The oppressive summer sun hung in the sky like a molten coin, pouring its searing heat onto the town below. The air shimmered over the pavement, thick and stifling, and every step Clara took felt like wading through molten lead. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck, sliding between her shoulder blades beneath the suffocating layers of fabric she was forced to wear.
Aunt Matilde’s rules were absolute, unwavering even in the face of the brutal summer heat. Clara’s outfit was meticulously crafted to meet Aunt Matilde’s exacting standards. Her crisp white blouse, pressed to perfection, clung to her back, its stiff collar standing rigid and unyielding around her slender throat. The top button, fastened mercilessly, pressed into her skin, making every swallow a struggle. Her breath came in shallow, measured sips as if even the air had to squeeze through the oppressive constraint of the fabric. Every movement of her head was met with resistance, the high collar digging in like an iron shackle, refusing to yield. The long sleeves, buttoned at the cuffs, trapped the heat against her skin, the pristine fabric utterly unyielding. Over the blouse, a structured navy blazer, perfectly tailored to her frame, cinched at the waist and ensured she remained impeccably composed despite the suffocating warmth. Her long sleeves, buttoned snugly at the wrist, trapped the heat against her skin. Her pleated skirt, made of thick wool despite the summer heat, barely allowed for movement, its heavy fabric suffocating her legs as she trudged down the street. The hem skimmed just below her knees, its sharp creases a testament to the morning’s careful ironing. Beneath the skirt, sheer black stockings clung to her calves and thighs like a second skin, ensuring not a single inch of bare flesh was exposed to the world.
“Aunt Matilde, I beg you, it’s unbearable! Please, just one button—just a little relief,” Clara pleaded, her voice trembling. Clara gasped as she reached the shade of a small awning.
Aunt Matilde, standing tall and unaffected in her own impeccable ensemble, shot her a withering look as Clara futilely slid a gloved finger beneath the collar, trying to ease its crushing grip. The effort was useless—the stiff fabric refused to give even a fraction of an inch. Matilde’s eyes narrowed at the unladylike display. “Absolutely not. A lady does not fidget with her attire like a restless child. Stand properly, Clara.” Aunt Matilde’s voice was firm, her expression one of deep disapproval. “Your collar is precisely as it should be. You will endure it with grace.”
Clara clenched her jaw, biting back the sharp retort that threatened to spill from her lips. It was more than discomfort—it was torture. Her sheer black stockings, perfectly smooth and without a single wrinkle, clung to her legs, trapping the moisture from the sweltering air. At her feet, glossy black pumps, their three-inch heels uncompromisingly high, forced her posture into the rigid elegance Aunt Matilde demanded. Every step sent a fresh jolt of pain through the balls of her feet, yet she knew better than to falter or, heaven forbid, stumble.
They stepped into the tea parlor, a blessedly cool oasis, though relief was short-lived. Matilde’s eagle eye ensured that Clara remained poised, her back rigid, legs crossed at the ankles. When the tea was served, Clara longed to grasp the delicate cup with both hands, to feel the cool porcelain against her overheated palms, but no—gloves remained on at all times in public.
“Drink gracefully, Clara. A lady does not gulp.”
Clara’s fingers trembled as she lifted the cup, barely suppressing a groan of frustration. Her black leather gloves, damp with perspiration, made it difficult to grip properly, each movement requiring careful precision. The snug fit, while elegant, only added to her discomfort, the smooth material slippery against the porcelain cup as she struggled to maintain her composure. Matilde’s gaze bore into her like a branding iron.
“Honestly, child, must I remind you of every rule?” Matilde’s voice was sharp, perfectly modulated, never raising above a murmur but slicing through Clara’s patience like a blade.
Clara exhaled through her nose, trying to steady herself, but the words spilled from her lips before she could stop them. “Aunt Matilde, I can’t bear it anymore. Please, have mercy!” She wanted nothing more than to rip off the gloves, the stockings, the suffocating layers, and throw herself into the nearest fountain. But she knew better. Matilde always had the upper hand. There was no winning.
Hours dragged on, the heat unrelenting. Even in the shade of Matilde’s perfectly curated schedule, Clara was wilting. They walked with careful, controlled steps through the marketplace, the scent of roasting chestnuts and spiced tea mixing with the heavy perfume Matilde insisted she wear. Her nails, perfectly manicured and painted in an immaculate shade of nude, gleamed under the soft light. Even they felt like tiny, suffocating prisons, the polish unyielding to any sign of imperfection. Not a single chip or smudge was permissible under Aunt Matilde’s watchful eye.
“Aunt Matilde, please, I’m begging you,” Clara whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper. “My feet ache so terribly. Can’t I rest just for a moment?”
Matilde’s glare was ice. “A lady does not complain.”
Tears of frustration burned behind Clara’s eyes, but she swallowed them down. Complaining was forbidden. Expressing discomfort was forbidden. Adjusting her clothing, even as the corset dug into her ribs, was forbidden. And so she endured, step by excruciating step, until finally, they arrived home.
The moment the door clicked shut, Clara ripped off her gloves, her breath shuddering out in relief. But the sound of Matilde clearing her throat made her freeze.
“Clara.” The name alone was laced with disappointment.
She turned slowly, dreading the inevitable lecture.
“You are not an animal. Your grace must persist beyond the public eye.” Matilde stepped closer, adjusting the stiff collar of Clara’s shirt, ensuring it was still perfectly buttoned. “Go to your room and redo your makeup. Your lipstick is smudged.”
Clara wanted to scream, wanted to fall to her knees and plead once more. “Aunt Matilde, I’ll do anything—just let me take off these shoes, or loosen my collar, even for a moment!” To tear at the perfect curls Matilde had arranged in her hair, to kick off the torture devices on her feet and collapse onto the floor. But she didn’t. Because Matilde always won.
With a deep, measured breath, Clara lifted her chin, straightened her back, and obeyed.
