The palace stirred before dawn.
Portraits were pulled down. Windows thrown open. Servants bustled in hushed excitement, scrubbing floors until they gleamed like glass. Chandeliers were polished until each crystal fragment caught the weak morning light and refracted it into rainbows across the walls.
The Autumn Ball was only two days away, and the palace was shedding its ordinary skin for a night of grandeur. In the central ballroom, the ceiling, already carved with angels and mythic beasts, was being transformed with cascading silks and pressed gold leaves. The scent of beeswax, roses, and varnish wafted in the air.
Eliza's chambers became a hive of flurried activity. Three seamstresses circled her like crows around a flame, pinning, adjusting, snipping. Her gown was a shade between blood and rust, deep red with a golden undertone that shimmered when the fabric caught the light. It matched her hair, or so they said. They told her she would look like a flame.
But Eliza was restless.
Her thoughts strayed to the sketch hidden inside her journal. Her own breasts, drawn in ink and longing. She hadn't told anyone, not Elena, not even her mirror. Her cheeks still burned when she thought of it. How had he known them so well? The memory of his hands, his stare, the raw heat of that moment still lived on her skin.
Downstairs, guards were being drilled harder. They were told it was for the royal guests, but those closest to the king knew better. Rumors stirred, of threats, of foreign guests who asked too many questions, of tunnels beneath the palace being quietly checked and sealed.
The painter, who now had a name whispered only among the rebels, Marek, kept to his cover. He was commissioned to paint scenes from the ball. He lingered in corridors, sketching arches and wall sconces, but his eyes searched for red hair.
Elena watched everything.
She moved between roles. As Eliza's maid, she stitched sleeves and arranged perfumes. As the rebels' informant, she whispered passwords in the servants' hall, handed over copies of the revised floor plan, and spoke in low voices with men who didn't belong.
She didn't trust Marek anymore. Not since his hesitation in the apothecary. Love was weakness. And Eliza, sweet, wide-eyed Eliza, had no idea she was dancing on the edge of blades.
In a hidden kitchen, Elena met with a man whose eyes never stopped moving. He brought vials. "Backup poison for the king's wine," he said.
She took them without blinking.
But her mind drifted to the painter. If he ruined the plan, they'd both burn.
Meanwhile, the ballroom neared completion. Harps were tuned. Masked invitations were sent, each sealed with the king's crest. Nobles from distant realms began to arrive, cloaked in mystery. The palace swelled with tension.
And in a small alcove near the ballroom's west corridor, Marek touched the wall. He had measured the steps. Counted the guards. Memorized the moments when the watch would turn.
He could still do this. End it.
But her ribbon was in his pocket. And every night, he painted her again.