Seraphina Valerius awoke to the sound of her maid sighing.
"Up, milady," Marta said briskly, tugging the curtains open with the indifference of one who had long since stopped caring whether Seraphina shivered in the dawn light. "We've little time. Your mother wants you dressed before the house is awake."
"Of course she does," Seraphina murmured, voice sleep-hoarse and soft. She sat up slowly, wincing as the cold seeped into her bones. Her nightdress clung to her skin, sweat-stained and creased from a restless night. The dreams again: bare feet running through fields of poppies, faceless voices laughing behind her.
The dress laid out on the settee was not new. It had belonged to her cousin Livia last season, a rose-colored monstrosity that strained at Seraphina's waist and pulled tight across her chest. The fabric was fine but faded; the embroidery frayed along the hem. It smelled faintly of lavender and the old regrets of her life.
As Marta pulled the corset laces tighter, Seraphina gritted her teeth, fingers curling into her palms. She didn't cry out. She never did anymore.
The Baroness entered without knocking, her perfume arriving a heartbeat before her voice.
"You're still not ready? Heavens, Marta, she looks like a boiled ham stuffed into silk. And must you slouch so, Seraphina? I've told you chin up, shoulders back. You are not a dairy cow."
Seraphina raised her head. Her mother looked at her as one might assess a cracked vase on display. A flaw one couldn't throw away but certainly didn't showcase.
"Try not to embarrass us today," the Baroness said, smoothing her own gown. It was pale green and perfectly tailored. "Your father needs to make a good impression on the Marquis. Stay out of the way. Smile if spoken to. And for heaven's sake, do not attempt to dance."
Her mother's voice was anything but sweet, but Seraphina nodded.
The carriage ride was silent save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone and the occasional sniff from her father, who eyed her as one might a gouty foot. When they arrived, the Festival of First Blooms was already in full swing.
It was breathtaking in all the worst ways.
Color exploded in every corner, the silk of gowns, the petals of carefully cultivated flowers arranged like altars to fertility and beauty. Girls no older than sixteen stood with painted smiles, their mothers fluttering behind them like anxious specters. Music floated through the air, light and mocking.
Seraphina stepped from the carriage and immediately felt the shift in air around her, how conversations faltered, how eyes slid toward her, then away. Not curious. Not kind.
She stood awkwardly beside her parents until her father spotted a nobleman worth impressing. With a grunt and not even a backward glance, they drifted into the crowd, leaving her stranded like an anchor in a sea.
She made her way toward a shaded fountain, weaving between groups of glittering nobles who parted around her as though her body carried contagion. The hem of her dress caught on a loose cobblestone, and she stumbled into a serving boy carrying a tray of sugared fruit.
The tray tipped. Fruit tumbled across the ground.
A moment of silence. Then laughter.
A sharp voice sliced through the din. "Seraphina!"
Her mother, a brittle smile plastered to her face, strode past her without stopping, muttering, "Get up. For once in your life, show some grace."
Seraphina crouched, trembling, and picked up the crushed remnants of peach and sugar, sticky on her fingers. She whispered an apology to the boy, who only blinked at her before turning away.
She didn't cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
When the trumpets sounded for the Dance of Blossoms, Seraphina knew she would not be chosen. She edged closer to the fringe of the courtyard, hoping to become invisible.
But fate had a crueler sense of humor.
"Lady Seraphina Valerius!" a voice boomed, exaggerated and falsely gallant.
She turned.
He stood tall, golden-haired and smug. Lord Marius Atherton, heir to a ducal estate and well known for his scathing wit. A cluster of young men flanked him, wine-soaked and grinning.
Marius bowed deeply, one hand over his heart. "Might I request the honor of a dance with the most... substantial bloom in the garden today?"
The laughter that followed was cruel, loud, contagious.
Seraphina stood frozen, blood draining from her face. Her hands shook.
Across the square, she saw her parents. Her mother turned her back. Her father clenched his jaw, his glare directed not at Marius but at her, as if her humiliation had somehow tarnished his dignity.
"Come now, my lady," Marius coaxed. "Don't keep me waiting."
He reached for her hand.
"No," Seraphina whispered. "Don't touch me."
But he did, fingers brushing hers with theatrical delicacy.
She ripped her hand away, breath hitching, panic surging.
"Leave me alone!" she choked out, and then she ran.
Past the hedge walls, past the whispering trees, past the startled gasps and laughter fading behind her. Her breath came in gasps, corset tight against her ribs. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to escape. From the laughter. From the shame. From herself.
She stumbled onto a disused garden path, roots curling up like skeletal fingers. Her dress caught again, and she yanked it free, not caring as seams tore.
The path led to an old stone bridge. Decorative. Narrow. Crumbling.
Her foot slipped on moss.
She pitched forward.
The world twisted.
Her head struck something, stone, cold and unforgiving. A sharp pain. Then nothing.
Just sky. Blue. Blinding.
And voices, far away now. Screams. Footsteps. The sound of her name.
She felt the cold seep in again, not from dawn this time, but from beneath her skin. Her vision blurred. The sunlight shattered into golden shards. Her body would not move.
Faces appeared, her mother's, tight-lipped and pale, eyes darting. Her father's scowl.
"Move her. Quickly. Before someone sees."
A pause. Then the Baron's voice, low and tight. "She's gone. Just get the physician to say it was illness."
No warmth. No urgency. No grief.
Only the noise of the festival continuing, bright, jubilant, false.
Seraphina's lips parted. A breath escaped.
If only I mattered. If only someone had loved me.