Page 57

Laced in Velvet and Fire

T he carriage wheels hummed steadily over the icy path, a muffled rhythm beneath the layers of packed snow.

Frost clung to the windows, spiderwebbing across the glass in delicate, crystalline patterns that glittered with each shift of sunlight.

I leaned closer to the window, my breath fogging a small circle as I gazed out at the world beyond.

Mistholm came into view just as the carriage crested the last ridge of the winding road. The city unfurled like a painting—quaint and elegant, wrapped in winter’s quiet grace. The Gaspeite Sea stretched out behind it, vast and silver-blue, catching the low sun in shimmering ripples.

Tall sailboats bobbed gently in the harbor, their white sails furled and coated in a fine layer of frost. The air was sharp, clean, and carried the faint scent of salt and snow.

“Gods, it’s beautiful,” Lydia murmured beside me, tugging her mittens tighter as she peered over my shoulder.

“It’s like something from a storybook,” Bethany added from across the seat, her nose practically pressed to the glass.

The cobblestone streets wound gently between rows of shops, each storefront dressed in winter garlands and twinkling enchanted lanterns. Soft golden lights gleamed in windows displaying everything from jewel-toned pastries to velvet-lined capes and embroidered gloves.

Steam curled from the chimneys of nearby bakeries, carrying the mouthwatering scent of cinnamon and butter through the air.

Our carriage came to a smooth stop near the city square, and we stepped out into the wintry brilliance. My boots crunched softly over a layer of snow-dusted stone, and the sun caught the flakes in my hair, glistening among my ebony strands.

“We’re officially on a mission,” Bethany declared, looping her arm through mine. “We’re not leaving until each of us finds a dress that makes jaws drop.”

Lydia smiled softly, her breath fogging in the air. “No sequins. I draw the line at sequins.”

We laughed, the sound rising like bells into the crisp morning.

The first boutique we entered was a charming little shop nestled on the corner, its windows frosted around the edges with the front door painted a glossy midnight blue. Inside, warmth and color bloomed around us—racks of silk, satin, velvet, and lace in every hue imaginable.

A spell of soft music played from somewhere unseen, weaving between mannequins draped in flowing gowns and capes.

The shopkeeper, a petite woman with silvery hair swept into a twist and emerald eyes full of spark, greeted us with a knowing smile.

“You’re here for the Ball,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve come to the right place.”

Bethany made a beeline for a row of deep jewel-toned gowns, her fingers dancing over fabrics as if she were already imagining the twirl of a skirt under lantern light.

Lydia gravitated toward more structured silhouettes—elegant and understated, with subtle embroidery that caught the light just so. I drifted between them, letting my hands glide across silks and satins, drawn to soft textures and deeper colors.

Bethany emerged first, spinning in a dress of rich forest green that hugged her waist and flared dramatically at the hips. The bodice shimmered with delicate gold threading, and her copper hair glowed against the dark fabric. She struck a pose in the mirror, her grin mischievous.

“Tell me I don’t look like a walking temptation,” she teased.

“You look radiant,” Lydia said honestly, adjusting the shoulder of Bethany’s dress.

Lydia’s own choice came next—a gown in midnight blue, simple in cut but embroidered with tiny constellations along the hem and sleeves.

It caught the light with every movement, as if starlight was woven into fabric. She looked like a dream—the embodiment of quiet wonder.

When I finally stepped from behind the velvet curtain, the world seemed to still for a moment.

The dress I’d chosen was a deep wine red, sleeveless with a subtle sweetheart neckline and sheer embroidered panels that traced along the collarbone and dipped into a low back. The fabric flowed like liquid shadow, clinging and draping in all the right places. It felt like wearing confidence.

Bethany let out a low whistle. “Oh, you are going to destroy lives.”

Lydia’s smile was gentle but full of pride. “Samael is going to forget how to breathe.”

I flushed, smoothing my hands over the skirt. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s the dress,” Bethany corrected.

And I believed her.

For a while, we stayed in that cozy little shop, bathed in warm golden light and laughter, twirling in mirrors, debating shoes, cloaks, and earrings. Outside, Mistholm sparkled under the pale winter sun, and for the first time in a while, things felt light again. Hopeful.

The Ball was still a day away, but already, I could feel it approaching—like the tide creeping up the shore.

