Miss Alice Heywood

[myvelvetvows]

you do not know me but rest assured i know you, MISS ALICE HEYWOOD. you are the MODISTE AT QUEEN ANNE’S LACE & SILK. you maybe be known for your OPTIMISM but it is only a mask for the true nature of your OPPORTUNISTIC ways. however, i am not here to spread slander on the queen’s jewels, though i suspect you are her CITRINE. the ton says your name reminds them of A WARM SMILE, A WELL-LOVED THIMBLE PASSED DOWN THROUGH GENERATIONS, THE SCENT OF LAVENDER AND FRESH LINENS, A PILE OF SKETCHBOOKS OF HER DRESS DESIGNS, A LISTENING EAR WHILE SEWING, BRIGHT DETERMINED EYES. how scandalous! you have been warned, dear reader, that i will prove if this is true and share every last detail.

wc.

basics

full name: miss alice elizabeth heywood

nicknames:  none.

gender:  cisfemale

pronouns:  she/her

sexuality:  bisexual

age:  twenty-eight

date of birth:  july 24th

zodiac sign:  leo

occupation:  dressmaker, owns her own modiste

appearance:

faceclaim:  nadia parkes

height:  5′ 6″ (167.64 cm)

build:  petite and slender

eyes: striking, deep, expressive brown eyes

hair: beautiful, smooth dark brown hair that falls in soft waves

other distinguishing features:  none.

style: timelessly graceful yet practical, offering a balanced combination of creativity, optimism, and grounded realism.

personality:

traits:  confident, ambitious, positive, creative, charismatic, observant, independent, practical, realistic, shrewd, manipulative, compassionate, stubborn, overly proud, attention-seeking, distrustful, and perfectionist.

labels / tropes:  self-made woman, the fashionista, the visionary, ambitious underdog,

likes:  making dresses, reading, fashion, socializing, dressing up other people.

dislikes  mud, rain, deception, poor fashion choices, unsolicited advice.

fears:  failure, losing her brother, rejection

phobias:  the dark, small spaces

hobbies:  sketching, dancing, journaling

skills:  sewing, needlepoint, drawing, communication

quirks:  constantly adjusting her appearance, over-the-top compliments

pet peeves:  poorly made clothes, disorganization, being underestimated

relationships:

mother:  miss unamed heywood, deceased.

father:  mister unamed heywood, deceased.

siblings:  mister oliver heywood, older brother.

spouse / lover:  tbd.

children:  none.

pets:  a small white cat that hangs around the shop, millie.

best friend: tbd.

rival: tbd.

crushing on:  william erwood (unrequited on his end)

nemesis:  tbd.

origins:

Born in the summer, Alice Heywood came into the world in the quaint seaside town of Brighton, England. The youngest of two, she had an older brother, Oliver, who was eleven years her senior. Their parents, though not wealthy, provided for their children with love and care. alice's early years were filled with the joy of being cherished by a tight-knit family, yet that blissful innocence would not last. From a young age, alice exhibited an unusual knack for fashion. At just six years old, she began to demonstrate a natural talent for sewing. The art of design seemed to flow from her fingertips without the need for formal training. Her thread would dance along the fabric, stitching delicate seams and creating beautiful patterns. alice’s skill was something her mother took notice of early on, though they had no means to truly nurture her talent. alice and her brother Oliver went to work for a wealthy noble family living just outside Brighton a few years later. The family had no daughters of their own, and alice’s beauty and youthful charm quickly caught the eye of Lady of the house, who found herself entranced by alice's budding creativity. alice often spent her hours in the noblewoman’s private rooms, learning how to embroider, make lace, and even design simple dresses. The Lady of the House, seeing the girl’s potential, took her under their wing, offering a safe haven for her in their grand estate. Though alice adored the opportunity to grow in such a refined environment, she remained quiet and humble, always trying to stay in the background, ensuring she did not ruffle any feathers in the presence of the aristocratic household.

When alice was nine years old, disaster struck. Scarlet fever swept through their hometown, and within a few short weeks, both of their parents succumbed to the illness. The loss was a crushing blow for alice, who was left to grieve without the guidance of those who had raised her. She felt a deep sense of loneliness and uncertainty, unsure of what her future would hold. Oliver, always protective, became her only family, the only tether to a life she now struggled to understand.

In the years that followed, alice became more closely bound to Lady of the House, who treated the girl like the daughter she never had. Under the lady’s guidance, alice was not only taught the finer points of fashion design but also received a formal education, an unusual privilege for a young woman of her social standing. alice learned to read, write, and even became proficient in French, history, and literature. Knowledge few in her class would ever dream of acquiring. She was surrounded by the wealth and elegance of noble life, and in those days, her dream of creating beautiful fashion felt more attainable than ever. Despite the comforts of her life with the country, alice always carried the yearning to prove herself in the bustling world of London. She had seen the grandeur of nobility, but now she longed for the opportunity to display her skill to the Ton. In her heart, she knew that her destiny lay beyond the confines of her comfortable position.

As alice grew older, her talent as a dressmaker flourished. She carefully crafted beautiful gowns for Lady of the House, learning to perfect every stitch and flawlessly finish each piece. Her dreams of one day becoming a renowned modiste in London were never far from her thoughts, but it was her brother, Oliver, who took the bold step. In a hasty decision, Oliver found work with the Thorpe family, another noble house in London. Seeing it as their best chance to make a fresh start, Oliver insisted they leave Brighton behind, and the Heywoods set off for London.

Upon their arrival in the capital, alice was introduced to Lady May’s, one of the most well-known fashion houses in London. Armed with a glowing letter of recommendation, she was quickly given a chance to work for the prestigious establishment. However, things soured when alice found herself at odds with owner, who felt threatened by her talent. alice, though young and inexperienced in the world of business, would not be controlled. In a dramatic falling out, alice left Lady May’s employ, determined not to let a woman with such a short-sighted view hold her back. With her savings from her time at Lady May’s, alice made a bold decision. She opened her own modiste shop in the heart of London. With her sharp eye for detail, innovative designs, and refined skills, she quickly built a reputation as one of the most talented dressmakers in the city. Though she started with little more than her craftsmanship and a few loyal patrons, her ambition and drive soon paid off.

Now, at the age of twenty-eight, alice stands on the precipice of greatness. She’s no longer the quiet, modest girl from Brighton, but a self-assured young woman determined to show London’s Ton that a girl from the seaside could become the fashion icon of the century. She's sacrificed a lot to get where she is, and won't let anything or anyone ruin her chance at greatness.

[bastien-landry]

Bastien adjusted the roll of brocade beneath his arm with a gentle care that bordered on reverence, as though it were not simply fabric, but the future shape of something beautiful. Alice’s words brushed against him lightly at first—teasing, coy, well-placed. And then, like a fine needle, they pierced. The Whitlocks. Ah. There it was. Just for a moment, the world around him stilled, and Bastien's fingers tightened, ever so slightly, against the silk. Not enough to wrinkle it—he was far too composed for that. But enough that, had one been looking closely, they might have seen the flicker of something beneath his usually serene expression. A shadow. A memory. A name spoken too often behind closed doors. Still, he smiled. The sort of smile that was not too wide, not too cold. Precisely measured. His gaze turned toward Alice with that soft, polished charm that diplomacy required of him. “Mais bien sûr, I have heard of them,” he replied in his low, accented English, lilting with just the right trace of amusement. “Who in Mayfair has not?” He let out a quiet chuckle, eyes crinkling faintly. “One would think scandal the lifeblood of the Season.” He did not answer her question directly. Not quite. Instead, his gaze drifted up, toward a passing cart laden with tulips and foxglove, then returned to her, glimmering with a warmth not altogether untouched by mischief. “But perhaps I am a poor judge of such things, mademoiselle. I am an artist. We live not in the messes, but in what they inspire.”

