“But?” Evelyne prompted.
“Mm.” Lady Malren didn’t look up from her stitch. She was short, with ink-black hair parted sharply down the middle and pinned up, fair skin like polished ivory, and striking green eyes set above a slightly tilted nose. “They say the Soleranos line… has always been curious about forbidden histories.”
“Curiosity is hardly a crime,” Evelyne reached for her teacup. “In fact, in certain courts, it’s a sign of intelligence.” She let hereyes sweep the group, resting just a fraction longer on the most talkative pair. “Which is why I’m confident Prince Alaric will prove himself a valuable ally.”
Lady Malren’s attention shifted briefly to Elenora, who arched a brow.
“I heard,” Lady Ariste chimed in, lowering her voice as though sharing state secrets, “that in Rhuhn’Fjel, women are permitted to speak in council chambers.” Her rounded pink cheeks gave her an air of innocence that contrasted sharply with the sharp curiosity in her blue eyes. Her almond-toned skin caught the sunlight as she leaned in.
Evelyne looked up at her. They had once been close—closest among the court, in fact. Long afternoons spent studying side by side, whispering over forbidden books, meeting for tea under the pretense of etiquette practice. But after Evelyne’s illness, the visits had grown infrequent. And after Dasmon’s death, they’d stopped altogether. Evelyne assumed it hadn’t been Ariste’s choice. More likely, her parents had made it for her.
“Their women even walk unescorted through markets,” Lady Elenora added, her needle flashing. “In public.”
“How reckless,” Lady Malren murmured.
Evelyne kept her smile fixed. “I suppose that is one way of seeing it. Though sometimes a gilded wall is still a wall.”
Lady Malren’s expression faltered, uncomprehending. “Ah, but walls keep out the rain, Your Highness. We are blessed not to feel it. More from the south are trying to marry into Edrathen. We have it better here.”
Ariste gave a delicate laugh. “Well, we do. Safe borders, quiet streets. None of that unrest you hear about in the provinces.”
Several nodded. Evelyne kept her face neutral, though in her head she could see the map—the places where unrest simmered because “order” had stripped people bare. They had no idea. And they didn’t want to.
“And of course,” Malren added, “we’re careful about bloodlines.”
Evelyne turned to her. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you know,” Malren replied. “The Varantian Royal Family may marry whoever they please. Until recently, at least. Emperor Emrys married a seamstress from Myceanos, didn’t he?”
“Indeed,” Evelyne echoed, her tone smooth. “And now Empress Aurevia is among the most beloved figures in the realm. Some would call that a beautiful tradition—the ruler choosing not just a match, but a partner. In heart and rulership both.”
Malren’s smile thinned. “Oh, certainly. But still, she isn’t of royal blood.”
Evelyne drew a slow breath. “I must remind you,” she declared with perfect calm, “that my mother, too, was from a foreign land.”
A brief silence descended, brittle and sharp.
“Well—naturally, Your Highness,” Malren offered after a beat. “But she came from a ruling family. In some way.”
Evelyne’s smile didn’t move. Her mother’s family had ruled nothing by the time the ink dried on the treaties. In fact, they had been accused of heresy. Of carrying the “old ways” in their blood. Her father had been sent to bring Orvath’s order to Lysitha and returned with a bride.
Evelyne’s eyes meet Malren’s with unshaken precision. “I advise you to speak with the highest respect about my future husband. And my family. Or excuse yourself from my table.”
The woman’s rehearsed expression faltered enough to reveal the flicker beneath: surprise, then irritation. She set down the veil with the care of someone not used to being corrected, especially not in front of her audience.
Malren had been at court longer than Evelyne. Groomed in the quiet corners of influence, practiced in weaponized politeness, but longevity did not grant her license to forget herself.
And lately, she has been forgetting often. Testing boundaries. Veiling insults behind compliments and watching to see who followed. The younger ladies always did.
The veil reached the far end of the circle, where Lady Malren accepted it with theatrical care.
Revenge is coming.
“Do you intend to sew your own veil again this time, Your Highness?” she asked, voice like vinegar left in silver.
Elenora stilled. Lady Corinne sucked in a breath. Ariste went pale, eyes darting toward the exits as if Evelyne might turn violent in taffeta.
“Aren’t we brave today, Lady Malren,” Evelyne remarked. “I hadn’t realized tradition now required commentary with every stitch.”
