Dust motes dance in the pale shafts of morning light, settling upon the mahogany counter of the shop. Iris works alone, the rhythmic snip of her shears usually the only sound to grace the early hour. Today, however, a brown paper parcel sits before her like an unexploded shell. It arrived at dawn, damp with the city’s soot-heavy mist and smelling of the river.
She cuts the twine. The paper falls away to reveal Lady Cecily Ashburne’s dinner gown, a masterpiece of emerald silk Iris pinned just two nights ago. The fabric is cold. As it unfurls, the shimmering green gives way to a stiff, brownish crust at the hem. It is not mud. The metallic tang of dried blood rises from the folds, clashing with the faint, lingering scent of Cecily’s lavender water. She was wearing this when the carriage vanished.
Iris’s breath catches as she lifts the heavy bodice to inspect the craftsmanship. The silk is shredded at the waist, as if clawed. Her fingers trace the jagged path of a torn seam, moving toward the internal structure of the corset. The tension in her chest tightens. Her thumb hooks onto something cold and metallic hidden deep inside the lining.
