In the Atlantia Empire, it is every highborn lady’s ambition to impress at court—and what better way to do it than with clothing? Sure, one can dazzle with intellect and wit. You could have the highest rank, the most exquisite beauty, but if you aren't dressed to impress, if the people are not even looking at you, how are they to know? 

The pressure is on this year. It always is when it is almost the Atlantian Empire’s Founding Ball, simply referred to as the Imperial Ball, the pinnacle of formal occasions, but for the ladies, we have a single and available crown prince and he's ripe for the picking. Standing out from a sea of peacocks is no small undertaking, so I have especially commissioned the empire’s foremost haute couturier. She did my baptismal dress, my confirmation dress, and my debut gown, too.

There she is, gravity-defying powdered wig and pastel rococo frills and lace and all, a vision in the center of Eton Hall’s drawing room with its pastel-hued chinoiserie wallpapers, like she matched herself for this room. She is surrounded by her petit mains in all-white coats for a very special house call.

“My, my, my. Who is this beautiful stranger with a complexion as fair as a jade?” I greet her with open arms and two bissous on both cheeks. 

“My lady took the words right out of my mouth,” she returns with kisses to my cheeks and an affectionate squeeze on both my arms. She pulls away, still squeezing. “Oh my, have you been exerting yourself?”

I shrug. I have been so restless recently that I do yoga in my room to relax and then do more to psyche myself up in the mornings.

“Now, turn around,” she gestures, and I obey. “Are you trying to become a warrior?”

“I like feeling strong.”

“You are plenty strong. You are the only heir of the Dukedom of Westburgh,” she smiles, a sly one, as she leads me to the platform and three-way full-body mirror she brought. I lift my arms, and her petit mains disrobe me to just my French lace underpinnings. “And soon to be the crown princess of the Atlantan Empire.”

I scoff. “And the source of this preposterous rumor?” I keep gazing at my near-nude reflection. Apart from my firm arms, my collarbones have become prominent. I don’t even need a corset with how toned my stomach is.

“It appears to have been spread by someone from inside the palace itself. Do you know anyone from the palace?” Madame Antoinette whispers, and something makes her frown. “My lady, your waistline. 22 inches? Really? Anyway, I have new corsetry that will really bring out your ample breasts. It still has boning and pads, but it has a more snug closure using these unique little hooks.”

One assistant shows it to me and I nod. A corset that uses hooks instead of a lace-up and boning all the way down to the abdomen. Madame Antoinette puts swatches on my shoulder as the petit mains take my measurements in silence. One red silk taffeta, another in silver duchesse satin. She asks, "What is your intention?"

Red is the color of the Atlantian Empire. Red roses its emblematic flower. Silver is the dominant color in the crest of the Dukedom of Westburgh.

I make my choice. “The duchesse satin does wonders to my complexion, doesn’t it?” I point to silver. 

“Also, Madame Antoinette. I will wear my mother, the late duchess’ tiara and this,” I gesture to Sylvia as she brings out a large velvet chest and opens it. Inside, the statement piece I am wearing at the ball. 13 very rare and scarce pear-shaped rubies, increasing in size to the center—154 carats in total—suspended from natural pearls, diamonds and round rubies set in the shape of a lotus flower necklace.

Madame Antoinette’s jaw dropped—the very reaction I expect. I wink, “I like red, too.” These precious gems mined from the duke’s territories in the East, set without any enhancement to their shade and sparkle, remind me of Kalel’s eyes. 

But really, they are father’s latest import and it would be nice to mix the old and the new on a high profile occasion when I know all eyes will be on me.

Madame Antoinette reaches for the necklace but recoils when Sylvia pushes the box shut.

Sylvia hisses, “Just some inspiration.”

The petit mains now gather as Sylvia ushers them all out to have refreshments in any one of our gardens, leaving me and Madame Antoinette in the drawing room. This is how we’ve always done it. Me and the most well-connected fashion designer in the empire with all the first-hand scoop.

“For you, I have a story,” she says in a low voice while finishing up. “The Duke of Birmingham,” one of the four dukes in Atlantia and a benefactor of the tower. “He is dead.”

I ask, “Yet there is no news of his passing?”

She doesn't answer right away. As if in a trance, she cuts out a pattern and wraps a toile around my body in a fabric that behaves like the one I chose. It’s the couture way; made just for me, no surprises. 

This is the first time I am able to enjoy the couture process and really just be in the moment. Getting ready for my debutante ball, I was preoccupied with security and the duke’s health to make sure things won’t happen like in the original story. This is going to be my first ball as an adult where I am able to actually experience things.

