The morning shone with a deceptive brightness, as if to erase the memory of yesterday's storm. Armed with a shopping basket, Celine strolled down a leaf-covered forest path towards the village. Her purpose for this trip was not just the weekly grocery shopping; she was also determined to uncover the source of the vicious rumor that had been tormenting Amelie.

The downhill path eventually led out of the woods. When she left the naked trees behind, she was greeted by the view of scattered rooftops below. The cacophony of vendors hawking their wares and villagers haggling over the prices reached her ears already from a distance. As she approached the market square, the crisp autumn air carried the aromas of ripe apples, freshly baked bread, and smoked meat.

She overheard a gaunt farmer mumbling to his neighbor from behind his rickety wooden stall. “Twice what he took last year, that damned leech. We'll starve come winter.”

“Aye, bleeding us dry with his taxes, he is. Living lavishly in his mansion while our bellies growl.”

“The wench over there – she is from the mansion! Strutting around like she's better than us, even though it's our hard-earned money paying her wages.”

“Strouting around! Ha ha, got it?”

Celine walked by, head high, ignoring their scowls. The Strout name opened doors but won no love. No matter. Her mission was finding the truth, not making friends.

She approached the honey seller, a round woman with ruddy cheeks. “Morning, Agnes. Lovely day, isn't it?” Celine flashed a disarming smile.

“Humph. Says you, up in that grand house. Some of us toil to survive.” Agnes sniffed, wiping her hands on a stained apron.

“Oh, it's no easy life for us servants.” Celine leaned in, eyes sparkling secretively. “You have no idea how hard it is to keep the family out of trouble.”

“Oh, you mean Lady Amelie’s latest ventures?” Agnes perked up, greedy for gossip. “I have heard all sorts of details.”

“Oh my goodness, they were supposed to be kept secret,” Celine giggled, putting her acting skills to the test. “Who did you hear it from?” She tilted her head, an inviting smile playing about her lips.

Agnes huffed, hands on her ample hips. “Well, I heard it from Betty, the baker's wife. But you know her, always nattering on. Probably heard it from half the village!”

“Ah, of course. Silly me. Well, I best be off. Errands to run, you know.” Celine winked, then sauntered away, leaving Agnes to her muttering.

As she wove through the bustling market, Celine used all her wit and charm to coax information out of the villagers. With each seemingly casual inquiry, she gathered threads of hearsay that intertwined together, leading her ever closer to the heart of the malignant web. The baker's wife had it from the blacksmith, who heard it from the tailor's daughter, who was told by...

Miss Appleton. The seamstress. Of course.

Celine's jaw clenched. That venomous gossip, always clucking about everyone's dirty laundry while mending their unmentionables. The thought turned Celine's stomach.

But why take Amelie as a target? Despite her father’s stinginess, Amelie was certainly one of Miss Appleton’s best customers. Was the momentary thrill of spreading filth truly worth the risk of losing her standing with the Strout family? Celine's mind reeled as she stalked toward the seamstress's shop, a ramshackle affair hunched between the cobbler and the chandler.

The door chimed innocently when she entered the shop. Dust motes swirled in the watery light, and bolts of fabric lined the walls. Celine’s eyes were immediately drawn to Miss Appleton in the corner, carefully fitting a dress on her client and chatting away about the latest scandal. Her nimble fingers expertly pinned and measured the fabric, all while keeping her client entertained with juicy gossip. The seamstress's voice was low but insistent, like a serpent winding its way through the underbrush.

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“Did you hear about poor Edith?” she murmured, her voice a sickly-sweet poison that seeped into Celine's ears. “She was caught with the blacksmith's son, of all people.”

Celine edged closer, feigning interest in examining the bolts of cloth lining the shelves. Her heart clenched at the thought of Amelie becoming fodder for such salacious gossip. This exchange would be the genesis of a new round of whispered tales, spreading through the village like a rotting infection.

“Really, Miss Appleton? How scandalous,” the client gasped, her eyes wide with shock and fascination.

“Indeed, but sadly these things happen every so often,” Miss Appleton replied with a sly smile. “As we both know, even the most upstanding among us have their secrets.”

