Chapter Twenty-Nine A Flower in Bloom

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A Flower in Bloom

DAWN PAINTS THE sky in soft pastel hues as the sun opens up like a flower on the horizon. The river sparkles in the golden light, its surface glistening as though speckled with gemstones. I take a deep breath, allowing the crisp morning air to envelop me as I walk the city streets.

The buildings around me are quiet, laced with sleep, blissfully unaware of the horrors of the night just past. I wonder how long their innocence will remain.

My legs are tired, but I don't mind. I snuck away from the hospital, leaving my carriage behind. I'm not ready to go back to the estate. Not yet. I need to relish this sense of freedom just a little longer before I go back to being Lady Adley.

The world can wait for just a moment more.

They all agreed to help me—Nuriel, Madame, Renée . . . Lirone. After everything I've done, their trust in me is more than I deserve. I never thought they could forgive me. But they all promised to keep my secret.

I pray that the plan will work. That the press will stay in the dark long enough. That Nuriel's connections in the police will collaborate. That the panic won't spread. But even if all goes perfectly, there are still a few key points missing. For one, I need to figure out how to sneak away unnoticed from the opera premiere.

We're close; I can sense it. With everyone's help, it no longer feels like an impossible task.

But the risk is real. I need to be careful. Keeping the perfect mask for another week, convincing Dahlia I'm still working on stealing the Talent—it won't be easy. Even now, as I cross the massive bridge, I know I'm being followed. A shadow has loomed in the dark since the moment I left the hospital.

In truth, I'm not sure why no henchman has stopped me until now. It's that same level of confidence that baffled me when Dahlia shared information in front of Anaella back during our carriage ride—a complete and total disregard for any danger. Is it because she is so used to having the upper hand that she can't imagine anyone would possibly dare defy her? Maybe she simply thinks this is all a part of me getting back in the vicomte's good graces. Or perhaps . . . after everything that happened tonight, she just expects me to be an emotional wreck. Visiting Lirone or walking on my own might not concern her at all since she believes she has me right where she wants me.

Whatever the reason, I'm certain that if Dahlia suspected my motives I wouldn't be walking free right now.

I turn toward the maze of streets hiding my old home, my new sense of conviction burning within me. Dahlia intended her actions to shock me and force me to take action—and they have. Just not the actions she's hoping for.

I let my feet lead me down the familiar route. I haven't been in these alleys since I left home months ago. Somehow, the gray stones and crumbling rooftops don't look as dreary as I remember. There is something comforting about them, as though each crack is a proof of life. My life . My identity. I was never quite sure of what it was before.

The faded sign above our shop is tilted as if threatening to fall. My heart aches at the sight of it. I've missed my home. I've missed feeling like myself. I want to jump for joy, dash forward, and throw open the door. I can almost hear Anaella's laughter and the sound of Father's sewing machine whirring softly.

But Father's sewing machine has been silent for far too long. And my sister isn't waiting for me inside.

There is no home in this place. Not without them.

I press Father's torn coat closer to my heart, my hand stiff as I turn the handle. The door is unlocked and creaks in complaint when I push it open. I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness inside. Everything is just as I remember: the tall shelves, the wooden counter, the cash register . . . It's as if no time has passed. Yet the place is cleaner than when I left it.

Almost too clean.

I trail my finger over the counter. Not a single speck of dust. This must be the work of the nurse Dahlia hired. Nurse Dupont must have left when my sister decided to go to the ball; after all, her services were no longer needed. Though after tonight, I'm certain Anaella will need medical attention.

I close my eyes, fighting to keep myself collected. I cannot allow myself to think of what Anaella is going through right now. The thought of her stuck in some cellar, confused, hurt, and alone is too much to bear.

The room spins around me. I stumble toward the sink and grab a glass from a nearby shelf. Opening the tap, I allow the water to flow for a few seconds to get most of the murkiness out. But the water is clear—not even a hint of grayness. How did Dahlia get this done?

The lengths she's gone to are astonishing. She has kept her end of the deal completely, even beyond my wildest expectations. The doctor, the nurse, the house, the food, the dresses . . . She was going to make my sister into a famous designer. She is indeed a woman of her word.

A ruthless, calculated, sensual beast.

She might be honest, but her truth is only partial, her promises intoxicating until they turn to poison .

I take a long sip of water and the emptiness of the store presses in around me. I'm so tired my eyelids are closing on their own.