He turned, leisurely, continuing their walk toward the shop. “Though I must confess, I find myself far more fascinated by what you create.” His voice softened, the air between them seeming to shift, as if a thread had been tugged. “To take cloth and thread and conjure something that moves with a woman’s every breath... that is no small magic.” Bastien looked at her then, head tilted slightly, the weight of his gaze thoughtful—almost reverent. “I recall the gown you made for my cousin Maude,” he said. “She wore it to Lady Tinsley’s garden soirée. Green as new spring. She looked… rayonnante. Radiant.” He stepped closer by a mere inch, just enough to be noticed. “Tell me, chère Alice, how does a woman with such elegance of hand come to understand beauty so intimately? Is it instinct—or is it a kind of secret you’ve decided not to share with the rest of us?” His words were not hurried. They were offered with the gentleness of someone used to treading carefully—but capable, when drawn out, of sincerity that lingered long after the moment passed. The Whitlocks could wait. Bastien had always preferred beauty to bitterness.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice’s cheeks did, in fact, flush—but only slightly, only briefly. She would never give a man the satisfaction of more than that, no matter how poetically he pronounced rayonnante. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a flick that might’ve seemed absentminded if it weren’t so perfectly timed. It gave her the space she needed to tilt her head and meet his gaze with something equal parts amusement and calculation. “Charm and brocade,” she mused lightly, eyes glinting. “You carry both so effortlessly, Monsieur Bastien. I wonder—do you know just how disarming you can be, or do you simply let the accent do the work?” She was teasing, of course. But her voice softened near the end, warm and edged with genuine curiosity. Because he was warm, wasn’t he? Not cold like so many of Mayfair’s men, who wrapped their pride in cynicism and thought it cleverness. Bastien, by contrast, was the kind of clever that snuck up on you. Like silk hiding structure. Gentle—but not weak. No, never that. “I find beauty where it suits me to find it,” she said, allowing her gaze to drift ahead, toward the shop’s awning visible just beyond a row of hedges. “Sometimes it’s in the curve of a seam or the fall of a train. Other times it’s in the way someone wears a thing. Not just how it fits their shoulders—but their eyes. Their voice. The way they laugh when they forget to be careful.” She glanced back at him, just long enough to let that thought hang in the air like perfume.

“I’ve done little enough with menswear,” she admitted, her tone turning breezy again, “but I am rather good with color. You, for example…” She paused, letting her eyes rake across his coat—not lewdly, but with the practiced discernment of a woman who saw not just fabric, but what it could be. “...could wear a slate-blue with ease. Or something with depth. Not gaudy, no. You’re not the type to shout in silk. But something that makes people look twice. That draws the eye not with flash, but... with gravity.” She smiled again, just a hint sharper now. “You know, the sort of color that would make your eyes look even more like they belong in a painting.” And yes, that was flirting. Subtle. But definite. They reached the corner of the shop, and she slowed her steps, brushing her skirts into place. “But you haven’t answered my question, you know,” she said, glancing sidelong at him as she reached for the door. “Do you mean to be this charming, Bastien? Or is it simply a very elegant accident?”

[scandalinsilk-deactivated202506]

Felix did not sit—not yet. He stood like a man admiring a painting that had unexpectedly stared back, tilting his head with the sort of half-smile that made women forget themselves and men distrust him on sight. One hand rested loosely on the curve of her booth’s awning, the other holding the lace she’d noticed, though now he treated it as an afterthought. His gaze, by contrast, was anything but. “A fall?” he echoed, his voice laced with the soft rasp of amusement, like velvet dragged across stone. “Miss—oh, forgive me. I ought to say Madame, oughtn’t I? One does not summon ribboned miracles from nothing without the proper title. Madame Alice, then—if I may be so bold. You do me too much credit. I would not fall before your ribbons.” A pause. “I would kneel.” He let the word settle—flippant, certainly, but not without weight. His eyes danced, but there was calculation behind the sparkle. He was watching her. Not just her face, but the tension in her fingers, the flick of her eyes, the shift of her weight.

Every woman flirted. Not every woman held court in a booth at a horse race with the confidence of a duchess and the foresight of a general. He found it maddeningly attractive. “I must confess,” he continued, lowering himself into the chair across from her with the sort of deliberate nonchalance only years of social warfare could teach, “I did not come for ribbons. Nor did I come for hearts. Though if one must break, I hope you’ll allow me to be present for the shattering. It seems only fair. No, I came because someone whispered that you had erected a tent in the lion’s den and dared to drape it in damask. That is not fashion, Miss Alice. That is theatre. And I, as you know, am rather partial to that.” He reached out, not to touch her—he was no fool—but to lift a fold of the lavender silk between ink-stained fingers. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger with the absent intimacy of a man too used to letting texture speak where sentiment might betray him. “You dress the Ton better than they deserve,” he said, tone gentling. “But you watch them as if you know exactly who deserves what.”

A beat.

Then: “Which means you’ve likely read me already. Filed me under ‘Dangerous nonsense’ or perhaps ‘Likely to stain.’ And yet, here I am, unrepentant.” He leaned back slightly, arms draped over the chair like he was lounging on the edge of some precipice. “I rather hoped you might humor a man with poor reputation but excellent taste.” His smile returned—not the wolfish grin the papers gossiped about, but a quieter thing. Something curious. Something almost honest, if such a thing could be imagined from him. “I don’t mean to play, Miss Alice,” he said softly. “But if we are already in a game… I find I would rather play it with you.” He held her gaze a heartbeat longer than polite, then stood again, ever the gentleman—if a gentleman had once stolen poetry from a priest and slipped it into a mistress’s corset.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice had always loved a stage—whether hemmed in damask or candlelit velvet—and Felix Everley knew just how to set one. Her smile bloomed slow, a knowing curve of lips painted to perfection, calculated for effect but no less genuine in its amusement. She didn’t rise to greet him—she didn’t have to. Not when her posture, all easy grace and feline stillness, did the work of a curtsy without her moving an inch. "Madame," she echoed with a murmur, lifting her chin just slightly. "How decadent that sounds. Almost theatrical, don’t you think? I ought to demand incense and footmen next." And yet his words lingered—the kneel, especially. That one nearly made her forget herself, and he knew it. The rogue. But Alice Heywood had danced through London’s ballrooms and bartered with countesses in corsets far tighter than this moment. She let the flutter pass behind her ribcage and folded her hands neatly in her lap, one thumb idly stroking the knuckle of the other. Composure, darling. Always.

“You talk as though you’ve seen my ledger,” she said, tone warm and teasing, but sharpened with precision. “And yet if you had, I imagine you’d still be here. Flirting, even as your name is scrawled under Likely to Stain—with two underlines, I might add.” She let him sit. Let him examine her fabric like a man pretending not to memorize its scent. Let him speak of theatre, of hearts, of danger and taste. Alice tilted her head as he spoke, lashes lowered, watching him through the veil of her own assessment. “I’ve seen you about the theatre,” she said at last, soft but deliberate. “Playwright, yes? All those words and not a single stitch among them. And yet here you are at a modiste’s booth, waxing poetic about silk.” Her gaze flicked to the fabric between his fingers. “Careful, Mr. Everley. If you’re not careful, I’ll believe you sincere. And wouldn’t that be the scandal of the season?”

