Page 9 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Five

ELIZABETH

T he afternoon sun painted the chamber in gold, its warmth spilling through the tall windows and casting long, shifting shadows that danced across the walls. Tapestries lined the room, intricate depictions of a fiery phoenix rising from the ashes—an omen or a cruel jest?

For a moment, I lay still, allowing the sun’s gentle heat to kiss my cheek, a fleeting comfort before the weight of the evening ahead soured the sweetness outside my window.

As I rose, my toes curled into the thick rugs, their plush weave a poor consolation for the cold settling deep in my chest.

Today was not an ordinary day.

It was the night of my father’s announcement.

The first public declaration of my betrothal to Lord Winston.

This should have been a joyous occasion, an event worthy of celebration. Had my intended been anyone but a tyrant. Instead, it felt like a sentence, one inked in blood long before I could protest.

I moved toward the window, my fingers grazing the cool glass. From below, the scent of roses drifted in—lush, untamed, free—a painful contrast to the gilded prison closing around me.

The reflection staring back at me was not my own.

It was the face of a girl I no longer recognized—pale, wistful, framed by wheat-gold hair and sky-blue eyes that once held dreams. Now, they held only resignation.

“Lady Elizabeth, please,” Mary’s gentle voice pulled me back from the edge of my thoughts.

She stood at my bedside, fussing over the gown laid across the silk sheets—a Robe à la Francaise, exquisite in its craftsmanship. The delicate brocade shimmered in the sunlight, floral embroidery twining like ivy over satin and silk—a gown fit for a queen.

And yet, as I stared at it, all I saw was armor.

Each stitch, each delicate fold, a chain in the shackles I was to wear.

“Mary, must we?” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath.

She stilled.

But Mary understood.

Mary always did.

Mary was more than just my maid.

She was my closest confidante. My best friend. In many ways, she was the sister I never had.

We had grown up within the same walls, breathed the same air, and lived parallel lives divided only by status.

Though she served me in name, her loyalty was never born of duty—it was something deeper, unspoken yet steadfast. Mary knew me in ways no one else did.

She saw my fears before I spoke them and understood my hopes when I dared not voice them.

And now, she was the only tether keeping me from drowning.

“Stay strong, Lady Elizabeth,” she murmured, her hands deft as she guided me into the gown.

The bodice was drawn tight, each pull of the laces a slow, painstaking theft of my breath. The fabric molded to my frame like a second skin, and yet it felt nothing like my own. With every tug, I felt the constriction of my fate wrapping around my ribs like iron bands.

We moved on to the stomacher—the ornamental panel meant to complete the illusion. A masterpiece of embroidery, pearls, and gemstones, each detail fastidiously crafted, each gleaming facet a cruel mockery of the facade I was expected to present to the world.

Mary pinned it carefully, ensuring every embellishment caught the light. The gown shone brilliantly.

I did not.

“Look at you,” she whispered, and despite the sorrow in her eyes, there was pride in her voice. “Fitting of a lady about to change the world.”

If only that change were mine to command.

The gown. The room. This house—a gilded cage built to contain me.

I wanted to scream. To tear it all away, to strip myself bare and run until the memory of Lord Winston’s grotesque sneer faded into nothingness.

But I did not.

I stood—silent. Still. A statue scored by years of obedience, sculpted by fear.

The rebellion in my heart clawed at the walls of my ribcage, but it did not reach my lips.

“Thank you, Mary,” I murmured, though the words felt distant, hollow.

My reflection stared back in the mirror—a perfect portrait of aristocratic grace, poised and untouchable. A mask so finely crafted that, for a fleeting moment, I almost believed it.

Almost.

The rustle of silk and the whisper of linen filled the chamber as Mary hoisted the wide skirts of my gown, fluffing the layers of petticoats beneath.

The panniers at my hips extended the fabric outward in exaggerated opulence, their rigid whalebone structure dictating my movements, trapping me in a frame of false grandeur.

I was meant to glide. To move like a vision of elegance, to be admired and envied.

Instead, I felt enslaved.

I watched the shadow of my reflection shift against the polished glass—a ghostly silhouette of excess and expectation shaped by fashion’s cruel hand.

“Steady now,” Mary soothed, her fingers deftly arranging the fabric, ensuring the voluminous shape remained flawless. The layers of starched petticoats whispered against one another, a rustling symphony of control, a counterpoint to the rising drumbeat of my heart.