Madame Antoinette creates sumptuous drapery around my chest, and pins and tucks it in all the right places on my waist, the humble muslin turning into an off-shoulder gown with a cinched waist with a center-front dip well below the natural waistline and an extravagant flowing skirt. She will keep the bodice free of embellishment, no embroidery, highlighting only the expensive fabric and the masterful drapery, opening up into layers of net and silk organza towards the hem of the skirt.

“It’ll draw all eyes to the tiara, the necklace, the boobs, ooh la la!” She exclaims, adding that she will sew diamante beads throughout the hem of the skirt "for balance."

I chuckle at her enthusiasm. “I have faith in you.”

We now sit down with the afternoon tea spread that had been laid out for us. I place a piece of jasmine on a teacup and pour hot water over it, the flower blooming before Madame Antoinette’s eyes as the flower infuses into the water. 

“Because he is not dead officially,” she whispers after solely sipping the tea, even if we are the only two people in the room. “I heard the most curious story from the duchess. The duke, an elderly man with some elderly illnesses in his 80s, of course he doesn’t have much time left. But he is a man obsessed with living forever, so much so that last year, he had the head wizard on retainer to create an elixir—or anything to give him eternal life.”

In place of popcorn, I bite into a macaron.

“The duke croaked. He is dead. Caput! The family gathered to read his will. The duchess, the young duke, the three daughters—they are not getting a penny, not even a paperweight or the clothes off their backs! All assets are to be inherited by Leon Archangel! Tensington Hall. All their estates. Their mana stone mines. This is why the duchess begged that I make dresses for her and her daughters for the Imperial Ball on loan. She is hoping the three girls can snatch some insurance during the Imperial Ball. The vassals don't know yet. The children say their father has not been himself all year, since he met that Leon Archangel—“

“Can Leon Archangel really do that?” I ask.

“Between you and me, he can get away with it. He is not giving in to the duchess' pleas. And he has every right not to. In the mean time, the body of the duke is being preserved by taxidermy. It is very hush-hush, but this was the Duchess of Birmingham’s guarantee to me. Only until they can straighten the matter of the inheritance and then his body will be buried with respects.”

I cringe. “This Leon Archangel is not to be trusted.” As if I don't already know.

“Absolutely. I heard about how he and his men attacked Eton Hall the day after your debutante ball! How rude. But that was only the beginning. It seems he is laying the groundwork for one grand plan. You know, he keeps popping up in the grapevine. And with the Duke of Birmingham’s resources to fund god knows what, he is unstoppable. And what is the crown prince doing about this? Nothing! Even one of my girls is unable to work. Right when it’s Imperial Ball season!”

Before I’m even able to ask, she takes a deep breath before going on. “One of my sewers lives with her father and brother who operate a mercenary guild. I suppose it’s a mix of decent work and some funny business, but anyway, it was attacked yesterday and everyone was abducted! They all disappeared but left behind my girl. The authorities are keeping it hush hush. They say it was the work of some powerful black magic, as powerful as Leon—“

I have so many questions, but I stop at one. “How do they know?”

“Whoever it was made no effort to cover up their tracks, traces of black magic everywhere—”

“And the girl from your atelier?”

“She is alive and one piece, but I’m afraid she is not all there. But of course, it’s only been a day and it must have been traumatic. She has a crazed look in her eyes. And when she isn’t asleep, she is blubbering, chanting this silly phrase over and over—“

“What—” I calm down. “What is she saying?”

Madame Antoinette hesitates. “I really shouldn’t,” and finally whispers. “‘Kill Kalel! Kill Atlantia!’”

I froze. All I could say was, “That’s crazy.”

“Outside, I’m traveling with knights, but maybe I should hire a wizard in my security team, too! Would you believe that in just a year, the empire has become such an unsafe place?”

I cut our conversation short saying that I was feeling lightheaded. We exchanged our farewells, and I made up my mind to confront Kalel. 

But first, I head back to my bedroom to freshen up. What should I ask him first? Talking about feelings seems frivolous now. Should I ask him about this alarming demon business? Wouldn't it be suspicious how I came to the conclusion to ask him?

I enter through my anteroom, and on my desk is a familiar-looking object that clearly wasn’t there before. With all the creepiness from Madame Antoinette’s stories still in mind, I approach slowly with my body in defense mode. 

It’s a hardbound book with its title in gold cursive font: Butler, Where Are You Touching?