She leaned forward just slightly—enough for him to smell her perfume, something with orange blossom and ambition—and let her voice drop into something conspiratorial. “If we are to play a game, sir, then I must ask—what are your rules? Do you play to win, or merely to watch others lose?” She let the question hang, like a length of ribbon caught in a breeze, before adding with a dimpled smirk: “Because if you kneel, Mr. Everley, I will not stop you. But you’ll forgive me if I wonder what, precisely, you think you’re kneeling for.”

[myvelvetvows]

Alice wasn’t used to silence. Not between them. Not in the spaces she shared with Edward St. George, who always had something irreverent on his tongue or some maddening, knowing look in his eyes that set her teeth on edge. Or used to. This—this silence was something else. It swelled around them, a fragile, trembling thing too easily shattered by the wrong word, and Alice, who was rarely at a loss for anything, found she had nothing. She should speak. She should mock the way he looked at her, the way his hand had lingered against her skin, warm and reverent like she was something sacred. It would be easy to sneer, to cut through the unbearable tenderness and pretend it hadn’t happened. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Because when he’d touched her — gentle, careful, like she was made of something precious — her breath had caught in her throat, and her pride, so often her shield, had cracked just enough for the truth to slip in.

She was falling. And she hated it.

It had been happening slowly. Too slowly. A shift she hadn’t noticed at first — a glance too long, a gesture too thoughtful. His attention to her had always been pointed, but lately, it had taken on a different shape. He noticed things about her no one else ever had. The way she worried her needle when she was designing. How she twisted her rings when she was thinking. He noticed her silences. He noticed her. And in this quiet alleyway, so close she could feel the heat of him, with her breath still uneven from the chase and the panic still lingering like smoke in her chest, all she could see was that look in his eyes. That raw, unguarded longing he was too much of a coward to name.

When he stepped back, it felt like a sudden chill. Like the air between them had turned to frost. Her heart clenched with it. Not the absence of his touch, but what it meant. He would not reach for her. He could look at her like she hung the stars in the sky, like she mattered in ways that terrified her—but he wouldn’t leap. He wouldn’t cross the space between them, not truly. And that, Alice understood too well. She had known men like that before. Men who wanted but never fought. Who desired, but never chose. And she had no more time for cowards, no more space in her soul to beg someone to be brave enough for her.

So she did what she always did. She straightened her spine, smoothed the expression from her face, and closed the door on everything tender and dangerous that had almost just happened. “Would you mind escorting me to the inn?” she asked softly, her voice calm, almost cool — a tone that felt too empty for what sat bruised beneath her ribs. “I don’t feel entirely at ease returning to my shop tonight. Not with… earlier.” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t trust herself to. Not when his eyes could still hold her in place like that. Not when she wanted — God help her — to ask why he’d looked at her like she was worth something more than every cruel lie she’d been fed by the world.

It wasn’t rejection, not quite. But it was cowardice. And Alice Heywood had weathered too many storms to stand still for that. So she walked ahead, not waiting to see if he’d follow. Because of course he would. He always did. But this time, she wouldn’t let herself hope for anything more.

[edward-st-george-deactivated202]

Edward followed. Not right away—never that. There was a beat, a pause in the breathless quiet after her words where his limbs felt locked, like some fool puppet tangled in his own strings. The air between them was thick with the thing he hadn’t said, a presence all its own. Something unformed and unfinished. But then her footsteps turned, soft and decisive, and he moved. He always moved for her, didn’t he? Even when he shouldn't. Even when she didn’t ask. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The usual arsenal—the lazy grin, the biting jest, the disarming tilt of his head—felt hollow, blunted at the edges by something tighter in his chest. He’d been reckless his whole life, made a career out of it, but somehow this—touching her, wanting her—felt like leaping off a cliff with his eyes open. The kind of recklessness that came with consequences, the kind that left things behind when it all inevitably went to hell. And Edward didn’t leave things behind. He never let them close enough. Except her. God, except her.

She walked just ahead, her shoulders squared, her chin lifted in that way of hers that said she would never ask for comfort but needed it all the same. He knew that posture. He’d seen it in mirrors after his mother left, after his father stopped pretending to care. That proud, desperate shape you wore when the world dared you to flinch. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. But she’d asked for him. And it undid something in him that she had. He stayed a step behind. Close enough that she knew he was there, would always be there, but not close enough to touch. Not yet. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything he should’ve said. I saw you. I felt it too. I wanted to be brave. He wanted to call her name, to reach out, to bridge the space between them—but his hands stayed at his sides. Because what if she turned to him and saw the truth? That he didn’t know how to love anything he couldn’t also destroy. That all of his charm was a shield, and underneath it, Edward St. George was still just that boy who learned the safest way to survive was never to need. So instead, he walked to the inn in silence. It was the only thing he had the courage to give.

The End.

[myvelvetvows]

THE END.

[scandalinsilk-deactivated202506]

closed starter @myvelvetvows || the baron’s cup

Felix had never cared much for horses, but he had an affinity for spectacle—and the Baron’s Cup was little more than a garden of egos dressed in silk and splashed in sunlight. He moved like something painted in motion: a flick of silver embroidery at the cuff, a smile just a shade too knowing. And then he saw her. Alice Heywood, stationed like a queen in miniature behind her modest stand of ribbons, lace, and careful ambition. Whistledown had sung of her cleverness with just enough poison to make her sound interesting, which was all the invitation Felix required.

He approached with the deliberation of a cat nearing a birdcage—not to attack, not yet, but to circle and admire the ingenuity of the trap. “Miss Heywood,” he purred, the syllables rolling off his tongue like velvet down a banister. “You’ve done something positively wicked. Placing yourself between the betting booths and the brandy—as though you didn’t know exactly what kind of man would stumble into your net.” His gaze drifted over her wares, but only because it was too bold to rest on her mouth.

He picked up a bit of lace, delicate as spider silk, and turned it between his fingers. “Do your creations merely bind the body, or do they also tether the heart? Because I must confess, I feel… quite undone.” The smile he offered was dazzling and deliberately insincere, a gleam of mockery dressed up as flattery. But beneath the performance, his eyes watched her carefully—measuring the cut of her mind, the stitch of her restraint. “If you tell me you’ve nothing in your possession that might help a man recover from a lifetime of romantic ruin, I’ll have no choice but to commission a tragedy in your name.” He set the lace down gently, then added with a conspiratorial air, “And I do write very compelling women.”

[myvelvetvows]

Alice didn’t rise to greet him. She sat poised, her fingers stilling over a swatch of rose damask ribbon as she studied the man who had just made himself the centerpiece of her morning. Felix Everley. He walked as though the world was a play staged for his amusement—and everyone else merely a line to be delivered or forgotten. She had never spoken to him before, but his reputation preceded him like the scent of some rich cologne—intoxicating, elaborate, and utterly unreliable. Her smile came slowly, like silk unspooling. “Mr. Everley,” she said, his name like spun sugar on her tongue, soft but with a hint of steel beneath it. “I confess, I had no idea my modest ribbons held such power. I ought to warn the others—they may faint from the sheer romance of it all.” Her gaze flicked to the lace he held, then back to his face. “Though I suppose if anyone were to fall so dramatically, it would be you.”

He was charming. Almost expertly so. And handsome, naturally—but Alice had learned long ago that beauty was the least trustworthy of currencies. Still, there was something beguiling in the way he watched her, a challenge in the tilt of his smile that begged to be matched, not dismissed. So she met it with measured warmth, all while keeping her calculations close to the chest. A man like him could burn down a reputation faster than a torn hem could unravel a gown. And she had worked too hard for hers. “I’m afraid I carry nothing to mend hearts. Only gowns,” she said with a soft shrug, arranging a display of lavender-tinted silk with deliberate care. “But I daresay if you’re in the business of ruin, you’ll find no shortage of inspiration among the Ton. Should I become your next heroine, do let me be sure she dresses well. The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.” Her smile turned just a touch cooler then—still lovely, still bright, but with a glint of warning stitched into its corners. She would play his game, but she would not be played. Not by him. Not by anyone.