With a sigh, I drag my feet toward the back room. Perhaps I can lie down for a few minutes, pretend I'm just a kid going to sleep without a care in the world. The two beds are made, new sheets covering the old mattresses. I sit down on the edge of my bed, finally letting Father's coat and my purse drop down beside me.

I've been grabbing onto them like a lifeline all night long, feeling the weight of Father's book, digging my fingers into the velvety coat as if it could soothe my soul with its softness. These are the only things I have left of him, and now the coat is ripped and the book is sitting in a purse covered in blood.

The pressure on my chest grows, exhaustion taking hold in my bones. I'm about to close my eyes to rest when my gaze falls on the desk by the wall. My sister's sketches are stacked in neat piles to one side, while a new watercolor set and brushes sit right in the middle. The bright shades are so vibrant, they almost manage to bring a smile to my lips. I can imagine Anaella's delighted laughter, the spark of joy in her eyes when she saw them. If only I'd been here to give them to her myself.

There are new sketches at the top of the pile: fantastic designs of feminine, pink, frilly skirts, coral corsets, silk layers, sheer sleeves. Her gowns are like an array of radiant jewels and blooming flowers, each one more captivating than the last. Every color stroke reflects my sister's soul, her art. I flip through the pages, tracing the delicate lines and scribbled notes. I'm turning over another page when I see it.

It's the same design Anaella was working on the day I was captured by Dahlia. The gown is even more stunning than I remembered—the velvet petals, the sparkling beads, the sweeping skirt. She has altered the color scheme, finally adjusting the design to her original vision. Shades of ivory and champagne transform the dress from a colorful garden into a sea of lilies, giving the gown a delicate feeling. Yet the textures add richness to it, something passionate. No, these aren't innocent lilies. These are the petals of white roses.

Compared to it, the extravagant gown I'm wearing seems inadequate. Anaella's design showcases the kind of dress that demands recognition. It's a dress that deserves to be seen on stage.

I gasp, almost dropping the entire stack of sketches.

This dress is the embodiment of Nova—The Enchantress. Her hunger for life. Her beauty. Her redemption. This is the dress our director has been waiting for.

And it might also be a solution to one of my problems. This dress might be the key to sneaking away unnoticed after the premiere.

The wheels in my brain start turning, banishing the webs of sleep. It's an elegant plan. Simple, yet insane. I don't even know if it's possible, if I'm skilled enough. Maybe I'm just delusional. And it would require cooperation from someone who has no interest in helping me. Not unless I offer something undeniable in return . . .

But in my mind I can already see it working, and I know I have to try.

I rush to the front of the store and stand on my tiptoes to reach a leftover bolt of muslin. The rough fabric is dusty and a bit damp, but just holding it in my hands makes my heart quicken with excitement.

Using the money I have access to as Lady Adley to buy proper materials will be easy, and there is a sewing machine back at the estate that I'm certain I can move into my room. The servants will find it curious, but ladies have taken up stranger hobbies than sewing. I can make Dahlia believe that this is all a part of my plan to get closer again to Nuriel—she'll be reassured if I seem to be moving forward with a scheme. One week is not a lot of time to sew a dress, especially with rehearsals; even Father would have struggled with such a deadline. But if I work through the nights, I just might be able to get it done.

I spread the fabric on the floor and reach up to the counter where we store our chalk. But something is still missing .

My body is shaking as I head to the back room and pick up the bloodied purse. But this time, the tremors are not purely of fear. A few crimson spots have sneaked their way through the fabric and stained the pages, but other than that, Father's book lies perfectly in my hands, finally back in its rightful home. The patterns for my sister's new design will not be in it, but Father's knowledge is. His essence, his tutelage, his guidance.

I place it on the floor right next to the waiting fabric and reach again for the chalk. My fingers tingle in anticipation as I pick it up, energy pumping through my veins.

Only this time it's not with magic.

I'm not sure how time can both move at a frightening speed and slowly stretch out forever, all at once. Yet somehow all the rehearsals and sleepless nights of finalizing the plan and sewing are racing past in such a blur that it makes me breathless. While, at the same time, each day of listening to false rumors and sensing Dahlia's men watching from the shadows passes with agonizing slowness.

Over the last week there hasn't been a single person in the city who hasn't heard some form of gossip about what happened at the masquerade ball and the reason officers started roaming the streets—a violent gang on the loose, a mysterious mob-lord gone into hiding, even tales of an entire network of child slaves being exposed. At least the sheer absurdity of the rumors means they are far from the truth, which serves not only to keep Dahlia appeased, but to keep my plans on track.

