the red wig off of Lady Florence’s head, freeing the wild mass of sunset tresses contained beneath.

The crowd gasped—women screamed. 

Lady Florence stood very still for a moment, her mouth open in shock.

The only warning Trevor had was the sensation of his hair rising on his arms and the nape of his neck, and then Lady Florence disappeared.