[marjoriecminerva]

Closed Starter! @myvelvetvows

Location: House of Alvarado's Baron's Cup Event

Caroline was thankfully given a break from the younger Sinclair cousins due to them running off with their servants for lemonade which left her alone until they returned.

She spotted a familiar face nearby and smiled as she approached.

"Alice! I'm so happy to see you! How are you?" She asked with a smile.

Despite the heat, she was still in good spirits... especially after she had secretly bet on the Sinclairs horse in the race.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice turned at the sound of her name, and upon spotting Caroline approaching, a rare, genuine smile bloomed across her features—one untouched by calculation or careful design. The sun caught in her hair, casting a soft glow that warmed her expression, and for a fleeting moment, the tightness she’d carried all morning melted away. She stepped forward with easy grace, her gloved hand extended in greeting. “Miss Caroline! What a delight.” Her tone was bright, edged with the kind of charm that made one feel like the center of a ballroom. “You’ve caught me in a moment of rare indulgence—I’ve stolen away from my shop to enjoy a bit of sunshine and the thrill of the races before I must return to pins and patterns.” Her gaze flicked over Caroline’s gown with a practiced eye, nodding in subtle approval. “I trust the dress has served you well? You wear it with such elegance, I daresay you’ve made my stitches jealous.”

She tilted her head, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “Should you find yourself in need of another gown—be it for an evening affair, garden party, or anything in between—I should be most honored to dress you again. Queen Anne’s Lace & Silk is always open to ladies of such fine taste.” Her words were wrapped in honey, but beneath them was a quiet hunger, the drive of a woman who built her livelihood from nothing and knew charm was as vital as skill. The sound of cheering rose in the distance, signaling the race was reaching its peak, but Alice lingered, soaking in the moment of lightness. “How lucky I am to have crossed paths with you today,” she said, her smile softening, almost sincere enough to forget how tired her feet were. “It is no small thing, to be reminded of the joy that walks among my clients, not merely the gowns I sew around them.”

[oforchestralsteel-deactivated20]

Who: @myvelvetvows for one, Miss Alice Heywood

Hunter had been trying to be on his best behavior. Truly. Simply put, just because someone else thought his best behavior should be keeping his thieving hands to himself did not mean that Hunter agreed. So maybe it was not the brightest of notions to do this after being outed for doing so with trying very little to redeem himself. Nor was it bright to tempt it all over paints of someone who was trying to capture a current piece of scenery. But there was adventure in it, excitement- and if Hunter was anything, it was an opportunist for excitement.

So when the painter had caught him (naturally so, Hunter was not exactly trying to not be caught), Hunter practically ran into the crowds and slid into the sight of another person. A lady. Did he know her? Not from what he could tell. “Pray. Could you help me? I need someone to merely keep speaking to me while someone who has been chasing me does not see my face. Sounds like a good deal? Seems like it to me, thank you so much.”

[myvelvetvows]

Alice didn’t so much as flinch when the rogue practically stumbled into her booth. Her hands continued fastening a line of pearl buttons to the bodice of an ivory gown, her needle never missing its mark. She had caught sight of him moments before he spoke—Hunter Thorpe, as shameless as ever, sweeping through the crowd with the glint of mischief in his eyes and trouble at his heels. The thief of Mayfair, they called him. And of course, it was her booth he thought to take refuge in. Typical. She tilted her head slowly, the faintest arch of her brow betraying amusement more than alarm. “A good deal?” she murmured, eyes never leaving the silk beneath her fingers. “I imagine that depends on who’s profiting.” Her gaze flicked to him then, sharp and knowing. “And I’ve heard you have quite the reputation for profit, Mister Thorpe. Though I can’t say I’ve seen any of it spent at my shop.”

He wasn’t the first charming scoundrel to darken her path, and she doubted he would be the last. But Alice Heywood was not a fool, and certainly not someone who gave favors freely—especially not to men who made their living slipping things into their pockets rather than out of them. Still, she didn’t wave him away. She was observant enough to see the painter searching the crowd behind him and shrewd enough to understand that keeping Hunter close, for the moment, might be more entertaining than sending him off. Without rising from her stool, she began to arrange a few swatches of embroidered tulle across the table, her tone casual but clipped. “So tell me, Mister Thorpe. What was it this time? A coin purse? A necklace? Or something far more useless, like pride?”

[ofsilksandchiffon]

closed starter — safiye & alice

"You seem like you're rather enjoying yourself." Taking a bite of her biscuit, she cocked a brow at the younger woman. There was meant to be only a few more hours of the Baron Cup. Surely, it was survivable. And after being able to spare some rather enjoyable moments with her match, Leyla was in a much better mood now than before.

Gesturing to the racing grounds, she continued on. "Are you a fan of riding? I'll admit, I'm quite a fan of the riders. All of them appear to be quite talented." In fact, she was bound to make one of their acquaintance again sometime soon. A certain Mister Demir, riding for the Kara House. She was quite excited for when that day will come. "At least the weather is nice. I cannot imagine all of this in the rain."

location: house of alvarado's baron cup

when: april 1813

who: @myvelvetvows

[myvelvetvows]

Alice let out a light laugh, her gloved fingers brushing a few stray crumbs from the edge of her gown as she turned her gaze toward the racing grounds. The crowd swelled with energy, voices rising in waves as hooves thundered past in the distance. “I’m enduring it well enough,” she said with a glimmer of dry amusement, though there was no malice behind it. Her tone was easy, practiced—warm with just the right hint of charm. “These events are hardly my preferred diversion, but they are necessary. The Ton loves its spectacle, and I love knowing what my future clients will be wearing while attending it.” She followed Leyla’s gesture, her eyes trailing the sleek blur of riders cutting through the track like arrows loosed from tightly drawn bows. “I will admit, the riders are… captivating, in their way. Graceful, daring, rather pleasing to the eye.” A knowing smile played at the corners of her lips, but it didn’t linger long. “Though I imagine the life of a jockey is less stable than the saddles they ride. Daring does not always pair well with longevity.” Her voice softened, her gaze briefly distant, before she looked back to Leyla. “Still, I do enjoy watching them fly. There’s something enviable about that kind of freedom, even if it lasts only a few fleeting moments.” She tilted her head back slightly, letting the spring sunlight warm her face for a beat. “Yes, the weather has certainly made the affair more tolerable. Mud is no friend to muslin or silk, I assure you. I would have had half a dozen young ladies weeping into their ruined hems by now had the skies turned.” Alice smiled again, this time more genuinely. “But it’s good to be out. I spend so much time tucked behind bolts of fabric, it’s nice to be reminded the world keeps turning beyond the stitch.”

[promisedhexvens]

who: millicent & alice ( @myvelvetvows ) where: the baron cup

The only way that Millicent would get through the day was with a couple glasses of wine. Whilst the stares and whispers from the other members of the ton had bothered her earlier that day, it wasn't the case now. She had very little cares now. in fact, she almost thought that she might be happy. With everything that had been going on - her brief reconciliation with Benedict for it to all blow up in her face - she had almost forgotten how that felt.