Still, by the end of the week every cell in my body is taut with tension.

The opera house is a whirlwind of movement. The excitement and pressure of opening night is so high it's like a physical wave of energy pumping through the halls. The busy stage workers, the stretching ballerinas, the stern orchestra members, the anxious singers warming up with vocal acrobatics—I've never seen or heard such commotion, not even before the gala.

But the adrenaline isn't only because of the upcoming performance. The police are in the halls, desperate both to secure the house from a possible grand theft and to keep their real mission a secret from the public. To me, though, they are a reminder that time is running out, that after tonight everything is going to change.

There are so many things that can go wrong. One misstep and everything will fall apart, resulting in scenarios too horrible to imagine.

I stare at the array of chocolates and flowers strewn upon my vanity, my stomach tense. The ruby pulses with anticipation. I draw in a long, deep breath, closing my palm over Father's ring. All I can do is go forward with the plan. Which means that for the next few hours, my focus needs to be on the stage.

"Almost done, my lady." A timid maid fixes my hair with yet another pin, averting her gaze when our eyes meet in the large mirror of my dressing room.

I haven't seen Pauline since the ball, and my household has been rippling with gossip, since none of the servants has been brave enough to broach the subject with me directly.

Her absence feels strange. She was the one constant in this new life—the person I saw every morning and night. Something in me misses the ease of her presence, the familiarity and comfort of it. A part of me even longs to hear her wishing me luck, as she always did before each rehearsal or performance.

But then I remember the coldness with which she held that gun. The way she smiled at the pain she inflicted.

I'm not sure why Dahlia decided to keep her away from me. Perhaps she needs her to play some other role in her operation. Or maybe . . . just maybe, she knows it would be too painful for me. Perhaps she still cares.

I'm almost ashamed that I want the second option to be true.

"Are you ready for your costume, my lady?" the maid asks .

My body tenses.

I haven't told anyone in the production about my gown; the surprise of it is key to my plan's success. They all expect me to wear Josephine's latest, forgettable design. After the director rejected, vociferously, her "evil queen" costume, he and Josephine reluctantly settled on a rounded shoulder line, tulle-layered gown in shades of brown that makes me look like a chocolate cupcake. It's as though with each new attempt the dresses became worse.

If I walked out on stage in that gown, no one would remember it by the time the curtains fall. Leaving an imprint on the minds of the audience is crucial.

The maid reaches for the crisp white apparel box on the table, and my heart quickens. I switched the gown inside when I arrived and stuffed the horrid brown dress behind the couch. But was that a mistake? What if my own dress is even worse? I only managed to sew on the last of the beadings late last night, and I was so tired, I'm certain it came out sloppy. Besides, some of my stitches are too tight. Father would have made me redo them.

Panic seizes me and I jump out of my seat, pushing the lid of the box down before she can open it. "I think we should wait a bit longer. I need another vocal warm-up!"

"But my lady, there's not much time." She fidgets. "Perhaps you can warm up again after I finish dressing you."

"But—"

"There's no reason to be nervous, my lady. This is a big night for you, but you have nothing to fear with such a bright Talent."

But that's just it. I don't have a Talent. Why did I think I could make such a complicated gown without one?

My heart beats frantically as the maid opens the box, her eyes widening, her lips parting. She hates it. This plan will never work.

"It's beautiful, my lady," she whispers.

Beautiful .

And for just a moment I'm floating, all worries and nerves banished by that wonderful word. Tears spring to my eyes and I blink them away. Could it be real? Or am I dreaming? But the reverent way in which the maid touches the fabric is undeniable. I've done it. Even with all its faults, I truly have created something beautiful.

The maid pulls the dress out of the box, allowing the sweeping skirt to drape over the table. I can't deny the pinch of pride that takes hold of me as light shatters over the sparkling beads. I've brought my sister's vision to life.

All without a Talent.

Anaella was right all along . . . If only she could see it for herself.

The maid helps me out of my robes and into the gown. Unlike all of Josephine's dresses, the bodice fits me perfectly without squeezing the air out of my lungs. The length of the skirt touches the ground without me fearing I'll step on it and fall. Father taught me well.

And as I stare at myself in the mirror, my fears are gone.

It's the perfect dress for my plan.

I trace my fingers over the velvety petals as I spin around. The excess fabric fans out, making it look like a flower mid bloom.

The maid claps in delight. "You look like an Enchantress. Miss Garnier truly outdid herself!"

The fall back to reality is harsh, cruel. Josephine doesn't deserve the credit for this.

