Chapter 3: “Fit for a Villainess”

Celestia sat on a plush velvet chair in Madame Vernisse’s elite dress boutique, arms crossed impatiently over her corseted body. The tall mirror before her reflected the twelfth gown she’d tried that morning, but her expression was one of clear dissatisfaction. “Hmph. This color makes me look bland,” she declared haughtily, lifting her chin. “Do you expect me to wear something that makes me look like a wilted lily?”

Madame Vernisse fluttered about her anxiously, fingers full of pins and measuring tape. “N-no, Lady Celestia, of course not!” the seamstress apologized, bowing her head so deeply that her powdered wig nearly toppled.

“Perhaps the rose-gold satin from earlier, with the altered neckline you preferred?” Two assistants were already scrambling to bring forth the next option.

Celestia rolled her eyes. ‘Is this the best the capital’s premier tailor can do?’ she thought with an inward sigh of exasperation. In truth, none of the dresses so far had satisfied her. They were all either too demure, too frilly, or too similar to what every other noble lady would be wearing.

The seamstress’s assistants returned bearing the rose-gold gown Celestia had tried earlier. It was a lovely piece by traditional standards: off-the-shoulder with layers of chiffon and tasteful embroidery.

Any other young lady would swoon to wear it.

But Celestia only had one raised brow for the offering. She allowed Madame Vernisse to slip the silken confection over her chemise and corset, then stood as the woman fussed with the laces. In the mirror, Celestia observed the dress again. The color did complement her fair skin and golden blonde hair, and the fit was adequate after adjustments.

Still…

She swished the skirt once and watched the layers float. Pretty, yes. Memorable? Hardly.

Celestia pursed her lips. “It’s nice,” she said with a bland tone. That single word made Madame Vernisse’s headache grow again—nice was hardly high praise coming from the notorious Celestia.

Before the seamstress could begin another round of frantic suggestions, Celestia lifted a hand to silence her. “Enough.” She stepped down from the fitting podium. “I think we’ve wasted enough time.” Her scarlet eyes gleamed, she had prepared something beforehand in the event that the seamstress was unable to satisfy her need for quality.

‘If you want something done right…’

Celestia snapped her fingers, and one of her personal maids hurried forward with a long, flat box bound in ribbons, a parcel Celestia had brought herself. “Madame Vernisse,” Celestia announced, “I have a design of my own. I trust you would be able to execute it to perfection?” It was phrased as a question, but they both knew it was a command.

The seamstress’s eyes widened as Celestia’s maid unveiled the contents: fine crimson fabric, sheets of parchment with sketches, and swathes of black lace. Celestia watched the woman’s face carefully.

At first, there was confusion; this design was unlike the puffy-sleeved ballgowns currently en vogue. Then a flash of shock, the daring cut of the neckline and the scandalously high slit shown in the sketch made the older woman’s cheeks flush.

Finally, Madam Vernisse’s face had a slow understanding and reluctant awe.

“My Lady… this design…” Madame Vernisse murmured, fingertip tracing the drawn lines of the dress. “It’s unique and… quite bold. I’ve never seen a gown quite like this.”

Celestia allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “I should hope not. I drew it up specifically to ensure no one else will be wearing anything remotely similar.” She stepped closer, tapping one manicured nail on the sketch. “I want it in this deep wine red. A high slit on the left side… yes, that high, and black lace trim along the off-shoulder sleeves.”

Madame Vernisse’s initial hesitation melted away as the artist in her took over. “It will certainly be the talk of the ball… If I can finish it by this evening—”

“You will,” Celestia interrupted with a sharp look. “I’ll compensate you handsomely for the rush, of course.” Not that money was any object for House Reingarde. She flicked her fingers dismissively. “And make five of these gowns. I expect to have the spares delivered to my estate tomorrow.”

Madame Vernisse curtsied deeply, eyes shining with gratitude at the windfall. “Thank you, Lady Celestia! I am honored by your patronage and your trust in my skills. I’ll personally ensure every stitch is perfect.”

Celestia gave a slight nod. “See that you do. I do appreciate excellence, Madame. Your reputation suggested you could handle my demands. Do not disappoint me.” It was as close to a compliment as the seamstress was likely to get, and the woman beamed.

