Chapter 47. The Dress

The dress lay stretched across the couch like a ghost.

Margherita stood before it, hands clasped at her sides. The morning light from the tall windows caught on the torn veil and the faint singe marks near the hem.

Her fingers drifted forward, brushing the lace. The fabric was soft—too soft for what it represented. Fine silk, delicate lace, pearl buttons trailing like a spine down the back. Even ruined, it was beautiful.

A dress meant to bind her, not adorn her.

Gabriella stood beside her, eyes bright with ideas. “It’s still in good shape,” she said eagerly. “If I unpick the seams, I can use the silk. Maybe for my design project. It’d be such a waste to throw it away—”

“No.” Margherita’s voice came sharper than she intended.

Gabriella blinked, startled.

Margherita’s gaze stayed fixed on the dress. “No one should wear this again. It’s… oppressive.”

Rosa, standing near the doorway, crossed herself softly. “It’s probably bad luck, anyway.