I open my mouth to say as much when a knock comes at the door. "Maestro Mette is calling everyone to the stage," a man dressed all in black says.

I force myself to breathe as I follow him out of the room. The reactions of the maid instilled confidence in me, but I still need to see the reaction of one specific person. Only then will I know if my plan can actually work.

José's warm voice reaches me before he appears around the corner, openly vocalizing outside his dressing room. He stops mid phrase .

"Ma chérie!" he cries dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "You are like a goddess among mortals!"

"Don't exaggerate!" I chuckle, but inside my heart soars.

"What happened to the . . . cupcake extravaganza ?" He whispers the last two words as if speaking them might somehow make the dress reappear.

"Better not to mention it."

"Well, in that case," he interlaces his arm with mine, "let's just call it a miracle!"

It feels so natural. Walking toward the stage. Joking around. Humming softly to make sure my voice stays warm. Enjoying the pulse of magic from my ruby. As I let out a laugh and allow José to lead me down the corridor, it feels as though none of this will ever change. Yet the sight of the policeman by the stage is enough to shatter that dream.

José eyes the man suspiciously before pulling the heavy curtain to the stage wings, gesturing like a proper gentleman for me to walk ahead of him.

I straighten my back, holding my head high as I pass the policeman and step onto the stage. Over the last few days it has been transformed completely—the wide black floors now rise and fall with small slopes to mimic the opening scene of the battlefield, while the background features a stunningly accurate representation of a burning land. I watched in awe at the switch of sets through our final run-throughs, each piece of scenery more stunning than the last. Yet seeing it now in front of me, knowing that soon the massive red curtains will rise and reveal it to the awaiting audience, is almost unreal.

My astonishment is cut short by a wave of welcoming gasps.

"Oh my!" Lady Arnould calls.

But it is the look of shock and jealousy that spreads on Véronique's face that I was counting on. The seething hate in her eyes makes me want to jump with joy.

She will be only too happy to hear what I have to say after this .

" What is this?" A shout breaks the moment.

Josephine Garnier stands by the director's side, a vein on her forehead bulging with fury as she takes in my dress. After discovering the truth about her part in Dahlia's operation, I like her even less than before. But I can't show any sign of that. Not yet, anyway.

"This is not the garment I created for you! What is the meaning of this?"

I ignore Josephine's shrieking as I stare right at our stage director. It's him I need to impress, and given the fact he hasn't screamed at me yet, I know I've succeeded. He puts a hand on Josephine's shoulder, hushing her.

"A blooming flower." His lips stretch into a look that I can only interpret as a smile, even though it looks rather painful. "Magnifique!"

Josephine fumes, resting angry fists on her waist. "Mr. Agard, you can't possibly—"

"You see? You loud, impossible woman!" He throws the words at Josephine. "This is art !"

Josephine's face contorts as though he's just slapped her. And I cannot deny the sweet satisfaction that spreads within me as she storms out. No one rushes after her this time.

The stage director steps forward, taking my hand. "You are truly the embodiment of The Enchantress." His eyes travel up and down my body. "Who created this masterpiece?"

My heart hums as if wanting to burst into song, proclaiming the dress as my own. But I need to keep up my role for one more night. I cannot confess to being the daughter of a great modiste. What I can do is bring honor back to Father's name.

"It was created by the House of Finley," I say, my voice brimming with pride.

"Finley?" The director squeezes his brow. "I will have to meet the artist."

"Indeed." Maestro Mette joins in, already wearing his sleek tailcoat, ready to take the conductor's podium. "But as much as we'd like to marvel over the costume change, we don't have the time. I'm sure you've all noticed that we have some guests with us backstage tonight." The group grows silent as the cast throws sideway glances at the waiting policemen. "Rest assured, there's nothing you need to concern yourself with. The police are here only as a precautionary measure. The performance will go as planned, uninterrupted."

I hear a scoff from behind me. Clearly rumors have spread far too wide for everyone to accept this fictive explanation.

"The doors will open soon for the audience," the Maestro continues. "I want to take a moment to thank you all for your hard work. I'm very proud to stand here with you today and open a new season for Le Nouvel Opéra de Lutèce. I trust this production will be a huge success. So have fun, and let your Talents shine."

"Toi toi toi!" José calls, and soon the entire cast echoes him.

"Now, go! We have only a few minutes." Maestro Mette pats the stage director's shoulder as they walk away toward the orchestra pit.