With a clap of Madame Vernisse’s hands, she sent her assistants scurrying to gather the materials and begin drafting the unique gown immediately.

Minutes later, Celestia emerged from the boutique’s fitting room in her day dress: a stylish but comparatively simple burgundy ensemble suitable for an outing.

Outside, two of her maids hurried behind, arms stacked with boxes and parcels from the day’s shopping spree. Indeed, Celestia had spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon indulging in preparations for the imperial ball, not only dresses, but also new jewelry, cosmetics, shoes, gloves, and even imported silk napkins embroidered with the Reingarde rose crest.

She’d left a trail of delighted shopkeepers in her wake, each grateful for the Duke’s daughter’s lavish patronage.

As Celestia stepped onto the cobbled street, a cloudy late-morning sky greeted her. Her personal carriage waited for her down the block, but instead Celestia chose to walk a little through the plaza. Her maids trailed behind like ducklings carrying stacks of packages taller than themselves.

Common townsfolk who had been going about their day had now parted ahead of Celestia’s path.

Conversations hushed to whispers. Commoners managed quick bows or curtsies, then found excuses to scurry away or duck into doorways to avoid drawing attention to themselves. “It’s Lady Celestia,” one woman murmured to a companion as they pressed back against a fruit stand to let her pass. “Don’t look at her eyes!” hissed the other to her child, as if Celestia were some predatory beast that might strike if provoked.

Celestia noticed it all. The way the ordinary folk avoided her gaze and trembled in her presence was as familiar as it was frustrating.

It was her own fault, in a way. Or rather, the fault of the original Celestia whose life she was now living. This heiress had earned a fearsome reputation over the years: arrogant, cold-hearted, quick to punish any slight. A villainess in every sense.

Celestia had done little to dispel that image since transmigrating.

Despite the current atmosphere the townsfolk gave, Celestia took the opportunity to survey the state of affairs in Reingarde territory. She had spent so much time cooped up in the Duke’s estate that she hadn’t thought of going outside of it yet.

Here in the capital of the duchy, business seemed to be thriving. Market stalls overflowed with produce and wares; merchants hawked spices and textiles from distant lands; children darted through the crowds playing. On the surface, it was a picture of prosperity under House Reingarde’s rule.

However, Celestia’s keen eyes also caught sight of the less rosy scenes present in the city. Down a narrow alley between a bakery and a shoe shop, a pair of haggard-faced children sat on the stones, their palms outstretched to passersby.

Another beggar, an elderly man in tattered clothes, leaned against a wall nearby, his eyes dull with fatigue and hunger. The surrounding townsfolk walked past these pitiable figures without so much as a glance.

Celestia slowed her steps for a moment as she neared the alley. The younger of the two children, a girl with matted dark hair, looked up at Celestia in awe. The child’s eyes looked large on her thin face, and for a split second, Celestia saw something like hope in there.

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To the poor of the duchy, even a villainous duke’s daughter was still nobility. Celestia felt an uncomfortable twinge in her chest.

Pity? Guilt? She swiftly smothered it.

Her maid, Martha, noticed her pause and followed her gaze nervously. “Shall I shoo them off, My Lady?” Martha whispered, misreading Celestia’s expression as anger.

Celestia blinked and realized she’d been staring at the little beggar girl. The child, sensing scrutiny, quickly cast her eyes down and shrank back, as if expecting a scolding or worse.

‘What am I doing?’ Celestia chastised herself and flicked open her fan with a snap, covering the lower half of her face. “That won’t be necessary, let us continue.”

As they resumed walking, Celestia tapped her fan lightly against her palm. “Martha,” she said without looking at her, “establish a feeding program. Daily morning bread and soup, evening porridge, enough to keep those alleyway rats from dying where everyone can see them.”

Martha nearly stumbled. “Y-your Ladyship?”

Celestia clicked her tongue. “Do not make me repeat myself. For the reputation of House Reingarde. I refuse this duchy to look like a starving wasteland.” She flicked her fan shut with a snap. “Make sure those who have not eaten yet have their turns first.”

“Yes, My Lady!” Martha replied, bowing quickly.