By the time she finished, Lucrezia looked at her appearance in the mirror at the corner of the room. Just like before, the fabric clung deep into her skin from the bodice, and the skirt exposed her thighs through the slits. She draped the cloak across her shoulders, welcoming the warmth aside from the morning's air.
She tied her hair into a bun, securing it with a plain pin and tucking away the loose strands that refused to stay in place. The woman in the mirror looked older than she felt, steadier, and sharpened by purpose. The woman in the mirror looked like her stepsister, Anastasia.
But unlike her, those soft delicate features refused to remain cold and expressionless. They defined her naivety more than her actions clearly.
Lucrezia studied her reflection only a moment longer, then reached for her gloves. She slid them on, letting their warmth spread around her fingers before taking a deep breath.
