SONG RECOMMENDATIONS: SKYFALL BY ADELE.
The carriage was crawling along the busy market when the sky rumbled. The gloomy clouds opened up a moment later to heavy rain that pelted against the carriage. Nora groaned beside her.
"Unbelievable. The weather these days is simply unpredictable," Nora complained.
Lucinda simply gazed absentmindedly at the scented pouch on her lap, brooding over her earlier conversation with the young gentleman. Silas saved her? Yes, he was the one to rescue her, but how? He was no physician—not to her knowledge.
But she didn't know him any more than the general public did. She frowned at that.
A commotion sounded from somewhere over the pouring rain. Lucinda frowned and, a second later, opened the small passage to address the coachman.
"What's the commotion about?" she asked, loud enough over the pouring rain.
"Not certain, mistress. A crowd seems to be gathered around a young lady," he called from his vantage point above. A dark thought crossed Lucinda's mind. Surely it's not another accusation of a lady being a witch?
To burn her atop a stake!?
"Slow down as we pass," she informed, shutting the little platform closed. She pushed aside her curtains to observe.
A crowd of presumably stall owners, commoners, merchants, and members of high society who frequented the busy marketplace was huddled together at a particular spot, causing traffic.
Lucinda tried to see past the curtains amid the joined bodies covered in their umbrellas. What could hold their fancy so?
A small gap in the throng of people revealed a bundle of bright orange fabric on the floor. Squinting her eyes, she realized it wasn't fabric, but a woman. Cloaked in a burnt orange cloak, she was curled in on herself. She looked like a fragile flower—a beacon holding fast against the torrent of a gloomy storm.
They didn't have pitchforks or rakes. That was a mildly good sign. Then she noticed the woman's slim, shaky hands reach the bottom of her garment—and it was then she noticed her pulling her ghastly torn bottoms together.
Before Lucinda knew what she was doing, she had the hood over her head and she rapped sharply at the side. The carriage halted harshly, abruptly tumbling Nora out of her seat and surprising Connor. She jumped out and began pushing through the crowd. The mumbling crowd reluctantly parted with easy sidesteps and shoves as she tread deeper. Some turned curiously at the cloaked figure pushing to the middle of the storm.
Reaching the center, where the crowd gave a wide, observing berth, the woman was curled into herself, hugging something below her bosom. Squatting down, Lucinda disregarded how the dirty, muddy roads sullied her expensive clothing. The woman scurried back as she reached for her.
"Shhh… it's okay now," Lucinda tried to assure the woman, speaking in a low, soothing tone. The crowd mumbled, wondering if the stranger knew the disgraced lady.
More than her ankles still showed as she tried to cover herself in her soggy, dirty garment. The crowd was tearing into the woman with their gazes and guesses—all gleaming at the small dash of excitement in their otherwise mundane days.
"Who is the lady?" someone inquired.
"What family did she come from?"
"She exposes herself. How shameful."
"Look, dear, she looks like a flower… rather wilting," one mused. They assessed with scorn, pity, and glee glinting in their eyes. Lucinda knew far too well what it felt like. But as she looked back at the bundle of fine garments, she didn't know if the lady's heart could handle such scorn. If she couldn't handle this, the high society would tear into her.
Again, more cautiously this time, she reached for the woman. The memory of her stepmother tearing at her prized garment distorted her vision with every second. Suddenly it felt like the crowd was leering at her.
She blinked against the vision, then swiftly dug into her clothes. Good thing she was covered by the cloak or she might have caused a scene with her innovation of pockets on a woman's clothing.
She fumbled around and swiftly brought out a thread. The rain had soaked her to the bones. She was scarcely aware of Connor and her maid reaching her side. She fumbled with the threads—the soaked thread being beaten by the rain, refusing to pass through the tiny hole. Suddenly, she saw nothing but her late mother's meticulously styled clothes being ripped apart before her. Her fingers became unsteady. She couldn't assess the thread with her gloves, so she wrenched them free with her teeth.
The crowd pointed, their voices mixing together like a torrent of waves, drowning her in. Swiftly, Connor was by her side, taking the other glove off. He dropped to his knees, watching his lady in concern.
