The first time Willa tried to curtsy properly, she nearly toppled over.

“Left foot forward, not backward, my lady,” Clara corrected from behind her, a hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t bend like you’re bowing to an executioner.”

“I’m trying,” Willa huffed, wobbling slightly. The skirts were heavier than they looked—layers of brocade and ribbon that could strangle a woman if she wasn’t careful. “You didn’t tell me this was a full-body workout.”

Clara pursed her lips to hide a smile. “Nobility, my lady, is endurance disguised as elegance.”

Willa muttered something unladylike under her breath and tried again.

Her body still felt new—too heavy but soft, it was too unfamiliar. The years in her past life had left her bones lean, her movements sharp. Now she moved with a natural gentleness she didn’t yet know how to control. Sometimes, she’d glance in the mirror and forget that the woman staring back had curves and color and eyes that seemed to belong to someone braver.

“Better,” Clara finally said, clapping once. “Now, again. This time with composure.”

The days began to fall into a curious rhythm.

Mornings with Aleric—feeding him, chasing him down the hall when he decided socks were the enemy—and afternoons with Clara and Mrs. Vance, an etiquette tutor hired by her father years ago and recently re-summoned to “remedy her rustic tendencies.”

Mrs. Vance was a terror wrapped in silk and powder. She spoke in clipped tones and carried a long pointer stick like a duelist.

“Your posture, Lady Rosethorne. Shoulders down. Chin up. The spine of a Rosethorne must never bow.”

Willa forced herself to stand straighter, trying not to roll her eyes. “If I stand any taller, I’ll fall over.”

“Then fall gracefully, dear,” Mrs. Vance replied without missing a beat.

She was taught everything again—the precise angle of a curtsy, how to walk without creasing her gown, how to hold a teacup without appearing nervous. Every gesture, every breath, was to be measured, deliberate, controlled.

But Willa wasn’t Vina. Not completely.

When she smiled, it was unrestrained and real.

When she laughed, it came from deep in her chest, startling the tutors who’d grown used to the former lady’s muted, melancholic demeanor.

And when she made mistakes, she owned them with a kind of self-awareness that left even Mrs. Vance momentarily speechless.

“She’s… improved,” Clara admitted one afternoon after lessons ended.

Mrs. Vance frowned, as though admitting such a thing might give her wrinkles. “She’s unorthodox, but yes. The spirit suits her better than perfection ever did.”

Willa smiled at that, secretly proud.

As her confidence grew, so did her awareness of how others saw her.

The servants whispered in approval—how the lady’s laughter filled the halls again, how the manor finally felt alive. Aleric followed her everywhere now, clinging to her skirts or hiding behind her when strangers arrived. His giggles were the background to her days, soft and anchoring.

Yet, there was still an ache under her ribs sometimes.

A memory of her old world, where she had spent years chasing validation, love, belonging. Where she’d been invisible in her own skin.

Here, for the first time, she was seen. Not as perfect, not as broken—just her.

A week later, as snow began to melt and crocuses peeked through the garden soil, an envelope arrived.

Which resulted in even more tutoring sessions than before. She could still remember.

It was thick and cream-colored, sealed with deep crimson wax. The Rosethorne crest was carved on one corner, but the insignia on the back—the wolf’s head encircled by thorns—belonged to only one man.

Clara froze mid-step when she saw it. “My lady… this is from him.”

Mrs. Vance’s eyes widened. “The Duke of Wolfshire?”

Willa blinked, taking the letter with care. The seal gleamed in the light, catching faintly against her fingertips. “What would a duke want with me?”

“Perhaps it’s an error,” Mrs. Vance said, though her tone betrayed intrigue. “The Duke rarely hosts gatherings, and when he does, he invites only the most influential families.”

Clara leaned closer, excitement bubbling in her voice. “Open it, my lady!”

Willa broke the seal, and the paper released a faint scent of cedar and smoke.

To Lady Vina Rosethorne,

You are cordially invited to attend the Winter Ball at Wolfshire Keep, to be held two weeks hence.

Your presence is personally requested.

— Duke Peter Jacob Wolfshire

The room fell silent.

Clara gasped. “Personally requested? That’s unheard of.”

Mrs. Vance was already theorizing aloud. “It could be politics. Perhaps your father’s influence—”

“My father can barely stand to hear my name,” Willa cut in softly. “It isn’t him.”

Clara frowned. “Then… what could he want?”

Willa turned the invitation in her hands, tracing the ink with her thumb. The seal’s wolf’s head seemed almost to stare back at her.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I suppose we’ll find out.”

That night, when Aleric was asleep and the candles had burned low, Willa sat by the fire, the letter beside her on the table.

In her past life, invitations like this belonged to another world—a world of power, beauty, and danger.

Now, it was part of hers.

“Two weeks,” she murmured, glancing toward the darkened window. “I guess it’s time to remember how to dance.”

Clara’s voice drifted from the doorway, warm with pride.

“Then we’d best start tomorrow, my lady. We have work to do.”

And for the first time, Willa smiled not out of politeness or pretense—but because something in her chest stirred, faint and alive.

Anticipation.

Hope.

Maybe even destiny.