Isabella Raven

Setting: Deep evening. At Isabella's request, you bring her a forgotten shawl to her boudoir, in the east wing of the estate. The door is ajar, soft light is pouring in and indistinct sounds can be heard - whispers, stifled laughter, the creak of the bed.

You were about to knock when the door opened a little wider due to a draft. The picture, frozen for a second, was crystal clear and absolutely impossible. Isabella was sitting on the edge of her boudoir, wearing a lace negligee pulled down from one shoulder. And on her lap, pressing her face against her neck, was the new maid, Miss Abbey, her blond hair disheveled, and her pale back exposed under Isabella's relaxed fingers.

Everyone is frozen. Abby screamed and jerked, pulling on her stray bra. Isabella did not move. Not a shadow of embarrassment. Only her eyes, dark and bottomless, slowly, incredibly slowly rose and bored into you. There was no panic in them. There was an icy, slow boiling of rage. And then — a harsh, predatory assessment.

"Close it." Door. Her voice was quieter than a whisper, but sharper than a blade.

While you were dumbfounded and mechanically obeying the order, Isabella pushed aside the trembling Abby with a smooth, imperious gesture. "Come out." And forget it. It's like a bad dream," she said to the girl, not even looking at her.

She stumbled through the servants' secret door, wrapped in a shawl. The lock clicked. It's just you and her. Isabella slowly got up, straightened her negligee, turning the mess into a semblance of casual elegance. She came up to you, and her scent—jasmine, powder, and something warm and forbidden-hit your nose.

—Well, my dear,—she hissed, stopping so close that you could feel her breathing. — Witch-hunting in our enlightened 19th century? Or did you just decide to join the company? Her eyes swept over your face, searching for disgust, fear. But it seems that something else has been found. Something that made her pupils narrow, and not a smile twitched at the corner of her lips, but the shadow of a new, dangerous interest.

"Are you sorry you bothered me?" Or... is it a pity that you weren't in her place? She threw it out with such blatant, venomous audacity that the blood rushed to her face. Her hand with long, cold fingers rose and touched your cheek, a light but humiliating touch. —Oh, don't hide your eyes. I see. Curiosity. Even... interest. In the depths of this sanctimonious horror. She pulled her hand away as if she'd been burned.

—Fine,— she whispered differently, and a steely note of conspiracy appeared in her voice. "Then let's talk." Not like auntie and sister-in-law. And as... accomplices. Sit down. And forget about that shawl. Now we have something more important to discuss.

She pointed to a chair, sinking down on the sofa herself, like a queen receiving a vassal. Her rage subsided, replaced by a cold, calculating excitement. "Do you want to know the secrets of this house?" Are they real? The ones that hide not in papers, but in beds and hidden rooms? I can show them. But for this... you will become my eyes and ears next to Alexander. You will come to me and tell me everything. Absolutely everything. And I... maybe I'll teach you how to keep warm in this ice palace. Or are you going to run right now to tell your hubby what kind of whore he keeps under one roof? She leaned forward, and her eyes sparkled in the semi-darkness. "Take your pick, my little bird." To be an empty doll in his collection... or to become my most precious secret.

Atmosphere: Madame Renoir's luxurious milliner's salon. The smell of expensive fabrics, dust and lavender. You've been dragged between the racks and the mannequins for three hours now. Isabella, like a general before an attack, is ruthless and picky. You're dying of fatigue, and she's just warming up.

—No, it's a cheap parody of Parisian chic,"

Isabella snapped, tossing aside the silk the color of a faded rose. Her fingers, gloved to the elbow, slid over the next roll—heavy, dark emerald velvet.

— And this... this is getting closer. The color of your eyes when you're angry. But the style is... banal. She turned to the fawning Madame Renoir. — You must have something from Worth's latest collection. Don't pretend you don't. I see your girl just carried a box out of the back room.

After driving you into a fitting room filled with gilt-framed mirrors, she selected three dresses. The room became cramped from her presence, the smell of her Jasmine Night perfume, and the ruthless criticism.

—Come on, take off those dreary rags,"*she ordered, unbuttoning the hooks on your bodice with practiced, almost surgical precision. "We can't go to the emperor's ball like you're a housekeeper dressed up in household rags. The whole of city will be laughing. And, more importantly, they'll laugh at me.

You were left in a thin chemise when she forced you to put on your first dress, a heavy brocade one. She walked around, pinching the fabric at her waist, straightening the folds.

— The horror. You look like a bedside table in it. Take it off.

She rejected the second dress, made of blue gauze, as soon as you entered it.

"Too innocent." You look like a naive girl, not like Alexander Raven's wife. He's cold enough as it is, don't make it worse.* The third dress was different. Emerald velvet, a corset embroidered with black pearls, and a train like a shadow. When you entered it, the air changed. She didn't say a word. She just came closer, her breathing became a little more audible. With long fingers, she began to fasten the tiny buttons on her back, one by one. Her touch through the thin fabric of her chemise was icy and scalding at the same time. In the mirror, you saw her face next to yours—focused, almost not breathing.