Hagar's— her stepmother's scowl reappeared as she tried to shove at the holes. Dear heavens, her hands were trembling. Suddenly, she was a child again—heaving at each tear her stepmother dealt. Pushing Lucinda back as she fought to take her mother's garments from her.
Wicked cackles. The dehumanizing words. Little Valerie's smudged smile.
She was past this! She had promised herself she was.
She felt her finger prick. Reality and a distant memory distorted her view. She sewed through the fabrics like a woman with vengeance. Phantom pain of aching wrists. Nimble fingers moved with expertise and swift precision, shaking fingers moving deftly. She slipped into her shell—her safe haven.
She could fix this. Fix it all. She was the art of needlework itself. Deftly practiced fingers sewed back each tear, closing it rapidly. Her thread simply disappeared like magic under their avid gazes. They gasped in wonder.
Lucinda didn't stop. Couldn't stop. A few more and her mother's clothes would be brand new, her mind chanted.
The shaking woman looked up wearily. The first thing she saw was long, delicate, nimble fingers moving with alarming speed and expertise no inexperienced person could comprehend. Her palm, on closer look, was filled with old scars of rough, dead skin—like something you would see on someone experienced in lacemaking or needlework. Was her savior a seamstress?
Her eyes widened as she saw blood prickling to the surface in several places, trickling and washed by rain, smudged away with the rapidly moving thread and her clothes. Her trembling hand reached to stop her, shocked a stranger would hurt herself for her. She looked up to see rouge-painted lips, straight and serious. A fine, delicate tall nose peeked under the hood. She tilted her head to try and see into the darkness of the hood as cold soaked her bones.
She clutched the book she shielded from the rain, its comfort strengthening her. The woman's head abruptly bent to snip off the thread with her teeth and raised. The movement shifted the cloak. The sky rumbled—and their eyes met. The most vivid green eyes stared at her blue ones. Long lashes and a dark, artful brow. Her high cheekbones highlighted her savior's beauty in a striking way.
Lucinda stared at the haughtily beautiful face with light rouge cheeks, half covered by a veil wet and clung to her face. There were streaks of kohl running down the woman's cheeks and bleeding into the veil. Gorgeous waves of fiery red hair, damp with rain, plastered her face. She looked like a fiery, delicate beauty—but her face looked taut and tired. Her baby blues were an old soul. She saw something in them, behind them. Before she could assess her more, some guards pushed into the crowd and grabbed each arm under her armpits. They hauled her off. Lucinda caught the lady struggling to hold onto a book, tucking it away from sight as they dragged her away—a book that was drier than she was, drenched like a street rat.
A hand shook her shoulder. Looking up against the torrent of rain, she found Connor, who gestured that they should leave. The crowd was more intrigued, trying to peer under her hood at the lady's identity.
As she was assisted back into the carriage, drenched and filthy, she couldn't help but think back to the moment her gaze met the distraught woman's—an image of her child self staring back at her before twisting and spreading the form of the stranger's face into existence like drops of ink.
Connor gestured for the confused coachman to climb aboard his seat and move the carriage.
The ride back to the estate was silent with an apprehensive air. Her dirty, soggy clothes seeped into the cushion's material, soaking it up.
Lucinda rag-cleaned her bloodied finger away, like it could clean the memories. She paid no mind to the stares from her companions.
She released a particularly shaky breath and paused. She simply stared at her fingers. Life. Her nimble fingers that sewed without purpose after her mother's murder had life.
The lady? The situation? The pressure? Or maybe it all combined. She didn't know. But something had breathed life into her fingers. She gulped in another lungful of air, viewing her fingers in a different way after a long time. She felt an all-consuming fear—and fulfillment. Her body sang with purpose.
Electric buzz under her skin at the unfamiliar thrill. It all felt like an out-of-body experience.
Nora muttered softly at the side. She whipped her gaze to her, and the young lady shrank back in apology. The parchment in her hand caught her gaze. A particular word caught her eye. Lucibda took it from her.
The headline read:
"THE MOST ANTICIPATED FASHION CONTEST OF THE CENTURY IS HERE!!!"