Muffled sobs pierced through the heated political discourse still echoing from the ballroom. Drizella's steps faltered, her hand instinctively tightening around the silver thimble as she tracked the sound to a narrow door tucked between two tapestries. Of course she'd choose the most dramatic hiding spot possible.
The brass handle was cold against her palm as she eased the linen closet open. Anastasia had wedged herself behind stacks of pressed sheets, her silk skirts crushed against rough-hewn shelving. Teardrops had carved glistening trails through her powder, leaving constellations of smeared rouge across her cheeks.
I don't have time for this. The thought came sharp and immediate. Every second spent away from the ballroom was another opportunity for Silas to recover his footing, to twist the Treasury audit suggestion into a weapon against their allies. And yet—
The memory struck without warning: Mother's voice, steel-soft in the darkness. "A lady's greatest weakness is believing she must weather her storms alone."
Drizella's throat tightened. She forced her voice to remain steady, practiced. "The servants will be doing their rounds soon. Unless you'd like to explain to Cook why her best linens are tear-stained, I suggest you come out."
Anastasia hiccupped, pressing deeper into her fortress of fabric. "Go away."
"And let you ruin another perfectly good gown? Mother would be horrified." The words emerged gentler than intended. Drizella extended her hand, noting how the copper threads in her sleeve caught the dim light. "Come. I know somewhere quieter."
For three heartbeats, Anastasia remained motionless. Then her fingers emerged from the shadows, trembling slightly as they clasped Drizella's offered hand. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through Drizella's chest—when was the last time they'd touched without artifice or obligation?
Extracting Anastasia from her hiding place required careful maneuvering. The younger girl's corset had caught on a loose nail, and Drizella had to angle her body to prevent the delicate silk from tearing. As she worked, she cataloged the physical signs of her sister's distress: pupils dilated in the low light, pulse racing visible at her throat, breath coming in shallow gasps that threatened to spiral into hysteria.
"Stand up straight," Drizella instructed, brushing dust from Anastasia's shoulders with efficient strokes. "Whatever happened, you're still a Tremaine. Act like one."
A choked laugh escaped Anastasia's lips. "Is that what we are? Sometimes I wonder if we're anything at all anymore. Just... pieces being moved across a board."
The words hit too close to the truth. Drizella's fingers stilled on Anastasia's sleeve, her mind racing through the implications. How much does she suspect? How much does she know? But now wasn't the time to probe deeper. The corridor outside remained empty, but that could change at any moment.
"Come," Drizella said again, wrapping her fingers around Anastasia's wrist. The silk of her sister's glove was damp with tears, but her steps steadied as Drizella guided her from the closet. Together they emerged into the torch-lit hallway, Drizella automatically angling their path away from the main thoroughfares where Corbin's guards might lurk.
Anastasia fell into step beside her, their skirts whispering against the marble floor. Though her tears had slowed, each breath still shuddered slightly—a tell-tale sign that whatever had driven her to hide was far from resolved. Drizella tightened her grip on her sister's arm, steering them both through the shadowed corridor with measured steps.
Drizella guided Anastasia through the dimly lit corridor, her sister's footsteps still uneven from crying. The silver thimble at her throat pulsed with cold warning as they rounded the corner toward the eastern alcove, but its chill felt distant compared to the raw vulnerability in Anastasia's hitched breathing.
Movement caught her eye - a flash of charcoal on parchment. Lucas Blackwood hunched over his sketchbook in the alcove's lamplight, his architect's compass glinting as he traced precise arcs across the page. Perfect.
"Look who's here," Drizella murmured, steering Anastasia with the lightest pressure between her shoulder blades. The young architect startled at their approach, nearly dropping his measuring tools as he scrambled to stand.
"My ladies, I apologize, I was just-" Lucas gestured at the detailed renderings of the palace's support columns, his fingers smudged with graphite.
But Anastasia had already drifted forward, her tear-stained face transformed by sudden interest. "Are those the north wing's flying buttresses?" She leaned closer, pointing to a particular section. "The stress distribution looks wrong there."
Lucas blinked, his formal mask cracking into genuine surprise. "You... you understand structural engineering?"
"Father's library had several volumes on Renaissance architecture." Anastasia's voice grew stronger as she traced the line of his sketch. "See how this arch meets the wall? The force vectors would create micro-fractures during heavy snowfall."
"Exactly!" Lucas's entire demeanor shifted, enthusiasm replacing his usual careful restraint. He flipped to a fresh page, sketching rapid diagrams as he spoke. "I've been trying to convince the Master Builder that the whole section needs reinforcement before winter, but-"
"But he dismisses you because you're young?" Anastasia finished, a hint of wry understanding in her tone.
Drizella eased backward into the shadows of the archway, watching the scene unfold. The copper threads in her gown hummed against her skin as she observed how naturally they fell into conversation, technical terms flowing between them like a private language. Anastasia's shoulders had lost their defensive hunch, her hands animated as she debated load-bearing ratios.
Lucas shifted his sketchbook so Anastasia could add her own annotations, their heads bent together over the parchment. When she pointed out a particularly elegant solution for redistributing weight across the failing arch, his laugh of delighted recognition echoed softly through the alcove. Not the polite chuckle of court society, but something genuine - unscripted.
Perfect indeed, Drizella thought, noting how the fairy tale's golden threads seemed to slip and fade around her sister in this moment of authentic connection. Even the thimble's warning chill had subsided. Here was a conversation the narrative hadn't planned, couldn't control - two minds meeting over physics and mathematics instead of predetermined romance.
She watched from the archway's shadow as Anastasia sketched a quick diagram of her own, Lucas nodding with growing respect at her precise calculations. Their soft laughter mingled with the scratch of charcoal on paper, creating a bubble of reality in the midst of the palace's suffocating artifice.