four

Excused from the discussion, Isabelle slipped away to her bedchamber, where she retrieved a letter that had arrived the previous day. Settling in the window seat, she broke the simple wax seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper.

 

My dearest Isabelle,

 

You will never believe the news! My father received word this morning that our family is invited to Cresthaven Palace for Prince Sebastian’s bride selection! Can you imagine? A month at court, with balls and concerts and garden parties! Father says I am too young to be seriously considered—the prince being thirty and I barely nineteen—but that the experience will be invaluable for my eventual London Season.

 

Tell me you have been invited too! I could not bear a month of court politics without your steady presence and clever observations to keep me grounded. Besides, who else would appreciate the library at Cresthaven? They say it contains over ten thousand volumes, some dating back centuries!

 

Write to me at once with your answer. If your odious father refuses to let you attend (and oh, how I detest him for his blindness to your worth), I shall petition my father to request you as my companion. He can hardly refuse, given our families’ long friendship.

 

With all my love,

Amelia

 

Isabelle pressed the letter to her heart, a genuine smile warming her features for the first time that day. Amelia Everhart had been her friend since childhood—a beautiful, spirited girl whose golden looks rivaled Priscilla’s, but whose heart was as kind as it was merry.

Unlike many beauties, Amelia had never treated Isabelle as an accessory or a foil for her own charms, but as an equal worthy of respect and affection.

 

The knowledge that Amelia would be at Cresthaven made the prospect of the month ahead marginally more bearable. At least she would have one true friend amidst the artifice and competition of court.

 

Rising, Isabelle moved to her desk and drew out a fresh sheet of paper.

 

Dearest Amelia,

 

Your letter arrived like a beam of sunshine on what promised to be an interminably dreary day. Yes, we too have received the royal summons, and yes, I am to accompany Priscilla to Cresthaven. My father could hardly leave me behind when the invitation specifically mentioned “daughters,” though I suspect he would prefer to pretend he has only one offspring worthy of royal notice.

 

I confess I approach the coming month with mixed feelings. The prospect of a palatial library is indeed enticing, as is the chance to spend time in your delightful company. Less appealing is the certainty of being overlooked in a sea of beauties, relegated to the role of my sister’s shadow and my mother’s disappointment.

 

But enough self-pity! I am determined to find joy in this unexpected adventure, even if it comes in the form of borrowed books rather than royal attention. Besides, who better than I to chronicle the foibles and follies of court life? I shall keep a detailed account of every pompous lord and simpering lady, which we can laugh over in our dotage.

 

As for the prince himself, I harbor no illusions. Men of his station and bearing do not look twice at women like me. That particular fairy tale exists only in the pages of books far less practical than those I prefer to read.

 

I shall see you at Cresthaven on the fifteenth. Until then,

I remain,

 

Your devoted friend,

Isabelle

 

She read the letter over, considering whether to soften its edges, to pretend more enthusiasm than she felt. But Amelia valued honesty, and Isabelle refused to cloak her true feelings in false sentiment, even to spare her friend concern. She folded the paper, sealed it with a drop of wax, and set it aside to be posted.

 

A knock at her door preceded the entrance of her mother, who had apparently remembered several additional sartorial instructions. “I’ve been thinking, Isabelle. Perhaps we should order a corset with more structure. Something to minimize your waist and enhance your… posture.”

 

Isabelle suppressed a sigh. A tighter corset would make breathing difficult, let alone engaging in the lively conversation she enjoyed with Amelia. But she knew better than to argue. “Whatever you think best, Mother.”

 

“And your hair—I wonder if we might try a style that adds height. Your face can be quite pleasing when one doesn’t notice its roundness.”

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

Mrs. Ellwood hesitated, her expression softening fractionally. “I only want what’s best for you, Isabelle. You know that, don’t you? Life is… challenging for young women without exceptional beauty or fortune.”

 

For a moment, Isabelle glimpsed the genuine worry beneath her mother’s constant criticism—the fear that her younger daughter would be left alone and unprotected in a world that valued women primarily as ornaments or vessels for children. It was a fear born of love, however warped by society’s expectations.

 

“I know, Mother,” she said gently.

 

Mrs. Ellwood nodded, her moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it had appeared. “Good. Now, we must begin packing immediately. There’s so little time, and so much to be done!”

 

When she had gone, Isabelle turned to gaze out the window at the sprawling gardens below. Somewhere beyond them lay Cresthaven Palace, and a future she could neither predict nor control. A month among the kingdom’s elite, watching her sister and Amelia shine while she faded into the background. A month of pretending not to care when the whispers and stares inevitably came.

 

And yet…

 

She thought again of that long-ago storm, of strong hands and a scarred knuckle, of a deep voice asking if she was lost. Of the dream she nurtured in secret, of being seen— truly seen—for the person she was beneath the plain exterior.

 

Foolish, perhaps. But the heart was often foolish, even when the mind knew better.

 

Isabelle touched the letter she had written to Amelia, feeling the raised bump of the wax seal beneath her fingertips. Whatever awaited her at Cresthaven Palace, she would face it with the quiet dignity that had become her armor. And if her dreams remained unfulfilled—well, she had long practice in bearing disappointment with grace.

 

She turned from the window, bracing herself for the flurry of preparations that would consume the house in the coming days. One month at court. One month to observe the glittering world she had only read about in books. One month to guard her heart against impossible hopes, while helping Priscilla pursue a crown that, in truth, Isabelle had never wanted for herself.

 

One month to discover whether fairy tales could sometimes, against all odds, come true.