Her smile widened as she spotted Alice within the crowd. She was a new addition to the storefronts since Millicent returned to London but it had been one that Millicent had frequented quite a bit. If she was to return to the Ton fully, she needed to ensure that she was dressed her very best. They would already be talking about her, she wanted to give them less to talk about. The woman that she had found there was someone that Millicent truly found fascinating. She spoke about clothes in a way that Millicent could hardly fathom but it was glorious. And so she decided to go over to the other, "Miss Haywood." Millicent smiled. "This dress you made is truly wonderful." She glanced down at the garment that Alice had made for her. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

[myvelvetvows]

Alice turned at the sound of her name, and upon seeing Millicent, her eyes brightened with unmistakable delight. There were few things that pleased her more than seeing one of her creations come to life on a woman who understood its value—and Millicent wore her gown like it was spun from stardust and whispered scandal. The pale mauve silk hugged her figure with graceful confidence, the embroidered overlay catching the light with every subtle shift of movement. The neckline, just daring enough to stir curiosity but not outrage, framed her collarbones like a jeweler’s setting; the sleeve detailing—delicate as a lacewing’s wings—spoke of the hundred unseen hours Alice had poured into its design. And Millicent, with her chin lifted and wine-flushed cheeks glowing, was the very image of defiance dressed in elegance.

“My dear Miss Millicent,” Alice said, folding her hands together as her gaze swept over her with affectionate pride, “if the Ton must talk, let them speak of how ravishing you look today. That color on your skin, the cut at your waist—divine. You wear it not only with beauty, but with purpose. And that, I daresay, is more than half the battle.” Her tone was honeyed but sincere, the sort of praise Alice reserved for those rare clients who saw the gown as more than fabric—who wore intention as well as fashion. She gave a quick, amused glance toward the racecourse. “As for myself, I am surviving the day rather pleasantly. The races, I confess, hold little appeal to me—too much dust, too much shouting—but it is a rare thing to escape the clatter of my shop and see my work paraded about in the sunlight. It is good to be reminded why I do what I do.” Then, with a tilt of her head and that curious glint in her eyes that always meant she was studying more than just a hemline, she added warmly, “And you, Miss Millicent? Are you enjoying yourself?”

[edward-st-george-deactivated202]

Edward barely registered the words when they slipped from Alice’s lips — “thank you.” It was soft, almost as if she’d been afraid of speaking them, like the words were as unfamiliar to her as they were to him. The voice that had so often been sharp, quick with barbs or defiance, was now uncertain. Edward’s heartbeat, still pounding in his ears from the chase, dulled in comparison to the strange stillness in the moment. For a second, he almost didn’t know how to react. His first instinct was to listen for the danger still lurking in the shadows, but it wasn’t the sound of footsteps or the rustle of fabric that drew his attention. It was Alice. But then he saw it: her gaze shifting away from him. It was slight, barely perceptible, a simple tilt of her chin, but it cut through him like a blow. Alice Heywood, who never looked away, not even when the world was crashing down around her — Alice, who faced everything head-on — was pulling away from him. In that instant, it felt like the ground shifted beneath him. Something in his chest twisted, a sharp, unfamiliar pang that made him forget about the night’s dangers. Forget about everything but her.

Without thinking, he reached out. His fingers grazed her cheekbone, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, before he hooked a finger under her chin. It was a touch that felt almost reverent, like he was afraid she might break beneath him. He tilted her face back toward him, his thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw, trying to find the right words — or at least the right way to make her understand. “Don’t,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath. It was a word that slipped out before he even knew what he meant. His chest tightened with a kind of desperation, the need to hold her gaze, to make her stay with him, to make sure she knew she didn’t have to pull away. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, but neither of them moved. Alice’s eyes finally found his, wide and searching, dark in the dim light of the alley. She was so close now, so impossibly close that he could feel the warmth of her breath, quick and shallow, brushing against his lips.

There was no scorn in her gaze now, no defiance. There was just something raw and vulnerable, something he wasn’t sure he could understand but knew he couldn’t ignore. The world seemed to shrink around them until there was only the two of them standing in that alley, breathing the same air. Alice was not the delicate beauty the ton would have lauded. She wasn’t soft or gentle; she was fire and steel, the kind of woman who commanded attention with every step she took, a woman who never hid. But in that moment, she had, and it stirred something inside Edward, something that felt too dangerous to name. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to close the distance between them, to pull her into him, to feel the press of her against him, to hear her say anything at all that could ease the suffocating tension in his chest. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was, feeling the slight tremble in her frame, the way she fought to stay still under his touch, like she was afraid of what might happen if she didn’t. His thumb lingered against her skin for a moment longer, an unspoken promise that terrified him. He could feel the weight of it, the weight of everything he wasn’t saying, everything he was too afraid to admit. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, the games, the risks, the reckless flirtations… something shifted. But he couldn’t admit that aloud, not yet. The words felt too raw, too real, to be spoken now, and he was too much of a coward to admit them, even to himself.

Instead, he pulled back, slowly and reluctantly, his hand falling away from her chin. The absence of her warmth, the loss of the touch that had been so unbearably gentle, hit him harder than he cared to admit. It left him cold, hollow in a way he hadn’t known he could feel. He could have walked away. He could have made a joke, teased her the way he always did to deflect anything real. But he didn’t. He stayed. The truth had already passed between them, unspoken but understood. It was there, in the way he had touched her. In the way he hadn’t walked away. In the way he would carry this moment, this feeling, with him long after the night had ended.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice wasn’t used to silence. Not between them. Not in the spaces she shared with Edward St. George, who always had something irreverent on his tongue or some maddening, knowing look in his eyes that set her teeth on edge. Or used to. This—this silence was something else. It swelled around them, a fragile, trembling thing too easily shattered by the wrong word, and Alice, who was rarely at a loss for anything, found she had nothing. She should speak. She should mock the way he looked at her, the way his hand had lingered against her skin, warm and reverent like she was something sacred. It would be easy to sneer, to cut through the unbearable tenderness and pretend it hadn’t happened. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Because when he’d touched her — gentle, careful, like she was made of something precious — her breath had caught in her throat, and her pride, so often her shield, had cracked just enough for the truth to slip in.

She was falling. And she hated it.

It had been happening slowly. Too slowly. A shift she hadn’t noticed at first — a glance too long, a gesture too thoughtful. His attention to her had always been pointed, but lately, it had taken on a different shape. He noticed things about her no one else ever had. The way she worried her needle when she was designing. How she twisted her rings when she was thinking. He noticed her silences. He noticed her. And in this quiet alleyway, so close she could feel the heat of him, with her breath still uneven from the chase and the panic still lingering like smoke in her chest, all she could see was that look in his eyes. That raw, unguarded longing he was too much of a coward to name.

When he stepped back, it felt like a sudden chill. Like the air between them had turned to frost. Her heart clenched with it. Not the absence of his touch, but what it meant. He would not reach for her. He could look at her like she hung the stars in the sky, like she mattered in ways that terrified her—but he wouldn’t leap. He wouldn’t cross the space between them, not truly. And that, Alice understood too well. She had known men like that before. Men who wanted but never fought. Who desired, but never chose. And she had no more time for cowards, no more space in her soul to beg someone to be brave enough for her.

So she did what she always did. She straightened her spine, smoothed the expression from her face, and closed the door on everything tender and dangerous that had almost just happened. “Would you mind escorting me to the inn?” she asked softly, her voice calm, almost cool — a tone that felt too empty for what sat bruised beneath her ribs. “I don’t feel entirely at ease returning to my shop tonight. Not with… earlier.” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t trust herself to. Not when his eyes could still hold her in place like that. Not when she wanted — God help her — to ask why he’d looked at her like she was worth something more than every cruel lie she’d been fed by the world.

It wasn’t rejection, not quite. But it was cowardice. And Alice Heywood had weathered too many storms to stand still for that. So she walked ahead, not waiting to see if he’d follow. Because of course he would. He always did. But this time, she wouldn’t let herself hope for anything more.