They gave my form exaggerated fullness—a testament to wealth, to status.

To a life that was not my own.

“Your hair next,” Mary announced, guiding me to the dressing table where silver brushes and powder pots lay in perfect, unerring order.

With ease she twisted and pinned my wheat-blond locks into an intricate updo. My hair, once free and loose in the gardens of my youth, was now sculpted into an elaborate crown, dusted with fine white powder until it resembled a confection, delicate and untouchable.

Fit for a queen.

Or a prisoner.

I sighed as Mary threaded ribbons through my curls, their soft hues blending seamlessly with the fabric of my gown.

Feathers were nestled into the arrangement, bobbing with every subtle tilt of my head.

Finally, she placed a lace cap—as delicate as a spider’s web—atop the intricate construction, its edges kissing my forehead like a ghost of a blessing.

My father had insisted on the final embellishments—tiny pearls and glinting jewels woven throughout the elaborate updo. A nod to the opulence demanded for tonight’s charade. A final reminder that I was to be seen, admired, and owned.

“Almost done,” Mary whispered, returning to assess her work.

Our eyes met in the mirror, and for a moment, words were unnecessary. She knew what this night meant. She knew what it would take from me.

And yet, she had adorned me for the occasion as though dressing a sister for her wedding day—with tenderness and quiet sorrow.

“Thank you,” I said, though the words rang hollow. “It’s perfect.”

Mary’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile as her hands came to rest gently on my shoulders. “You look beautiful, Lady Elizabeth. Truly.”

She spoke the words like a blessing.

Beauty might soften the edges of the night ahead.

I swallowed, my fingers ghosting over the smooth fabric of my gown. “Beauty can be a curse.”

My reflection stared back—pristine, untouchable, a vision sculpted to perfection.

This was my armor. My powdered curls, my jeweled cage. A gown wide enough to conceal my trembling knees.

But beneath it all, the spirit that longed to soar stirred, restless and yearning.

Tonight, I would wear the mask they had given me.

But one day… I would escape.

Mary fastened the clasp of the pearl necklace around my neck, the cool touch of each smooth orb sending a shiver down my spine.

They rested against my skin, deceptively light yet unbearably heavy.

Each pearl was a perfect sphere of iridescence, a fragment of ocean-born beauty—shining, flawless, and confined.

Much like I was expected to be.

“Your mother’s,” Mary reminded me softly, her fingers lingering on the final pearl as if willing strength into it.

I nodded, my throat tight. The familiar weight of the necklace was a whisper of my mother’s touch, a relic of love long since buried.

Matching earrings dangled from my ears—delicate pearls nestled atop drops of diamond, catching the candlelight.

Their fractured brilliance scattered prisms across the chamber walls.

The bracelet at my wrist, a slender chain of glittering stones, clasped tightly—too tightly. A mocking mirror of my fate.

“Time for your shoes,” Mary murmured, breaking through my reverie.

She held them up, and I swallowed hard.

Silk heels, the color of blushing dawn. Their surfaces were as smooth as still water, untouched, unblemished. The ornate buckles caught the light, sparkling with cruel elegance, while soft bows sat atop each one—innocent adornments for a march to the gallows.

I reached for them slowly, my fingers brushing the silk.

This was it.

Step by step, I was being bound, polished, and offered.

Slipping into the shoes, I felt the shift—not just in height, but in expectation. These were not shoes meant for running through fields or escaping into the woods. They were crafted for poised steps across polished floors, for standing tall when all you wanted to do was crumble.

“Beautiful, Lady Elizabeth. Just beautiful,” Mary murmured, her voice a balm against the chaos within me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, taking a tentative step.

The shoes carried me forward with a refinement that belied the storm beneath my skin.

Each click against the floorboards reminded me of the role I must play and the expected performance.

Tonight, I would move with grace, even if every step led me closer to a future I dreaded with every fiber of my being.

My fingers found the fan, and with a delicate flick of my wrist, I unfolded it—a flourish practiced, perfected, deceiving.

The painted silk spread before me, revealing a pastoral scene of delicate beauty—idyllic, serene, a lie.

The knot of dread coiled tighter in my chest as I traced the soft edges of the painted landscape—a world untouched by duty, expectation, or the cold grip of inevitability.

The lace-edged leaves rustled softly in the still air, whispering secrets against the silence of my chamber.

I set the fan fluttering, each motion rehearsed—a performance crafted to mislead.