The drawing room was awash in soft light. The soft scent of pine drifted from a vase near the hearth–seasonal, understated and perfectly placed. Everything in this house seemed curated, as if the air was aware of its pedigree.
The seamstress stood by the far settee. A pin cushion cuffed around her waist and a roll of fabric draped over one arm. Beside her, Cerelith lounged dramatically, hair swept into a perfect coil, and expression of pointed boredom on her face as she examined a Swatch of lace held up to her neckline.
"This is too provincial," Cerelith declared, pushing the sample away with two fingers as if it offended her personally. "It makes me look like a merchant's wife. It looks like something they'd wear–no offence to you sister." She said turning to Coral.
The seamstress flushed, "it's imported from Lyon, my lady–"
Cerelith sniffed, "Then Lyon has lowered its standards."
"Cerelith," Lady Storms' voice cut across the room like the edge of a knife.
Cerelith glanced over her s