[lstmorality]

open starter! where: in / around king's theatre

The theatre was one of his most favourite places on the planet. He had been now and again as a child, begged his parents to take him more but their responses always came with excuses. They were busy, he knows that now, but as a child he couldn't understand that. Emerson stood outside the theatre, taking in the beautiful architecture and it's surroundings. He was sure he had no talent as an actor, but he could appreciate those that did. Those that worked to bring stories to life for the audiences they performed to. He simply had to find out when the next performance was, and grab himself a prime ticket.

"Excuse me," he started, "Do you know what time the theatre opens? Or the ticket office? I simply must get a ticket to see a show, any show. It has been far too long since I've been graced with such pleasure." He was sure he had more important things to attend to here in London, but what was life without a little fun first? Emerson had to dip his toe in before diving into the waters, after all.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice Heywood emerged from the shadows of the theatre’s side entrance with a large garment bag slung over one shoulder and a portfolio under her arm, her expression poised and purposeful. She was dressed for practicality, but not without flair—a crisp walking dress of soft plum, tailored within an inch of perfection, and a hat adorned with a single daring plume. Her boots clicked smartly against the stone as she approached the main entrance, squinting slightly at the bright sky as if irritated that she’d been forced to leave her workroom in daylight. Still, her mood was lifted by the energy of the theatre. There was always a kind of electricity here, the scent of paint, sawdust, old velvet, and ambition mingling in the air. The actors were inside—tired, theatrical, hopelessly dramatic—and she adored them all, especially when they were in need of last-minute alterations. They paid well for panic.

She paused when she heard the voice of a gentleman nearby, tilting her head just enough to study him from beneath her lashes before turning toward him with the easy, luminous smile she wore like armor. “I imagine the ticket office opens in less time than it takes a lady to powder her nose, though that does depend on the lady,” she said, glancing over his shoulder at the theatre doors. “But if you are looking for a recommendation, tonight’s performance is a new comedy—and I would know, I stitched the trousers for the third act myself, which means if they split, I will be absolutely mortified.” There was a teasing light in her eye as she extended her gloved hand to him, her voice playful but tinged with calculation. “Miss Alice Heywood, modiste and sometime savior of theatrical disasters. And you are?”

[ofmelodiics]

Richard always loved watching Alice at work, it was like a work of art, the way her fingers danced so seamlessly with the needle. Even after everything that had happened between the two of them, watching Alice do what she loved always made the man happy because he loved seeing her be so passionate about something she had always wanted to do. Looking up at the woman he once loved in front of him, his tone grew a bit sadder than before. "What do you mean?" He wasn't entirely sure if that was something he could give her, not right now. "I have always cared about you, Alice, and I always will. However, what you're asking of me isn't something I can give you right now, I'm afraid. Don't you remember what happened the last time I tried to give you everything and more? It only led to heartbreak, and I can't do that to you, not again, I won't."

He noticed when her voice began to waver a bit, but said nothing about the subject. "I suppose that's what made us so compatible with one another before, we're both as stubborn as mules." He admitted with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood a bit. Truth be told, even if he and Alice couldn't be together, that didn't necessarily mean he didn't want to be her friend or at least try his best to be. "Alice.." He knew that what she had meant wasn't meant as an attack, but more of an observation, although he knew that there had been some truth to her words. As her eyes met his, he scratched the back of his head at the other's question back at him. "Am I happy? I suppose I am about as happy as any man can truly be when their entire life has been written for them from a young age."

[myvelvetvows]

The afternoon light filtered softly through the bare trees, casting pale shadows over the park as Alice stood still, her arms folded tightly across her bodice as if holding herself together. The ache inside her was familiar now, a quiet, persistent wound she had learned to hide beneath layers of ambition and pride. She listened to Richard’s words, to the sadness he wore like a badge of honor, and felt a weary, inevitable resignation settle deep into her bones. “You speak of heartbreak like it’s a tragedy that just happened to us,” she said, her voice soft but sharp with the weight of truth. “But you forget, Richard, that you made a choice.” He spoke of fate as though it were a prison, but she knew better — it was fear that held him captive, and it was fear that had driven him from her once before. No amount of old tenderness could mask the truth: he had chosen the life laid out for him, and in doing so, he had turned away from the wild, uncertain life they might have built together.

Alice turned her face slightly toward the breeze, letting it cool the heat burning behind her eyes. There had been a time she would have fought for him, for them, but that time had long passed, lost somewhere between the nights she cried herself to sleep and the days she stitched her future with bleeding fingers. It hurt, of course it hurt, to hear him speak of happiness as something distant, something resigned as though fulfillment were too much to hope for, too dangerous to chase. She took a breath, fighting the sudden tightness in her chest. “If this life you speak of—the one you’ve allowed to be chosen for you—is the only happiness you see, then I’m sorry, Richard. I truly am.” Her voice wavered, just enough to betray the vulnerability she refused to acknowledge, but she straightened, her chin lifting. “I won’t spend another moment mourning what was never truly mine to keep. You, with your duty and your family’s expectations, and me with my dreams, are two things that never truly fit together.” Alice had dared to dream of more, to seize it with both hands, and if he could not, then she knew it was not her failure but his.

“If you are content to live a life written by other hands, then so be it. But do not stand here and ask me to smile and pretend it does not grieve me.” She drew a steady breath, forcing brightness back into her voice, a familiar weapon against the ache inside her. “No, Richard. I wish you…peace. Truly. But fulfillment? That is something you must find on your own.” Standing in the thinning sunlight, Alice allowed herself one last, lingering ache for the boy who once traced her sketches with awe and whispered promises he could not keep. She had loved him, fiercely, but she loved herself more now, enough to walk away without begging to be chosen.

The End… Unless?

[bastien-landry]

He approached with the sort of quiet gentleness that he had perfected over the years, not out of shyness, but caution. Bastien had always felt slightly outside of things. Half-French, half-English, a marquis by inheritance but an artist by calling, he had long since given up trying to fully belong in either world. And so, he stood in the space between, observing more often than acting—until now. When she looked at him, her arms full of wind-worn velvet and fine gauze, there was something quick and calculating in her expression. It reminded him of Parisian modistes he had known in childhood—sharp and self-possessed, even under pressure. He responded to her gratitude with a polite dip of the head, lips parting into a soft, self-effacing smile. “Landry. Bastien Landry,” he said again, brushing a hand briefly to his chest as if to steady the introduction. “And you, mademoiselle, seem to be conducting a valiant campaign against the elements.”

At her playful tease, he let the corner of his mouth lift in quiet amusement. “I’m afraid my victories lie elsewhere. Fabrics are not my usual opponents. Paint, perhaps. Paper. The occasional self-doubt.” He fell into step beside her with practiced ease, keeping pace without crowding. “If you allow it, I would be honored to walk with you to your shop. I’d be curious to see where these—how do you say?—troublesome materials end up. Is it fashion? Costume? Or something entirely yours?” There was no mockery in his voice, only genuine curiosity, spoken in a tone softened by both his upbringing and his years abroad. He knew better than to assume anything. Just because someone worked with fabric did not mean their mind did not run wild with ambition, ideas, rebellion. After all, wasn’t art the same, no matter the medium? And something in her eyes, behind the spark of wit and careful posture, told him she was not merely a woman with bolts of cloth. She was a creator—perhaps like him, perhaps very different—but a kindred spirit all the same.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice walked beside Bastien with an ease that belied the sharpness of her thoughts. She watched him carefully, noting the way his quiet confidence settled around him. Half-French, half-English—such a curious mix. A marquis by inheritance, but an artist by calling. She had always found the French so intriguing, so unabashedly unbothered by the conventions that tied everyone else down. She wanted to know what it was like to live in that space between worlds, to create without the weight of expectation. With a playful, almost teasing glance, Alice finally spoke. “Well, you’re in for a treat, Bastien. These fabrics aren’t for just anyone.” She let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching for any shift in his expression. “They’re for the Whitlock household. I’m sure you’ve heard of them?” She let her question linger, curiosity evident in her eyes. It wasn’t just about the scandal that had rocked the Whitlocks and Landrys; no, it was about seeing how he would react. Alice found herself intrigued by how Bastien, with his foreign grace, would handle this knowledge. She had a feeling he might not be so easily rattled, and something about that was almost... comforting. “I wonder,” she continued, a subtle smile curving her lips, “how does one like you view such scandals? Do they simply pass you by in your artist’s world, or do you, too, find the intrigue in the messes people create?” Her voice was soft, almost flirtatious, though she wrapped it in layers of casual curiosity. She wasn’t just asking about the scandal—she was testing him, seeing if he’d bite. And something about that made her feel both bold and strangely vulnerable, a mix she wasn’t used to.

