~Florence

My skull has split.

Surely, that must be the cause of the blinding pain that brings me to my knees, crunching the gem-encrusted skirt. I reach out with one hand, flailing in the blackness, until I collide with something rough. Whatever it is, I lean on it until the pain subsides enough for me to breathe. 

My fingers pick at the texture—ridged, uneven grooves.

I focus on what I feel, forcing myself to draw in air.

Inhale, one, two, three, four.

Exhale, one, two, three, four.

Eventually, my eyes adjust and I realize the pain might not have been completely blinding at all, that it’s simply dark because I’m outside with only a sliver of a moon to light the thicket I’ve landed in. 

Landed in. 

My knees give out beneath me and I awkwardly fall the rest of the way to the side, constrained by the tight dress. 

“The debut!” I gasp. What happened? How did I get here? Where is…here?

An owl hoots and I jump, my heart jabbing into my throat.  

Think! Remember! What happened? 

My long hair surrounds me like a cape, tickling my arms…long and loose…loose…

Ah.

That horrible man with awful breath came up to me and ripped off the wig. It had hurt so much! How did my real hair not come off with it? I shake my head, attempting to settle the jumbled thoughts. My hair slides over my shoulders as if to comfort me.

After that…my ears started to buzz, right? Like my head was full of bees. And…

“Lightning,” I whisper. Lightning had shot down my arms toward my hands, raising every single hair on the way down. “Bees.”

I look at my hands.

It had felt and sounded like being pushed through a thick swarm of bees, a wall of bees, only to drop out of the other side. No…more like that feeling of falling while you’re asleep, only to jerk violently awake. That was what it felt like to land in the thicket, followed by the skull-splitting head pain. 

Am I a mage, then? Is that what this is? 

As far as I know, nobody in the LaVelle family has ever had enough power to be able to claim the title of ‘mage.’ But…why now? I’m nineteen! Surely, there would’ve been some sign of this before now?

Wouldn't there?

I shake my head and roll onto my back in the slim space between trunks and bramble branches, which scratch at my arms and tug at my hair. I’m beyond caring. 

“Why?!” I yell, carefully letting my arms splay where they will between the roots and twigs that litter the ground.  “Ouch, darn you!”

I look to the left to see a faint metallic glint, caught in the bramble so that my hand had hit its point. Using the surrounding growth, I grunt as I pull myself to my elbows so I can drag myself over to grab the shaft of the arrow. 

It’s a battle to pull it free, and my head grows dizzy as I pant for breath, trying to breathe while wearing a device designed to prevent me from doing that very thing. 

Rest, I tell myself. There’s no rush here. Just rest. 

So I let myself fall back and do just that, the leaves and twigs beneath me scraping my bare shoulders and arms as I lie there, trying to steady my breath, holding my prize close to my chest. 

When I no longer feel faint, I use a young treetrunk to pull myself to my feet, unable to bend at the waist thanks to the costume. All I can see are trees, but to my left there is an open space beyond them, where I should have a little more moonlight to use the arrow.

It turns out to be a large, rustic practice yard of some sort, with a packed dirt floor my high-heeled shoes don’t sink into. It seems to be in the middle of nowhere, for I cannot see the lit guard towers of any mansion or castle above the trees. 

I had been lying in the thicket behind the archery targets, human-shaped straw sacks mounted on stakes and peppered with holes. 

Now that I can see the seams, I use the sharp tip of the arrow to slice at the seam of my bodice, using my fingers to guide the arrow until the threads are shredded enough for me to rip it off, launching tiny crystal beads and gems everywhere. The sight of hundreds of shining, sparkling specks in the dirt brings a smile to my face, and I can’t help but laugh—not the ladylike titter Madam Rosanna had me perfect, but a throaty cackle summoned from somewhere deep within me. 

But not for long. The corset needs to go. Now.

I have to work carefully on this one so as not to slice my skin beneath, since only my shift is under it, but the material is so tight that I don’t have to work at it long before the corset pops off from the side, literally bursting at the seams.

“Phew!” I breathe deeply for several minutes, enjoying the full lungfuls of air. My eyes tear up as my chest fully expands for the first time in hours.

Now I can rework the rest of the costume into something practical for my situation. I might be able to fashion a tunic of sorts from one of the skirts. Regardless of what happens next, I am not wearing this monstrosity for hours upon hours while I try to figure out where I am. As is, it’s far too uncomfortable and impractical. 

With the bodice and corset removed, I can remove the heavy, stiff overskirt, which likely has enough gems sewn into it to buy a small house. And finally, finally, I can remove my darn shoes! 

It is in this state, with my chemise exposed above my skirt, wearing my stockings on the dirt, that I am discovered. 

♥♥⸸

~Duke LaVelle

Duke LaVelle made his way to the spot Florence had been a moment before, but there was no trace of her. Guests were openly gawking, giving him a wide berth as he paced around the Tyrell idiot, who stood there with Florence’s wig gripped tightly in his hand, as if he held a recent kill. 

“You,” seethed the Duke, pointing his finger into Vester Tyrell’s chest, “will go nowhere.”

His son, Miles, pushed through the crowd to join him. 

“Father,” he said, grabbing his elbow. “Mother has fainted. She’s been taken to her chambers. Elaine went with her.”

Duke LaVelle pinched the bridge of his nose, his cheeks an alarming shade of crimson.

“The debut is over!” he bellowed, “And if any of you speak of what transpired here tonight, you will wish you hadn’t!”

More shrieks peppered the air as the ladies, guided by their partners, attempted to make themselves scarce. Not only had they witnessed two horrifying events this evening, but now they were being threatened on top of it! Being such gentle ladies of high society, prolonged exposure to the location where it had all happened would surely only hinder their recovery.

Duke LaVelle stood as still as a statue, eyes glued to the marble floor, as the young men and women fled around him. Miles looked on, his brows drawn in concern—concern for his father, for the LaVelle name, and perhaps a bit of concern for his youngest sister. What business did she have suddenly manifesting as a mage in the middle of her debut, and where the hell did she go?

Florence was a problem they could deal with later, whenever she reappeared. Now, they had to salvage the situation as best they could. They needed to ensure the silence of those who had witnessed Florence’s display of power, and they needed to obtain information from Tyrell. 

How had he known she was wearing a wig? Why had he felt the need to rip it off her head? Had he been paid to? Ordered to? Who was he working for?

Was someone out to sabotage the LaVelle Duchy using Florence? 

They needed answers. 

And they would get them, one way or another. 

Vester Tyrell, to his credit, had sobered enough to realize the gravity of his situation as the LaVelle guards led him away. His face blanched as he hazily recalled the words Trevor Rowanward had spoken just minutes ago…

“I heard they have a full dungeon in the basement.”

♥♥⸸