Isildeth made a sound that might have been a cough or a stifled laugh, and then peeled off with the other attendants. Evelyne walked into the cloister proper, where ladies of the court sat in a half-circle around a stone table.
Her new veil lay in the center.
The tradition of the Veiling was a symbol of hope and fortune, woven by the hands of Edrathen’s noblewomen into the fabric that would shield the bride’s face as she stepped into a new life. As one of the practices of the Flame of Rhyssa, the ceremony was allowed solely because it was bound to religion. One of the few art-connected rites that survived to this day.
Each stitch, a blessing, but as Evelyne watched them, she felt none of it. No hope. No warmth. Only the scratch of thread and the weight of suspicion.
When Evelyne approached closer, the sound of whispering cut off with almost comical precision. Hands paused mid-stitch. A few exchanged fleeting glances before bowing their heads in perfect unison.
It had been this way for the better part of a year. Every gathering, every meticulously arranged soirée. She would arrive, punctual as always, only to feel the shift the moment her heels touched the floor. The unmistakable turn of heads that said:She’s here.
At first, it stung. She wasn’t immune to cold shoulders or the way women who once curtsied with delight now barely dipped their chins. It made her feel like a thread out of place in an otherwise perfect tapestry.
She never understood it.
Except—of course—she did.
In court, reputation was currency, and position was power. And what better way to increase your share than by stripping someone else of theirs? Evelyne couldn’t play on the male fieldsof war or council. But in the parlor, she was expected to stake her place. And keep it.
Later she realized that they were more uncomfortable with her presence than she was with their scrutiny. And when that particular problem had the nerve to stand in her way, Evelyne did what Edrathen women had always done best—she turned fury into poise.
Because fury, when properly aged and preserved, fermented into a very elegant kind of boredom.
So she began showing up more often, voicing her opinions with a calm assurance that made certain men blink twice and certain women press their lips together as if holding back sour wine.
Nothing unsettled men more than a woman who knew exactly where she stood. And Evelyne had never been confused about her place.
“Your Highness,” greeted Lady Elenora, a slender woman with freckles scattered across her beige skin and a waterfall of red hair pinned neatly atop her head. Her pale green dress clung delicately to her frame. “What a pleasure to see you joining us this afternoon.”
They resumed their work, of course, but the conversation did not return. The space between them, however, still hummed with the words she hadn’t heard. Evelyne didn’t need to. She knew exactly what whispers looked like when silenced too abruptly.
She swallowed the thought and smiled, as one does in a civilized kingdom. Funny, how art was scrutinized, parsed for meaning like scripture. And yet all of them were actors on a polished stage.
Lady Elenora cleared her throat. “A delicate pattern, Your Highness. The stitches are symbolic. Doves for peace. Violets for humility. The silver knotwork means endurance.”
Evelyne smiled softly and inclined her head.
“Have you met him yet, Your Highness?” Lady Corinne asked lightly, the needle flashing between her fingers.
“Yes, we’ve spoken.”
“And?” She pressed, eager.
Of course they were curious.
“I can only speak to my own experience,” she said finally, her tone light but precise. “On the first meeting, the prince struck me as well-spoken… and very much aware of the weight of his position.”
Lady Corinne’s needle dipped and rose in neat, precise motions. She was taller than Evelyne, pear-shaped, with glossy dark brown hair pinned in an elegant coil. Her eyes matched her hair in shade, set in honey-toned skin. “Is it true,” she began, light as spun sugar, “that the Varantian court allows music during regular dinners?”
A few heads tilted toward Evelyne, waiting.
“It does,” she agreed. “I read that the musicians are placed behind silk screens so the sound blends. I think it’s quite elegant.”
Lady Elenora glanced up. “And have you found the prince to be as you expected?”
“I had no expectations,” Evelyne replied smoothly.
“That’s wise,” murmured Corinne. “One hears so many things. Handsome, of course, but…” She let the word hang.
