The lace tore before I even realized I’d done it.

A jagged line down the bodice — silk, ruined, perfect. Lina gasped behind me, clutching her pearls like a prayer might fix it.

“I’ll get the seamstress,” she stammered.

“Don’t,” I said. My voice didn’t even sound like mine. “Just leave it.”

She hesitated — torn between duty and fear — then scurried out.

I stared at my reflection. Pale skin, painted lips, eyes that didn’t belong to the girl inside. My hair was ...