As the client took her leave, Celine gathered her resolve and approached Miss Appleton, her heart pounding with determination. The moment had come to confront the source of the rumors, to unravel the web of lies that entangled Amelie. Amelie's tattered reputation, Amir's broken trust, Celine's own foolish, aching heart... Miss Appleton would answer for it all.

“Ah, Miss Celine,” Miss Appleton greeted her, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of fresh gossip. “What can I do for you today?” Her voice dripped venom, sweet as honey.

“Miss Appleton, I find myself in need of your expertise,” Celine said, trying her best to give a nonchalant impression. “I require a new skirt for my mistress, Lady Amelie. What fabric would you recommend for a lady of her stature?”

“Ah, yes, for Lady Amelie,” Miss Appleton purred, her fingers caressing the various fabrics on display. “Perhaps something soft and supple, like silk or satin? After all, we wouldn't want anything too… restrictive, would we?”

Celine felt a flush rise in her cheeks at the insinuation in Miss Appleton's words. Her hands balled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought to maintain her composure. “Indeed,” she replied, her voice tight and controlled. “Comfort is, of course, a priority.”

“Of course,” Miss Appleton agreed, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Now, about the color... Perhaps something that matches her beautiful eyes? Or do you think the stable boy would have a preference?”

Celine tensed, pulse jumping in her throat. She fought down a wild urge to seize the seamstress and shake the truth from her lying tongue. Instead, she forced a smile, brittle as glass.

“You seem to know a great deal about Lady Amelie's habits, Miss Appleton. One might wonder how you came by such knowledge. I even heard some villagers saying that you made it all up.”

Miss Appleton's eyes narrowed, a cold glint of malice flashing in their depths. She set down the bolt of fabric she had been toying with and turned to face Celine directly.

“I don’t make things up – I don’t need to,” she declared. “After all, truth is stranger than fiction. And as for Lady Amelie’s personal matters, I had a most reliable source.” She winked at Celine mischievously.

“Oh, did you now?” Celine's tone was sharp, her eyes boring into the seamstress. “And who might that have been?

“Why, it was you,” Miss Appleton replied matter-of-factly.

Celine's heart lurched in her chest, the revelation landing like a heavy blow.

“What?” she managed to utter, her voice strained with a mix of disbelief and mounting dread.

“I said it was you who told me,” Miss Appleton said, giving Celine a puzzled look. “It must have been at least three weeks ago – when you brought the wool skirt for fixing, remember? You seemed to be quite distraught, and when I asked why, you told me how you had discovered Lady Amelie engaged in... intimate activities with her stable boy. John – that was his name, wasn’t it?”

A cold dread settled in her gut. She tried desperately to recall her previous visit to the seamstress’s shop, but it eluded her grasp like a wisp of smoke.

“Miss Appleton,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible. “I... I don't remember telling you any such thing.”

“Oh, it must have slipped your mind then,” the seamstress suggested. “Don’t worry dear, it happens to me all the time – losing track of what I have said to whom and when. But I do remember our conversation quite well. You painted such a vivid scene for me… How you stumbled upon them in the stables, limbs entangled, moaning in ecstasy. How the Lady's skirts were hiked up, the stable boy's hands roaming her creamy thighs...”

Celine had stopped listening. As the seamstress’s words washed over her, she felt her chest constrict with a suffocating pressure. The air in the room seemed to thicken, each breath becoming a struggle. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and a cold shiver ran down her spine, leaving her limbs numb and trembling.

She stumbled back, her hand reaching out to steady herself against a table stacked with delicate lace trims. They fell to the floor, their fragile beauty cluttered in her blurred vision.

“Miss Celine, you're unwell,” she heard Miss Appleton’s voice, as if it was echoing from a distant reality that she couldn’t reach any more.

With trembling hands, Celine pushed herself away from the table, knocking over bolts of fabric in her haste to escape the suffocating atmosphere. She stumbled towards the door, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm in her chest, and rushed out of the shop to meet the daylight that was all too bright.