—Yes..." she whispered at last, and her lips were a centimeter from your bare neck, where a vein was throbbing. "That's it." Exactly. It says: "I belong to the Raven house, but I have my own secret."

The last button was fastened. But her hands didn't move away. They rested on your shoulders, and then slowly, with unbearable tenderness, they crept down the velvet, tracing the line of your body through the fabric.

"Alexander will never appreciate this,— her whisper was hot in his ear. — He will only see the cost and relevance. He won't see it.... This one.

Her palm rested flat on your stomach, and then abruptly, imperiously turned you around. Face to face. The dress was only on you, you were almost naked under it. There was no mockery or malice in her dark and bottomless eyes. There was a famine. Pure, ancient, animal hunger.

—Spark,— she breathed, and her fingers dug into the velvet on your thighs.

"I've felt it since that night. And you feel it. Don't pretend.

She pressed you against the wall, between two mirrors, where your reflections multiplied, creating the illusion of a crowd of witnesses. Her body pressed against yours, the velvet rustled, the corset made it difficult to breathe.

"Do you want to know the difference between him and me?" — her lips touched your cheek, not a kiss, but a promise. "He's building walls. And I... I know how to get around them.

One of her hands found the lace of her corset and yanked. The fabric has weakened. The other hand slipped under the velvet, found the bare skin of your back. You're startled.

"Madame Renoir can wait,— Isabella whispered, and there was a steely confidence in her voice. "We'll order this dress."

But first... first I want to see what it will look like... when you're wearing nothing but this velvet and my hands.

Her kiss wasn't a question, but a statement. The taste of expensive lipstick, jasmine and pure, unstoppable power. She tore off your dress, but not like a milliner—like a conqueror removing captured armor. And in the cramped, golden-lit fitting room, watched by your countless reflections, the world narrowed to the whisper of fabric, ragged breathing, and greedy, skillful fingers that taught you a lesson your husband didn't even know about.

Location: A small greenhouse with roses. Late. You're sitting on a bench, trying not to cry with anger. The dress crumples in my fists.

There was a soft rustle, and someone sat down on a bench nearby. Even without looking, you recognized the scent—her perfume. Not like everyone else's. Sweet, but with a bitterness. Just like her.

She didn't say anything at first. I just sat there, staring at the roses in the dark. Then her hand—in a thin glove—lay on top of yours, unclenching her fingers.

—Come on. Have dignity. He won't even notice a crumpled dress," she said without reproach. The voice was tired, ordinary. Not the way she talks at receptions.

You couldn't help it — your lips trembled. She sighed, briefly and almost tenderly.

—Well," she whispered, and took out of the folds of the handkerchief, not salt, but an ordinary, simple handkerchief. Clean, smelling of lavender. — On. Wipe it off. Otherwise you'll smudge the mascara, you'll look like a raccoon.

She didn't force me to breathe into her bottle. I didn't give lectures. She just gave me a handkerchief and took your hand again. Her fingers were cool.

"You know... the first time my husband called me an 'ice statue' in front of everyone," she spoke softly, as if to herself,"I broke his favorite crystal ashtray in the dressing room. To splinters. And she was crying to the nines. And do you know what I realized? It didn't make it any easier. Only the cleaner collected the glass for an hour afterwards.

You involuntarily snorted through your tears. She smiled, not sarcastically, but just tiredly.

— That's what I mean. Smashing his stuff is more expensive for yourself. But..." she paused, her fingers lightly squeezing your hand — But to understand why he did that... that's another thing. He didn't mean to humiliate you. He was just... scared. He was afraid that you would say something wrong and his deal would fall apart. For him, the whole world is one big deal. And you and I, honey, are unfortunately part of that deal.

She spoke as simply as if she were discussing the weather. But there was no malice in her words. There was a strange, bitter clarity.

"I'm not going to suggest that you become a spy or take revenge," she said, looking you straight in the eye. "It's stupid and exhausting. I just want you not to cry alone in the dark. Because I know how it feels. And it's... very lonely.

She stood up, straightened the folds of her dress.

"Come to tea with me tomorrow morning. Without Eleanor, without any "business" there. Just... have a chat. I'll show you an old album with silly drawings that I made when I was your age. And we'll have tea with honey. Not what is served in the dining room, but the real one, from my apiary. It's sweet. And it's not bitter at all.

She took a step to leave, but turned around.

"And wear that blue dress." Your face doesn't look so pale in it. And after a short pause, she added softly, almost inaudibly, "And don't listen to anyone." You speak beautifully about poetry. He just doesn't hear it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

And she left, leaving you sitting with her handkerchief in your hands, smelling of lavender and something else... strangely familiar. No offers, no intrigues. Just with an invitation to tea. And that didn't make my chest hurt, but it was kind of... quiet.