“But we can no longer ignore the depth of your illness, Vivian,” Beatrice continued, her voice rising so the onlookers could hear.

She turned her gaze to the spectators in the corridor.

“Since Clara’s death, Vivian has lived in a world of complete fabrication.”

Harrison stepped closer to his mother, his face a perfect mask of husbandly grief.

“She believes there are secrets hidden in old garments, and that her family is conspiring against her,” Harrison told the room.

“It is a classic case of paranoid grief,” Dr. Marren chimed in, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.

He pulled a silver pen from his pocket and tapped it against a leather clipboard.

“She has refused her medication, and her behavior tonight has become erratic and dangerous.”

“She has been talking to herself in the hallways,” Sloane whispered from the corner, clutching the fabric of the stolen Celestia gown.

I looked at Sloane, her betrayal cutting deep, but I kept my chin high.

“I heard her laughing in the conservatory last night,” Beatrice lied smoothly, shaking her head.

Matteo took a step in front of me, his chest rising and falling quickly.