When Madame Marcel first arrived at Rowen Castle, she'd gone directly to Claudel's dressing room to assess her starting point.
What she found appalled her.
The spacious room overflowed with jewelry—glittering testament to Vermont's wealth—but the actual clothing was pathetic. Nothing worthy of even a passing glance. Certainly nothing by Jouberdogna or Luchamp, the designers she'd expected to find.
"Why so much jewelry and such poor dresses?" she asked Hannah.
"The Duke threw away all her Vermont clothes," Hannah explained carefully. "He said he didn't want to see them."
Madame Marcel understood. Vermont and Temnes were ancient enemies. But still—those dresses must have been expensive.
"And the jewelry?" Madame Marcel pressed.
Hannah lowered her voice. "The Duke said if he found any Vermont-style jewels, he'd throw them in the moat."
*Well. That's commitment to the feud.*
But this presented a significant professional problem. Claudel's wardrobe reflected on Madame Marcel's reputation as Rowen Castle's exclusive seamstress. Every dress she wore would be evaluated as evidence of Madame Marcel's skill.
*I put my honor on the line.*
She'd hired assistants, invested in expensive sewing machines, taught needlework to eager maidens. But hand-stitching lace and creating patterns was exhausting work. She was constantly busy.
---
## The Teaching
Claudel sat at her sewing table, examining the tiny sock she'd made.
"My skills aren't improving at all," she said, discouraged.
Madame Marcel picked it up. For a first attempt, it was actually decent. "You've done really well. Keep practicing."
Hannah brought cookies. Claudel ate one, then pulled out a sketch. On it, she'd drawn a delicate white flower.
"I want to embroider this design on a sock. Is that possible?"
"For you? Right now, yes." Madame Marcel prepared materials, showing her how to sketch the design with chalk that would wash out later.
As Claudel worked, concentrating fiercely on her embroidery, Madame Marcel felt something twist in her chest. The girl's focused face reminded her of her youngest sister—though she'd never actually had one.
*It's really hard to pretend not to know.*
Few people in the castle understood Claudel's secret. There were those who sympathized, like Hannah. Those who knew but said nothing, like Kaian. Those who actively helped, like Madame Marcel herself, subtly adjusting the bust of every dress. And then there were doctors—unreliable people who promised secrecy then told everything.
But Claudel deserved good things to see and experience. Prenatal education meant surrounding her with beauty.
So when Claudel asked, "Would you like to teach me to make baby socks?" Madame Marcel's heart bloomed.
"Yes. Small ones, big enough for an infant. For practice."
Claudel nodded eagerly, not understanding the significance of those tiny socks. But Madame Marcel understood.
---
## The Secret Project
The real reason for Madame Marcel's exhaustion wasn't the wardrobe work.
Kaian had commissioned a secret bridal gown.
Under his instructions, she was creating an enormous, expensive dress—entirely from memory and imagination, without being able to fit it to Claudel's body. The challenge was maddening. Every time she was near Claudel, she found herself studying, measuring with her eyes, calculating adjustments.
"Why do you stare so much?" Claudel asked one afternoon, catching her gaze.
Madame Marcel scrambled for an excuse. "I'm thinking about what styles would suit you. That's my job."
*I need to ask Kaian again if I can just tell her.*
The secrecy was agony. If Claudel knew, she could help choose fabrics, experience the joy of the creation process, understand that a bridal dress for a Duchess carrying the heir of Temnes deserved such elaborate care.
But Kaian had been explicit. When Madame Marcel had protested: "Can't I just tell her?"
His answer had been cold as a sword: "If you want to cancel your contract, feel free."
Never. Madame Marcel had committed herself to seeing Claudel in that pure white dress before she'd allow anything—anything—to make her leave.
*Two people in the world are waiting to see her as a bride: Kaian and me.*
---
## Kaian's Return
Claudel had finished her embroidery when the knock came.
Kaian entered, surprising everyone by returning early. He'd left at dawn for territorial inspections but was back before sunset.
"You're early," Claudel said happily, rising to greet him.
Hannah and Madame Marcel stepped back respectfully as Kaian removed his coat.
"What were you doing?" he asked.
"Madame Marcel was teaching me to sew." Claudel eagerly showed him her work. "Look—my first try. It's good, right?"
Madame Marcel made urgent eye contact with him. *Praise her. Please just say something nice.*
It was true that Kaian genuinely cared for Claudel. But his mouth was a disaster.
He glanced at the tiny embroidered sock with obvious disinterest.
"What is that? Is it a fried egg?"
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Claudel's smile faltered. Hannah's face went carefully neutral. Madame Marcel's eye twitched.
"It's a sock," Claudel said quietly. "With a flower embroidered on it."
"A flower," Kaian repeated, as if this information didn't help.
Madame Marcel made a mental note: *The Duke of Temnes, despite his legendary devotion to his wife, should never be allowed near a sewing room again.*
Claudel lowered her eyes back to her work, but the joy had dimmed.
Kaian, oblivious to the damage, simply removed his coat and settled into a chair as if nothing was wrong.
*Some men are fortunate to be born beautiful,* Madame Marcel thought darkly, *because words will never be their strength.*
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