Page 21 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Ariadne could not be more grateful. Revelie’s dresses were the finest in Valenul, and her vantage point in the Society provided unique discourse on current affairs.

“We missed you at the Vertium ball,” Emillie said, running her fingers over a violet fabric with a pattern of indigo flowers. “I believe Ari requires something special for the Season.”

“Oh?” Revelie turned to Ariadne, her glossy, red lips pursed with interest. “Have you caught the eye of a suitor already?”

Despite her distaste for being a part of the Season, the Madame enjoyed the gossip and drama. That she had yet to hear of the priestess’s choice for the Season was unlikely.

“I am the Golden Rose, it would seem.” Ariadne’s cheeks warmed, and when she turned to hide the inevitable rise of color by looking at fabric, she found Azriel watching her with a peculiar expression. His lips parted a bit, and after a sharp inhale, he looked out the window.

Revelie’s eyes glittered with mischief, her smirk revealing the tips of her fangs. “I had heard as much but did not want to take Miss Tare’s word. She is far from a reliable source.”

Indeed Miss Silva Tare, a known rumor mill and heavy drinker, could hardly be considered a trustworthy bearer of news. The Caersan’s last three Seasons without finding a husband gave her plenty of time to spin tales. Despite her sly tongue, Ariadne was forever grateful Silva kept her speculations about her disappearance last winter to herself.

“This time, she was correct!” Emillie held out the violet cloth. “I love this pattern.”

“I have something already in the works with that one,” Revelie said, crooking a finger at her to follow. “Come see if you like it.”

The two disappeared into the back room, the seamstress chalking up her absence from the ball to being too busy and tired from making dresses for the start of the Season. Beside the window, Azriel shifted, those sharp eyes piercing the swinging door they had gone behind.

“She is fine,” Ariadne said, voice low. “There is no back door.”

Azriel frowned. “Why not?”

“Revelie prefers her business to remain honest.” Ariadne brushed her fingertips along a soft, dusty rose-colored fabric. “One door in and out means everyone can see precisely who she works with. No one can claim they saw a rake sneaking into the back alley.”

“Concerned about her reputation?”

“No.” Ariadne shook her head. “She is protecting the legacy she is building by following her dreams.”

“Respectable.”

“Admirable.”

Something heavy slunk into her gut, a weight she knew well yet had difficulty placing its cause. She did indeed admire Revelie’s business and courage for stepping out of the Caersan Society’s web. Listening to Camilla on Vertium gave her a similar feeling. Was it the need to break from conformity or the desire to merely wield the strength needed to live on her own terms? She did not know.

“That color would look lovely on you,” Azriel said after a beat of quiet.

Ariadne turned back to him, dropping the cloth. “While I appreciate your candor, I am not certain that comment is appropriate.”

“Apologies, Miss Harlow.” He cast his gaze to the floor and shifted toward the door again, shoulders tight.

The weight in her stomach pressed down more. She swallowed hard. Those were the words of her father, not her. She did not believe Azriel to have been disrespectful. If anyone had walked in and heard, however…

Emillie burst through the swinging door wearing a half-sewn, half-pinned gown. The rich purples made her skin glow warm, and the delight in her eyes banished Ariadne’s unease.

“What do you think?” Emillie turned in front of the full-length, gold-framed mirror.

“That color is lovely on you,” Ariadne said and watched in the mirror as Azriel glanced their way, brows pinched. His mouth twitched.

“I would love this one,” Emillie told Revelie, who clapped her hands together and nodded.

“And for you, my Golden Rose,” the Madame said, “I have the perfect fabric.”

She pulled a bolt from the corner where she kept the newest stack. The iridescent azure fabric flowed over her fingers like a tropical waterfall, its shine picking up the light from the sconces around the room.

“I am envisioning,” Revelie said, holding the fabric up to Ariadne’s face, “long sleeves and high waist with rose embroidery—in gold, of course.”

Ariadne’s heart stumbled over the Caersan’s words. She could picture how the final product would look. Perfect. The fabric, the same color as her eyes, would stand out amongst the paler springtime gowns.

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