Chapter 3 Quiet Defiance

Clara stared at her. "You're going willingly?" Jessie stopped. A slow smile touched her lips. Her father had always told her that stubbornness was not the same thing as courage. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps courage wasn't standing in a bedroom and shouting no until someone finally listened. Perhaps courage was knowing when to stop shouting. When to smile. When to let your enemies believe they had won. Jessie opened the door.

"Of course I'm going willingly." Clara's eyes narrowed. She knew that smile.

"Jessie..."

"Don't worry."

"Whenever you say that, I worry more." Jessie's smile widened.

"Then you know me well." She stepped into the corridor. The manor was already changing around her. Fresh flowers decorated the tables. Servants polished silver until it gleamed. Somewhere below, musicians practiced a melody for the wedding feast. Everyone was preparing for Baron Maddox. 

Everyone believed the wedding would happen. Her father. The servants. The Baron. Perhaps even Clara. Jessie descended the staircase. At the bottom  waited the enormous wooden chest. The lid stood open. Inside lay yards of ivory silk. Crimson embroidery crawled across the bodice like veins. 

Jessie stared at it.

Beautiful. Expensive. Perfect. A cage made of silk was still a cage. She reached down and ran her fingers across the crimson stitching. 

Three days.

Let them dress her. Let them decorate the house. Let them prepare the feast. Let Baron Maddox ride through the gates believing his bride was waiting obediently for him. Jessie looked toward the western corridor. Beyond it lay her father's study. Beyond that, the library. And somewhere within the oldest part of the manor was the locked collection her father had forbidden her from entering since childhood. Books no priest would bless. Books her mother  had once called dangerous. Jessie had always wondered what was inside. Now, for the first time, she wondered if something inside might be useful. She looked down at the wedding gown again.

Three days.

She would find a way out before then. A road. A hidden gate. A forgotten passage. Anything. And if every door in this world had been locked against her, Jessie's fingers tightened around the crimson silk, then perhaps she would simply have to find another.

The dress fit perfectly, and Jessie hated it for that.

She stood on a low wooden platform in the blue receiving room while three women circled her with pins clenched between their lips. Ivory silk clung to her waist before spilling toward the floor in heavy folds. Crimson thread twisted across the bodice in the shape of thorned roses, each bloom stitched so carefully that it seemed almost alive. The sleeves were narrow, the collar was high, and the train was long enough to make running impossible. Jessie suspected that last detail had been intentional.

“Hold still, my lady,” the dressmaker murmured.

Jessie looked down at the woman kneeling beside her hem. “Does it matter?”

The dressmaker glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said the gown was made to my measurements. If it already fits, why are you pinning it?”

The woman gave a strained smile. “Every bride deserves a perfect fit.”

Jessie looked at her reflection in the tall mirror. The girl staring back did not look like her. Her copper hair had been loosely gathered so the dressmaker could assess the neckline, and her skin appeared pale against the ivory fabric. The crimson embroidery framed her ribs like a spreading wound. She looked elegant, obedient, and expensive.

Exactly as Baron Maddox intended.

Clara stood near the window, pretending to organize a tray of ribbons. She had said almost nothing since they entered the room, and Jessie knew why. Her father’s steward stood beside the door.

Mr. Pritchard was a narrow man with a narrow face and the suspicious posture of someone who believed every conversation concealed a crime. He had served Lord Vale for twenty years and appeared to consider loyalty a form of personal suffering.

Jessie met his eyes in the mirror. “Is there a reason you’re watching me dress?”

Pritchard did not blink. “Your father asked me to oversee the fitting.”

“My father usually considers ladies’ clothing beneath his attention.”

“He wishes to ensure everything proceeds smoothly.”

“Meaning he thinks I’ll climb out the window.” The dressmaker’s hands paused. Pritchard’s expression remained carefully blank.

“I cannot speak to Lord Vale’s private thoughts,” he said.

“You repeat them often enough.” Clara disguised a cough behind her hand. Pritchard looked at her, and she immediately lowered her gaze. Jessie smiled. “Careful, Clara. Laughter may be forbidden under the new household rules.”

“My lady,” Pritchard said, “no one wishes to make this more difficult than necessary.”

“Then release me from this marriage.” The room went silent. One of the assistants busied herself with a box of pins while the dressmaker focused intently on the hem. Pritchard’s jaw tightened. “That is not within my authority.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re of no use to me.” Jessie turned on the platform, and the dressmaker nearly stabbed herself.

“Please,” the woman hissed. “You must remain still.”

Jessie faced the mirror again. “Forgive me. I would hate to damage the Baron’s property.”

Jessie endured every adjustment: a pin at the waist, a tug at the sleeve, and a discussion about whether the crimson roses should extend farther down the skirt. She listened carefully, not to the dressmaker, but to the house. Footsteps crossed the corridor outside. Doors opened and closed. Servants carried crates toward the dining hall. Somewhere downstairs, a man barked instructions about wine. The manor had become a hive. Dozens of people moved through its halls, and every one of them had a task related to her captivity. 

It should have made escape easier. More bodies meant more confusion, more open doors, and more opportunities to disappear. Her father, however, had anticipated that. Guards now stood at the main entrance. Another watched the courtyard gate. Jessie had seen two riders patrolling the southern field before breakfast. There would be more at night. She needed to know where they were and when they changed positions.

The dressmaker stepped back. “We’re finished.”

Jessie looked at herself one final time. The woman in the mirror looked ready for a portrait. 

“Take it off.”

“My lady?”

“The dress. Take it off.”

The assistants hurried forward. They loosened the fastenings and carefully lifted the gown away. Jessie stepped from the pool of ivory silk wearing only her shift. Cold air brushed her arms, and she felt more like herself immediately. The dressmaker folded the gown into the chest. 

“The final pressing will be completed tomorrow morning.”