"I don't buy a word of that," one of the ballerinas says. "I heard they were considering canceling the performances. They say there's a gang on the loose."

" I heard something happened at the masquerade ball," her friend answers. "My uncle locked himself inside the house all week. I think . . ." She drops her voice to a whisper. "They won't tell me anything, but I think his Talent was stolen ."

The ballerina's eyes grow round.

"Nonsense." Véronique barges in. "If that were true, the Lenoir family would be the first to know, and they'd never have brought their Talents out in public. Yet I know for a fact that they are here with a full display, as is proper for such an event."

I almost smile. They're all acting exactly as Nuriel said they would. The whispers, the police, his family, all trying to create an air of assurance. To stop the chaos from erupting. It won't last—not after what we have planned for tonight. But for now, all I need is a few more hours .

I position myself close to Véronique. "Do you have a theory of your own?"

Her exasperated sigh is the exact response I hoped for.

"Not one I'd share with you." She turns her back to me, striding backstage.

I hasten to follow her. I don't have much time before the performance starts. "Can we talk for a minute?"

She pauses, lifting an eyebrow. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Don't be so sour, Véronique." José grabs both her shoulders from behind, making her jump. "Just because the opera is overrun by police and Cleodora is about to steal what is ridiculously rumored to be our one and only show, doesn't mean you can't try to bury the hatchet." He winks at me, chuckling at his own joke.

"Actually," I say, "can I talk to both of you? Privately?"

The smile fades from José's face as they both stare at me, but they don't argue. I lead them to the closest free room, earning a glance from yet another policeman before shutting the door behind us.

"I have something to ask you both," I say, taking in the empty violin cases around us. This area is clearly assigned to the orchestra members.

"And why would I do anything for you?" Véronique flips her hair back.

I have to force down my anger. I'm counting on her hatred for me tonight. "Because it will give you what you want—the upper hand."

She narrows her eyes silently, allowing me to talk.

"After the show tonight, I have some . . . family business to attend to."

"That's not suspicious at all," Véronique muses. "Running from the police, are we?"

"Not funny, Véronique." José presses his lips tight.

I ignore them both. "I'll need to leave discreetly, and I cannot afford to have the press or any fans following me."

Véronique snorts. "That will be impossible after they see you on that stage."

"Which is why I need help from both of you. "

"What can we do?" José asks.

I take a deep breath. "I need Véronique to wear my dress after the performance. You'll pretend to be me, and together, as the two stars of the show, you'll sneak into a carriage and lead the press away."

"So you think I'll agree to this just for the chance to wear that gown?" She lets out a laugh. "You're delusional."

"No." I shake my head. This is it. The words that will change everything, that will truly set the plan in motion. "You'll help me, because if you do, I'm willing to give you the one thing you want most."

"Cleodora?" José takes a step toward me.

"I will quit the opera house. The role of The Enchantress and any that follow will be yours."

José gasps, but Véronique only smiles. "You will simply give it all up? What could possibly be so important to you?"

"Wouldn't you love to know?" I force a smile back at her, knowing the mystery will only draw her in further. If only her plan with the coachman had worked, she'd already have her answers. But instead, the coachman suffered the consequences of her meddling. "None of that matters. My offer stands—lead the press away so I can sneak out. And I'll quit."

"Cleodora, you can't!" José grabs my hand. "What is this really about? Are you in danger?"

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" Véronique cares nothing for my safety. Only for her role.

"When the press finally catches up to you, make the announcement that you will be singing the lead as Nova in all future performances. With you in the dress and me nowhere to be found, not even Maestro Mette could change the published narrative."

A spark ignites in her eyes as she twirls a strand of hair. "Deal," she says before heading out the door without a second glance.

It's done.

In the background, I can hear waves of sound as the audience fills the hall, excited chatter ringing above the tuning orchestra. The ruby on my finger reacts at once, the magic so strong it's almost painful, demanding that I sing.

This will be the last time I listen to its pull.

"Cleodora . . ." José urges. "You can still stop this. Your Talent is too great—"

"My Talent isn't worth the sacrifices I've made for it," I say, looking straight into his kind eyes. "I promise it will all be clear to you soon, but please trust me. You've been a true friend, José. And I am proud to share the stage with you one last time."

"I do trust you," he says, kissing the back of my hand. "And if this shall be your last performance, we'll make sure it will be remembered for the ages."

A call comes from outside the room. "Five minutes to curtain!"

"Thank you," I say.

"Come on." José pushes his shoulders back, bracing himself. "Time for Lutèce's Nightingale to sing."