[bruiscdviolets]

Cassandra's head hung down gently in defeat. Cassandra hoped that Alice could offer guidance, but it did not come to her in the way she had expected. Biting her lip, she felt even more confused, "yes, a debutante with the most impossible decision to make," she repeated sadly. "I had never expected to be here in London for marriage. I was happy to become a spinster in Margate, spending my life with Will in secret. I was content with our life," she reasoned. It was all she had wanted: to forget about societal norms and love the way she wanted. It didn't matter though.

Taken aback, she didn't realize that Alice would have such an opinion, "but what about true love that defies all odds?" It was the things her romance novels were based upon, "I know Callum is the safer choice, but William and I have history. Can that be erased so easily?" These were all questions that swirled in Cassandra's head. The choice she needed to make would be difficult, impossible even. "Will is more than a groomsman," she interjected, "he is kind and loving and he loves me." Quieting, "and Callum, he is also kind and wonderful." It was an impossible decision to make, "do you really believe that Callum is the better choice?" If she were to ask Sir Thayer, she knew what he would say. Cassandra had no guidance, only the thoughts of her friends who she hoped had her best interest in mind. "My heart is confused and I believe that no matter the decision I make, I will hurt someone who does not deserve it.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice straightened up, her hands still busy with a bundle of fabrics as she absorbed Cassandra’s words. Beneath the poised exterior, a deeper, sharper feeling pricked at her, the sting of her unspoken feelings for William that she kept buried well below her perfectly constructed facade. “Cassandra, darling,” Alice said, her tone just a touch too sweet, “you’re thinking with your heart, not your head.” She paused, dropping her gaze to the fabrics in her hands, arranging them neatly as if the simple act could distract her from the emotions that were threatening to spill out. “I understand the romance of it, truly. And I’d never deny you the right to choose a life of passion.” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile, her eyes meeting Cassandra’s with a glint of something calculating. “But what you must ask yourself is—what’s best for you, truly? The safe choice, the one who will never fail you, will always be Callum. He's stable, he's respectable, and he's what your family would choose, which is no small thing in this town.”

She let that sink in for a moment before continuing, her voice softening, but the weight of her words was unmistakable. “As for William, well... you’ve always known where that path leads, haven’t you?” Alice's lips curled into a subtle smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. “He’s charming, yes. He’s been with you through the quiet moments, but those aren't the ones that last, darling.” Alice lifted her chin slightly, meeting her friend’s gaze with a quiet intensity. "You deserve a love that stands firm—something that isn’t clouded by history or promises that can’t be kept. I just don’t think William will ever be that for you.” Alice’s gaze flickered away for a moment, allowing herself a soft sigh. She could feel the ache of her own unvoiced wishes in the pit of her stomach, but she forced it away, her focus trained solely on Cassandra’s decision. "You can’t let sentiment decide this. Love isn't always about what feels good in the moment; it’s about what will still be there when the moment passes. You want something that’ll last, something that’s dependable." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper as if to offer her friend something more personal.

[oferwood-a]

The business had never been so booming, though it hardly surprised William. Alice was a talented seamstress and designer; it was only a matter of time before the people of London realised this. “Of course, I’ll wait over there.” He dipped his head to her as she left, the queen’s letter still in his hand. As he waited, William stood in the doorway, offering an awkward smile to Alice’s customers who cast a glance his way while Alice remained at work, seemingly fully at ease in her environment.

William could feel the tension right away, as Alice’s attentions were shifted to him, and he could hardly blame her. The two had been friends since she arrived, and yet the queen had decreed they were a match. William was lost for words at first, trying to find that balance between honesty and avoiding any hurt he may inflict. “The queen’s will is unyielding, but I never asked for this, and not because I think poorly of you.” William’s words quickened as he tried to explain everything, overthinking and overtalking as he tried to clear his throat. His heart was beating but broken for another, and Miss Heywood reminded him so much of his sisters that it seemed almost wrong to be matched with such a person. “You deserve a partner who sees all of the brilliance you have to offer, and you have an abundance of it.” And William just didn't believe he was that man, he doubted he could be such for anyone.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice’s hands stilled as she heard William's words, the weight of them settling like lead in her chest. She could feel the familiar sting of disappointment creeping in, though she refused to let it show. She had long since known where she stood with him, but hearing him say it aloud, so carefully, so painfully polite, made it all the more real. The truth was hard to swallow: he saw her as nothing more than a friendly acquaintance, and that was all she would ever be to him. "The queen’s decree has its own power, I suppose," Alice replied with a forced smile, the words sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air. She didn't look at him as she adjusted a sleeve on a dress, keeping her hands busy. "And as for me... well, I’m certain I deserve someone who sees me. Someone who can actually appreciate what I have to offer."

She couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into her voice, though she masked it quickly with a smooth laugh. “It’s kind of you to say I have an abundance of brilliance, William. But we both know I’m not the one you’re looking for." Her fingers moved faster, working the fabric as if it might somehow absorb the ache building in her chest. Alice glanced up at him, meeting his eyes for a fleeting moment with a look that was equal parts sharp and sad. "Perhaps we’re both too stubborn to let ourselves be seen properly." The words hung in the air, a quiet admission, but Alice turned away quickly, unwilling to let him see too much of what he’d left behind. She had her pride. She always did.

[edward-st-george-deactivated202]

Edward didn’t flinch when the two figures stepped forward. No, instead he took a casual half-step in front of Alice, a practiced sort of nonchalance settling over him like a second skin. His eyes, however, sharpened—keen and alert beneath the lazy grin he wore. He recognized them immediately. A pair of muscle-bound buffoons who’d once taken coin from the same lesser noble that Edward had once been so unfortunate—or lucky, depending on the hour—to work for. He’d roughed up a rival for the man, left a few threats scrawled into a garden hedge, and vanished just before the constable arrived. Typical night. Apparently, they hadn’t forgotten. Pity.

“Ah, now I see,” Edward drawled, rocking slightly on his heels. “I was wondering when the ghosts of past misdeeds would come to haunt me. Gentlemen—though I use the term with great generosity—do consider the time and setting. It’s terribly bad form to pick a fight when there’s a lady present.” He gestured loosely toward Alice without turning to look at her, knowing she’d likely be glaring daggers into the back of his skull. “Go on then, scurry off, and let’s pretend this never happened. I’ll even buy you a drink next time I’m ruining someone else’s reputation.”

One of the men sneered. “Didn’t know you played bodyguard now, St. George. Or do you just play lapdog to pretty things in tight dresses?” His eyes flicked toward Alice. “Bit of a mouth on her, I hear. Maybe we should see if she’s better at using it elsewhere.”

