//CLARA//
The lilac silk sat on the edge of my bed like a deflated marshmallow that had seen better days. And by better days, I meant never. It was beautiful, sure. But considering the man who sent it? It makes it look bad.
"Hattie."
The girl launched to her feet like I'd pressed a secret button under the floorboards forcing her to scurried over, her fingers already performing their nervous gymnastics on her apron.
"Yes, Miss Eleanor? Anything you need?"
"Get me a sewing kit and scissors. Now."
Hattie's hands went from gymnastic to full-on earthquake. Her eyes bounced between me and the dress like she was watching a crime scene unfold.
"Wh-what could you possibly be doing to it, Miss?"
"Relax…I'll be wearing it. I'm just... customizing."
I softened my tone when she flinched. Guilt stabbed me. She was only fourteen stuck in this century, scared of her own reflection, and I do not intend to be her worse nightmare.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and centered myself before I lost my shit. Reality check: Hattie is my entire glam squad. No backup. Just me and this child soldier working her way through child labor.
So stop being a brat, Clara.
"I'm sorry about that Hattie, but Mr. Big-Ass Head doesn't get to dress me," I muttered. "Now scissors. Chop chop."
Ten minutes later, I was hacking into expensive silk like Edward Scissorhands on espresso. Sleeves off at the shoulder. Collar lowered into a plunging neckline that screamed look-but-don't-touch. This mourning lily had just became a femme fatale.
Hattie watched in abject horror, clutching her chest like I'd just stabbed the family pet.
"Oh, Lord in heaven! Master Casimir will have my head mounted on his wall!"
"He'll be too busy looking at mine to notice yours. Trust me."
I handed her the scissors and the dress.
"Now stitch this edge. Meticulously. I want it sharp enough to draw blood. I want to walk into that park looking like I'm there to buy it, not play with it."
By the time we finished, the dress was unrecognizable, and Hattie did an absolutely brilliant job to it.
A perfect gilded age chic. I know Princess Dianna would be so proud of me for taking inspiration on her revenge dress. I could even hear her applauding from the great beyond.
I stared at my reflection and grinned. Eleanor's delicate face looked back, but the expression was all Clara. Dangerous. Unbothered. Ready to cause problems on purpose.
"I love it, Hattie!" I beamed at her in the mirror. "Now the hair. Up. No soft curls. I want architectural. I want intimidating. I want people to cross the street when they see me coming."
"But your Aunt—"
"Is currently wearing a veil that makes her look like a grieving spider who lost her web. Not exactly my style icon."
Hattie let out a sound, half laugh, half snort, wholly unladylike, and immediately tried to choke it back into oblivion.
I spun on her.
"Hattie. I never heard you laugh before. Much less a real one."
Her face went pale.
"I'm so sorry, Miss! I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize. I'm rubbing off on you and it's a good. Keep it up."
By the time the knock came at my door, I understood why double-doors existed in this era. It wasn't aesthetic. It was survival. One wrong turn in this much fabric and you weren't just a scandal waiting to happen, you were a safety hazard. A broken neck waiting for a staircase.
"Miss Eleanor." Higgins's voice was pure granite through the wood. "Mr. Vanderbilt and your Aunt are already seated. They are... growing impatient."
I groaned, rolling my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. Let them wait. They wanted me on this little parade, they could sweat for it.
I smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles on my skirt, then adjusted the choker at my throat, the emerald stone catching the light like a go signal for trouble. Hattie buttoned my elbow-high black satin gloves before I gave myself one final look and turned to the awaiting butler.
"Lead the way, Higgins."
The carriage hit me like a sensory deprivation tank designed by someone who hated humanity.
Bartholomew sat across from me, looking like he'd swallowed his own tongue and was deeply regretting the decision. His eyes did a full-body scan of my dress, disapproval written all over his face, yet somehow his gaze kept getting stuck at the neckline like some creepy pervert. I could feel the ick crawling up my skin.
Hypocrite.
"What have you done to the gown, Eleanor?"
"I wore what you provided." I shot him my sweetest, deadliest smile. "If you have concerns, take them up with Mr. Guggenheim. I'm sure he'd love to discuss my wardrobe choices with you."
Aunt Cornelia was a black thundercloud beside him, vibrating with such intense disdain I was surprised the carriage windows weren't rattling. I just ignored her. It's best to reserve my energy for later.
I turned to the window.
Big mistake. The smell hit me like a brick wall.
"Oh god."
I pressed my hand to my nose, genuinely fighting for my life.
"The fresh air is invigorating, is it not, my dear Eleanor?" Bartholomew beamed, utterly oblivious to the fact that we were breathing in pureed horse manure and mud.
My lungs screamed for a HEPA filter.
"Delightful," I wheezed. "Truly... organic."
The carriage jostled violently. My butt hurt. The suspension was a joke. Historical dramas left out this part of the script. There were no disclaimers. No warnings. My spine was being realigned without consent.
"The city will be watching, Eleanor." Aunt Cornelia hissed. "Try not to embarrass us with your newfound insolence."
"I'm not the one wearing a spiderweb on my face, Auntie."
The door opened. Vultures descended first. Bartholomew offered his hand with practiced charm.
I flipped the switch.
Glided down gracefully like I owned the cobblestones. Soft, demure smile. Bartholomew blinked, confused.
"Eleanor, dear." Cornelia's voice dripped loud enough for passing socialites. "Mind your temperament. We mustn't let your episodes ruin the afternoon. Try to stay with us, darling."
There it was. Planting lunacy seeds. Painting me fragile. Broken. In need of a husband's cage.
I spotted approaching nobles and cranked up the sugar.
"Why, Auntie, I feel wonderful." My voice cut through the crowd louder than hers, sweet as poison. "The grief was heavy, yes, but your unique care has brought me such peace. Don't you agree, my lady?"
The woman with the feather hat beamed at me, then at Aunt Cornelia's sour expression.
"Such a resilient girl, Lady Cornelia. I heard she was bed-bound. You've clearly done wonders. She looks remarkably sharp."
"Almost too sharp," Cornelia hissed under her breath.
I tilted my head with Oscar-worthy pity.
"Oh, Auntie, don't be modest. If I'm volatile, it's only because I'm so excited about the clarity I've found recently under your immense guidance. I feel like a whole new woman. Isn't it sweet how worried she is about my episodes? She's forgotten how much I've recovered."
Aunt Cornelia's face went through stages of anger in three seconds. As if she had been slapped with a wet fish freshly thawed from a broken refrigerator.
You think you can out-gaslight me?
I smiled at the perplexed lady.
"She means well."
The look on Cornelia's face was worth Eleanor's entire dowry.
I've survived the deepest pits of the internet, you dusty bitch.
Game on.