All manageable.
All survivable.
Then Lord Hawthorne arrived, embroidered chaos wrapped in a gentleman’s coat.
“Lady Penelope! You have resurrected the season itself!” He practically sparkled with self-congratulation. “To reappear after years and then to dance with the foreign dignitary. Splendid!”
“I danced one set,” she replied.
“And yet the Ton is aflame! Rumors everywhere. Did you meet abroad? Will he duel for your honor? Are you secretly—”
“No.”
He faltered. “To which question?”
“All of them.”
Hawthorne wilted with theatrical despair, muttered something about poetic misfortune, and scurried away.
Penelope lifted her glass, took a measured sip, and felt it. A presence. A gaze. From the pillar beneath the third archway. A steady, deliberate watching.
She did not react. Did not tense. Did not look.
Instead, she drifted through the room again, trailing her fingers along the edge of a table displaying sugared plums. She paused to greet a duchess. Accepted a compliment on her gown. Replied with empty phrases she’d learned long ago.
All the while, the gaze followed.
Where had Mingxi gone? Somewhere behind the northern cluster of diplomats? Near the veranda doors? She did not search. It wasn’t her habit to look for someone, nor to expect rescue.
Still… a part of her was aware of his absence.
At the edge of the hall, near the ice sculptures, she angled her chin upward—only a fraction, only for an instant. A gesture no one should read.
But someone did.
A shift in the crowd. A presence re-entering her orbit, not abrupt—smooth, precise, inevitable.
Mingxi arrived beside her as though he had simply drifted into place.
“Describe it,” he murmured.
She didn’t look at him. “Left pillar. Third archway. Watching since I arrived.”
“What nature?” His voice stayed soft, controlled.
“Hunger, but restrained.”
He didn’t turn. His posture didn’t change. But the air around them tightened, the way a snare draws silent tension against an unseen threat. He touched a hidden rune beneath his cuff.
“Remain poised.”
“I am always poised.”
He inclined his head slightly—the barest agreement, the smallest warning. “Walk with me.”
To the room, it looked polite: a gentleman escorting a lady for a stroll. To her, it was a tactical pivot. They walked along the room’s perimeter, past glittering skirts and swirling coats, blending into the drifting tide of nobles. She tilted her head slightly toward him.
“Still watching?” she murmured.
