Grace was miserable, but she couldn't say anything. It had never been in her character to complain, and this situation in particular was one she didn't want to ruin with any complaints, however valid they might be.

Verity was getting married. That was decidedly a good thing. Come the new year Verity would be Mrs. Swann, and Mama and Ford's main focus would be seeing her married off. That was also decidedly a good thing, too, because Grace—for all her shortcomings and little to recommend her against other girls her age—really didn't want to be at home forever.

Though if this was any indication, she imagined he might have no choice.

Rather than buying a brand new gown for her sister's wedding, Grace had found herself agreeing to have one of her older dresses "spruced" up for the occasion. With magic and fabric the delicate blue, floral-patterned skirt had been transformed into... a mess of tulle and sleeves that she wasn't sure were intended to puff at the shoulder or sag to her elbows. It was terribly unflattering, she thought, but the old seamstress (who must have been over eighty, she thought) ensured her that it was perfectly in fashion.

Maybe she should have learned to complain. Just a smidge.

But Grace had walked out of the seamstress' shop, the dress wrapped carefully and slung over one of her arms, already feeling bothered by the weight of it. She kept her lips in a tight line and her eyes low, trying her best to keep any clear expression of her disappointment off her face, but the harder she tried the more difficult it was to maintain. By the time she'd passed the row of stores and moved into the street square, her lips had dipped into a frown. It was easy to keep that frown with the way certain shops (certainly made popular by the time of year) seemed to have crowds waiting outside their doors, effectively blocking her way on the cobble paths.

"Excuse me," she tried, speaking to the back of a gentleman she didn't examine all too closely. No response. Her frown deepened. "Excuse me, I really need to—" As she spoke, she took a step forward to tap on his shoulder, but before her fingertip could reach the spot near his shoulder blade her foot caught on something.

It was her dress—or rather the package, which was so long it dragged along the ground and somehow managed to catch under her foot. She stumbled forward a step, which wouldn't have been so catastrophic had she not been so close to the man in front of her. She gave a yelp and flew into a string of apologies, her gaze on the ground as she tried to pull the dress out from underneath her.

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