“Where is the dressing room?” I whispered, wiping mud from my hands onto my jeans.

“The west wing, next to the conservatory,” Matteo said, his chest heaving as he breathed.

“There is a side door through the glasshouse.”

We ran along the stone foundation, keeping low beneath the heavy boxwood hedges.

The windows of the library were dark, but a light flickered in the upstairs hall.

The rain poured down in sheets, blurring my vision.

We reached the glasshouse door, its brass handle cold and slick with rainwater.

Matteo turned it slowly, and the door slid open with a faint hiss.

Inside, the air was warm and heavy, smelling of damp earth, peat, and blooming orchids.

The glass ceiling rattled under the fury of the storm.

Matteo led the way through the rows of ferns, our footsteps silent on the damp brick path.

We reached the heavy oak door that led into the dressing suite.

It opened into a dark room filled with mirrors and velvet benches.

On a mannequin in the center of the room hung the Celestia gown.