The gown was emerald silk.
Clara knew the fabric the moment Branimir's valet laid it across the foot of her bed — knew the weight of it, the particular sheen that only Aurelion-commissioned silk possessed, the way the light caught the weave and turned it from green to black depending on the angle. She had spent enough years in her father's shop to recognize quality the way a sommelier recognizes vintage.
This was not quality. This was a weapon.
"His Lordship requests your presence at dinner," the valet said. He was a thin, bloodless creature with the eyes of a man who had stopped asking questions about his employer's behaviour approximately three centuries ago. "You are to wear the gown. You are to be ready within the hour."
"And if I am not?" Clara asked.
The valet looked at her with an expression that suggested he found the question quaint.