We left the shop with our purchases wrapped carefully in tissue paper; the dresses safely tucked away in elegant boxes tied with satin ribbons. The weight of them felt like promise in my arms as we stepped back into the winter air.

"I'm famished," Bethany announced, tugging her scarf higher against the cold. "We need something decadent and warm before we do anything else."

Lydia consulted a small guidebook she'd brought along. "There's a café just around the corner that's supposed to be famous for their hot chocolate. Apparently, they enchant it to taste like your favorite childhood memory."

"That sounds perfect," I said, already imagining the warmth of a mug between my palms.

The café was nestled between a bookshop and an apothecary, its windows steamed over from the heat within.

Bells tinkled softly as we pushed open the door, and the scent of chocolate, cinnamon, and warm pastry enveloped us immediately.

The space was cozy—all worn leather seats and polished wooden tables. Shelves of mismatched teacups lined the walls while enchanted candles floated near the ceiling—their flames shifting between gold and soft blue.

We settled at a table near the fireplace, shedding our cloaks and gloves. A server with a kind smile and a flour-dusted apron approached, her notebook hovering beside her as she greeted us.

"Three memory chocolates, please," Bethany ordered for us all, "and whatever pastry you recommend."

While we waited, I found myself gazing around the café, taking in the other patrons—mostly locals, it seemed. Though, there were a few who looked like travelers or students from other academies. The warmth of the place was seeping into my bones, making me feel languid and content.

When our drinks arrived, they came in delicate porcelain cups, each one swirling with a distinct color—mine a deep burgundy with threads of gold, Lydia's a serene blue-violet, and Bethany's a vibrant coral.

Steam rose from them in curling patterns that seemed almost deliberate, as if spelling out messages before dissipating.

I lifted the cup to my lips, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a careful sip. The flavor bloomed instantly—chocolate, yes, but also the specific taste of the blackberry tarts my mother used to make in summer, served still warm from the oven with a dollop of fresh cream.

The memory was so vivid I could almost feel the sun on my face and hear my mother's laughter as she shooed me away from stealing a second helping before dinner.

"Oh," I breathed, my eyes closing involuntarily.

"It's remarkable, isn't it?" Lydia's voice was soft, her own eyes a little misty. "Mine tastes like the cider my grandfather would make every autumn. I'd forgotten until just now."

Bethany cradled her cup in both hands, watching the coral-colored steam curl upward like a living thing. She didn’t sip right away. Her eyes followed the swirls as they spun in gentle spirals, her expression unreadable.

When she finally took a sip, her shoulders dropped slightly, and a wistful smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“It’s peach cobbler,” she said quietly. “With ginger and vanilla cream. My mum used to make it in the summer—only once a year, on the night the fireflies would hatch.”

She paused, her thumb running along the rim of the cup. Her voice was lighter when she spoke again, but there was something beneath it, something delicate and bruised.

“She’d lay out a quilt on the grass behind our cottage, and we’d eat the cobbler warm, watching the fireflies rise like stars being born. It was one of the only times my father would stay home and not work through dinner.”

She laughed softly, the sound thin around the edges.

“One year, when I was seven, I stayed up too late chasing them. Got sick the next day. Fever dreams, hallucinations—the works. She sat up with me the whole night. Held my hand, even when I was shaking so bad I couldn’t speak.”

Another pause. Her gaze lowered into the cup.

“She died the next winter.”

The table fell into silence—not awkward, not heavy, but reverent. A shared breath held between friends. Lydia reached across the table, gently resting her hand over Bethany’s without a word. I leaned just a little closer, offering warmth in proximity.

Bethany blinked quickly and gave a shaky smile.

“It’s a good memory,” she said, her voice steadier now. “It’s just… complicated. I think some of the best ones are.”

The door to the café chimed then, the sound crisp and bright in the quiet, and a familiar voice broke the spell.

“Well, if it isn’t the most fashionable coven in Mistholm.”

We looked up as Leander strode in, his curls dusted with snow and cheeks flushed from the cold. He wore his usual patchwork scarf and carried a crooked grin that seemed entirely immune to winter.

“I knew I’d find you in here,” he said, pulling up a chair without asking. “The entire district smells like chocolate and poor financial decisions.”

“We haven’t made any yet,” Bethany replied dryly, “but I’m sure you’re here to fix that.”

“Naturally.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice like a man delivering state secrets.