Lady Isolde’s Bridal Collar

Isolde does not sit still while her grandmother works. She turns her head slightly, watching in the mirror as the necklace is lifted from its wrapping, the small beads catching against one another with a faint, dry sound. It is lighter than it looks at first, until it settles — then it holds its place, spreading across her shoulders in a way that feels decided.

“This one was not worn indoors,” her grandmother says, fastening it with care. “Not at first.” She adjusts the draped lines, straightening one curve, then another, until the drops fall evenly. “Your great-grandmother wore it in the south garden. Early summer. Before the guests arrived.”

Isolde presses her fingers briefly to one of the larger beads, cool and smooth, then lets her hand fall again. Outside, the doors have already been opened. The sound of voices carries in with the air, along with the scent of cut grass and something sweet from the hedges.

“You’ll walk the length of it,” her grandmother continues, stepping back just enough to see the full line of it. “Don’t rush. It was made to be seen in daylight.”

Isolde nods, once, and turns toward the open doors.