Edward stilled. His smirk didn’t falter—it simply died, wiped clean from his face like breath off glass. The silence that followed was abrupt and heavy. Even the night seemed to hold its breath. When he turned to Alice, his expression was unreadable, save for the glint of something vicious in his eyes. Quietly, with a calm that unnerved, he shrugged off his coat and held it out to her. “Hold this,” he said, voice low, almost too even. “And do me a kindness—shield your eyes.” He rolled his shoulders back, then tilted his head until his neck cracked, the sound sharp and final—like a warning.

Before Alice could respond, he turned back. His movements were no longer playful. He struck first, without warning—just a blur of motion and the sickening crunch of knuckles meeting bone. The taller man staggered back with a howl, clutching his nose, blood spilling between his fingers. The second lunged, but Edward pivoted fast, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs with practiced force, then twisting behind him to land a brutal kick to the back of his knee. “You should’ve stayed ghosts,” Edward hissed, ducking a wild punch and answering with a brutal hook to the jaw that sent the thug stumbling into the lamppost. A sharp crack followed—metal and skull colliding. He didn’t pause. He spun back to the taller one, who had drawn a small blade, but Edward was faster, angrier. He caught the man’s wrist, wrenched it hard until the knife clattered to the stones, and slammed a fist into his stomach with such force the man crumpled like wet paper.

For a moment, it was still. Just the sound of Edward’s breathing and Alice’s soft gasp behind him. Then he saw them. Shadows shifting. Movement beyond the alley mouth. Three—no, four more shapes approaching, too slow and steady to be anything but trouble. Edward let out a breath, then turned to Alice, one brow arched even as blood smeared the corner of his mouth.

“Are those running shoes?” he asked, completely deadpan. She didn’t answer fast enough. He grabbed her hand. “Too late. They are now.” And just like that, Edward St. George took off into the night, pulling her with him. Their footsteps pounded against the cobblestone, his laughter sharp and reckless as the wind cut around them. Somewhere behind them came a shout, but it was already too late. They were gone—just a blur of shadows and defiance, fading into the dark.

[myvelvetvows]

Alice’s lungs burned as Edward pulled her through the twisting alleys, their footsteps echoing sharply against the slick stones. Her skirts tangled around her ankles, and she clutched his discarded coat tightly to her chest, the scratchy wool still warm from his body. She should have been furious—at the impropriety, the sheer scandal of it all—but instead, something far more dangerous coiled inside her: a fierce, breathless exhilaration that made her feel terribly alive. The night was thick with the scent of rain and smoke, and somewhere behind them, distant shouts echoed, growing fainter as they outran them. Edward's grip on her hand was firm, protective, and wholly certain, as though letting go was not an option he would even consider.

When he yanked her into a narrow, shadowed passage—barely wide enough for one, let alone two—Alice stumbled into him, her free hand braced against the solid heat of his chest. Edward shifted immediately, bracing a hand above her head, shielding her instinctively. In the dark, it felt as if the world had collapsed inward until there was only the rasp of their breathing, the thud of their hearts beating against the closeness. She tilted her head back, and for a dizzying moment, their eyes met. Not the roguish mischief she had expected, nor the polished charm he so often wore, but something steadier, something fierce and anchoring. Her throat felt tight, her usual effortless confidence faltering beneath the weight of the moment. Swallowing, Alice whispered, “Thank you,” the words foreign and fragile on her tongue. She averted her gaze almost at once, fussing needlessly with his coat to hide the uncharacteristic flutter of nerves that had overtaken her. Her cheeks burned, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it. Yet somehow, without a single word, Alice felt something shift irrevocably between them.

[secretgcrdens]

As Oliver took in the beauty and delicacy of the home Alice had created for herself in the room above her shop, he couldn’t have been more proud. It seemed as if they were both creating homes for themselves, though Oliver’s was up in the air at the moment as he wrestled with Edward’s proposition. They were no longer huddling by one another next to a fireplace of a cold, tiny cottage — Oliver desperate to find food for his little sister as they mourned together as orphans. Alice had woven herself a beautiful life — just as beautiful as her finest dresses. Despite the pride he felt for his sister, despite how much he wanted to soak in these moments with her, the weight on his body and mind was enough to sink him to the bottom of the ocean if someone were to make him walk the plank — which he felt as if he were doing. Warming his hands belt the fire, he tried not to linger on the ruin he’d caused. On the ruin that he brought to Juliet, unable to protect her reputation, and the ruin he prayed he could shield Alice from. How had his life turned into this? How had he turned into a cowering young boy — he was nine and thirty, not nine.

He’d likely never find work in London again — he was likely destined to be a social pariah, when all he wanted was to embrace his Juliet and raise their child together. Alice’s voice shook him from his thoughts and he gave his younger sister a weak smile, “I’m sorry…my mind’s just clouded.” He picked the mug up, bringing it to his lips as he let the tea warm his body. “I’d never waste your good leaves, I know they’re reserved for special occasions,” he attempted a humorless chuckle. He hoped Alice didn’t look on him as any less of a man now, though he wouldn’t blame her if she did. He’d failed her, he’d failed Juliet. As she cared for him — fixing his coat, he melted into her touch and rested his head against her arm, the first time he’d allowed his head to rest since he’d been fired. He let his eyes close, seeking a moment’s rest, searching for an epiphany.

He nodded slowly, opening his eyes and looking up at his sister as tears filled the brims of his eyelids, “You’re so good to me, Alice. You’ve never wavered, you’ve never cast me aside. Thank you.” A small chuckle finally rose to his chest, “Reckless, that’s for sure. Perhaps I’ll get that under control before my child is born.” He gently held onto his sister’s arm, “We’re in this together forever, Aunt Alice.” He was overwhelmed with emotions — fear, grief, self-hatred but also love, excitement, and gratefulness. His sister was fiercely loyal and he was so grateful for her. Noticing the tears threatening to fall from her eyes, he reached up and wiped her cheeks. “Don’t be sad, Alice.”

[myvelvetvows]

Alice sat beside her brother, her skirts pooling gracefully about her like a protective ring. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the scent of strong tea and warm bread filling the cozy room above her shop. She said nothing for a time, only adjusting the collar of Oliver’s coat with deft, careful fingers, as if smoothing the fabric could somehow mend the hurt stitched into him. His head rested against her arm, the way it used to when they were children and the world had been no kinder then. Alice stared into the fire, feeling her throat tighten despite her efforts to be the ever-practical one. She would not scold him tonight, even if she’d seen this heartbreak barreling toward them like a carriage without a driver. Instead, she softened her voice, leaning her head lightly against his. "You’re going to be a father," she said, a wry, fond smile tugging at her lips. "And I shall be the most insufferable aunt London has ever seen. I shall demand the child’s first word be ‘Alice’ — mark me." She shifted, catching Oliver’s damp eyes with her own, her own misting against her will. "And it had better be a girl," she added with a mock sternness, nudging him gently. "I should love a boy all the same, but a niece — oh, think of the ribbons, the bonnets, the darling little slippers." A small laugh, warm and trembling, escaped her. "She will be the best-dressed child in all of England. I shall see to it personally." Her hand smoothed down Oliver’s back, slow and grounding. No clever plan, no stubborn pride could fix what had been broken — but she could carry him a little while longer. "You deserve to be happy, Ollie," Alice murmured. "You always have. We have struggled enough for one lifetime, you and I. No more starving by cold fires, no more waiting for kindness to find us. You will build a home with Juliet and your child. And if you stumble, I’ll be here to catch you — just as you once caught me." Her voice grew stronger with each word, her smile steadier. She would not let him sink, no matter how deep the waters got.