"Oh! Ah… well, I thank thee," she breathed, standing on her own with Felicity's assistance, the chill of the air nipping at her soaked skin. A shivering quake coursed through her as she stepped into the waiting bath, the warmth of the water enveloping her like a fleeting comfort, though it could not remove the weight bearing down upon her mind.

She dived deep, letting the heat seep into her flesh, her elbows on the side of the bath as her gaze became distant. The room remained quiet, other than the gentle lap of the water and Felicity's subdued movement, yet in her mind the echoes of something unspoken lingered on. A dream… or perhaps something more?

."I wonder… was it but a dream… or something else?" she breathed, the words barely escaping her lips, alone in the silence of the room.

"Pardon, Your Grace? Didst thou speak something?" asked Felicity, glancing over with a questioning jerk of her head, her hands halting in their task of folding the linen cloths.

"Oh! Nay, 'tis nothing," she replied hastily, her fingers idly stroking the scented water. "Only… a queer dream clings upon mine mind."

Felicity paused for only a moment before smiling inquiringly. "Ah? Well then… Dreams, strange or otherwise, tend to leave their mark before the waking world claims us again." With a practiced ease, she moved forward, bearing a tray of shining silver upon which were vials of exquisite perfume, their glass glinting in the morning light. "Which perfume dost thou desire, Your Grace? We have the rose's fragrance, the freshness of cut grass, the sweetness of cake, and others besides."

Her eyes wandered over the selection, resting only for an instant before she spoke. "The aroma of cake, if thou wilt," she replied, her tone milder now, the familiar honey of it offering a moment's solace.

"As thou desirest, Your Grace," Felicity responded, opening the vial with deft fingers. A rich, indulgent scent blossomed into the air, surrounding them like a whispered memory. She poured oil that smelled of flowers between her hands, rubbing them together before she began to massage it gently into her mistress' hair, her fingers moving with a skill the years of care had made routine. She moved in slow, gentle strokes, untangling the wet hair with the patience of one who had performed this ceremony many times.

The bath, though soothing, did nothing to calm the unrest in her heart. There was something about the ripples of the water… the lingering of the scent in the air… that reminded her that she had survived this moment before, if under far uglier circumstances.

Since her washing was done, Felicity wrapped her in warmed, heavy bedding, supporting her to sit up with the assistance of an extended hand and leading her out into the dressing room. There, upon polished oak rods and gilt rods, lay rows of clothes—silks and velvets of most fine interweave, so closely embroidered it could well have been wove upon hands of fae themselves.

Taking up each one with care, Felicity walked up to her mistress and inquired, "Which gown doth please thee most, Your Grace?"

Her eyes darted across the soft cloth, her fingers tracing over the rich garments until they rested on one. A red robe, as deep a red as finest rubies, its bodice embroidered with gold threads which shone in the morning light. The fabric was soft against her fingertips, and yet there was weight to it, as if something more than mere beauty was wrapped within.

"The red one," she said at last, her tone stern, though her grip on the fabric pressed by an infinitesimal amount.

Felicity nodded her head, folding her hands over the gown. "A wise decision, Your Grace." She unfolded the folds with a respect born of experience—this was no gown. This was a statement.

And as her mistress stood before the great mirror, her reflection cast into scarlet and gold, she wondered. was she dressing to meet destiny long predicted? Or was she going back once again into a past that would not let her be?