The days that followed passed beneath a polished surface of compliance. Elira smiled when expected, dined with grace, and nodded through her father's instructions like a dutiful daughter. Beneath the elegant folds of her gowns and the practiced curve of her smile, something stirred. A quiet current. A recalibration. She continued to go to the orphanage to help and clean. She continued to bring home mending to work at home and was surprised when there was noticeably less mending the third time around.

She had lived this life once before—followed it blindly into a grave dug by her own family’s ambition. She would not do so again. Not all wars began with swords. Some began with soft words whispered in the right ears. A few words. A remembered name. A kind gesture. Elira wove them like threads in a tapestry no one yet saw forming. And slowly, two threads began to glimmer.

Marna, who ran the kitchens and heard everything from servant rumors to noble affairs through pantry walls and wine deliveries and Iric, who tended the gardens and passed unnoticed through corridors, courtyards, and quiet spaces where secrets bloomed like weeds. If she was successful they, along with Sorrel, would be her eyes. Her roots. Her foundation. It would take time—but she’d started. She smiled as she remembered the first interactions.

For Iric, Elira stood beside a marble bench, her gloved hand grazing the edge as she watched a gardener trim back frostbitten leaves from the rosebushes.

“A bit early to be clearing them, isn’t it?” she asked gently.

The man startled, then straightened. He looked to be no more than thirty, wiry and weather-worn, his clothes plain but neat. “My lady—I didn’t expect—”

She waved a hand, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to scold.”

The gardener relaxed, if only a little. “Briar roses,” he said, gesturing to the bush. “They’re temperamental. Easy to let grow wild. I’ve been cutting back before spring comes so they don’t take the garden.”

“Smart,” Elira said. “Sometimes, trimming early keeps rot from spreading too deep.” Their eyes met for a moment. The gardener—Iric, she recalled—gave a short nod. Thoughtful. “But that’s the trick, isn’t it?” she said softly. “The part no one sees is usually the part that matters most.”

The quiet passed between them. The garden, bare and trimmed, looked almost austere beneath the pale sun but something lived in it still. The bones of beauty, ready to rise again. He wiped his hands on a cloth tucked at his belt. “I don’t mind being overlooked.”

“I know,” she replied, watching him with that same soft gaze she’d mastered since returning. “But sometimes it’s helpful to know who isn’t looking—and who is.”

That made him pause. Not with fear, but calculation. Not many people spoke like that to the servants. Even fewer waited for the answer after. Elira had, if just for a moment.

“Iric,” she said at last, letting his name fall like a promise between them. “Thank you.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For your care.” Her voice didn’t rise above a whisper. “Of the garden. Of the roots beneath it. This place needs more of that than anyone admits.”

A slow exhale escaped him, and then the smallest smile curved his lips. Not wide. Not careless. Just a flicker of something unspoken and understood. She turned to leave, gloves brushing against her skirts. “Good day, Iric.”

“Lady Elira,” he said in return, voice steadier than before. She didn’t look back, but the faint lift at the corner of her mouth told the marble statuary and frostbitten roses that she’d noticed.

For Marna, she had slipped into the kitchen after a particularly salty dinner. She had remembered Marna’s tendency to oversalt when stressed from her last life. It’s what got her banished by her fool of a brother. That incident was still several years off but she would prevent it this time around.

“Too much salt in the stew, Marna,” Elira murmured as she slipped into the kitchen.

The older woman turned sharply, then froze, eyes wide. “My lady—”

“You always add extra when you’re worried. Who are you feeding that’s troubling you today?” Elira probed.

Marna hesitated, then gave a small, dry laugh. “My nephew’s joined the northern guard. Word came down today.”

Elira set a gentle hand on the woman’s arm. “May his shield be strong, and his aim steady.”

The old cook blinked, surprised by the sincerity. Then she smiled, soft and tired. “Thank you, child.” Not a child. Not anymore, she had thought bitterly. “He’s not suited for soldiering,” she said eventually. “Too soft-hearted. But he joined anyway. Said it was the only way to send coin back to his mother after her hands gave out.”

Elira nodded once. “Then let’s help keep him safe. I could send some things if you let me know what he needs. We’ll light a candle for him too so our well wishes get sent properly.”

Another silence fell, deeper this time. No performance, no posture. Just two women from opposite ends of the house, watching the flames dance in the fireplace.

“I didn’t over salt the stew on purpose,” Marna muttered after a while. “I just… forgot.”

“I know,” Elira said gently. “That’s why I came down. Not to scold. Just to see.”

Marna gave a slow shake of her head, then reached for a knife and began peeling onions with practiced hands. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “You used to come down here just to escape. Now you come down looking for cracks in the walls.”

Elira considered that. “I suppose I do.”

“Well.” A pause. “You’ll find plenty if you know where to look. This house is full of them. Might want to be careful though. Poke the wrong one and you’ll come up with spiders.”

“I try to keep up with the things that matter,” Elira replied, brushing a crumb from the counter and watching it fall. “I’ll be careful.”

“You always were a clever girl,” she murmured. “Though you used to be better at pretending not to be.”

“Maybe,” Elira said lightly. “But sometimes I take the chance when it comes to people with good hearts. I remember those that treat me well.”

Marna said nothing but when Elira glanced back on her way out, she saw the cook’s head bowed—not in deference, but in thought. Her knuckles were tight around the knife handle. Her face unreadable. Elira didn’t press. She slipped out into the corridor with a quiet grace, letting the door fall softly closed behind her. That one would take time but it would be time well spent. If anyone knew what was about to boil, it was the cook.

The carriage she was riding on stopped abruptly, pulling her from her memories. She stepped out and let herself into Tomas’s shop. It was time to check on the dress. The bell above the door chimed as Elira stepped inside, the scent of warm fabric and pressed starch wrapping around her like a cloak. Tomas looked up from a half-pinned coat sleeve and let out a theatrical sigh.

“Oh no,” he said, mock serious. “Not you again.”

Elira arched a brow. “You sound pained, Master Etton.”

“Only because I have a reputation to maintain. You make it difficult to pretend I dislike all nobles.”

“Then I’ll try harder next time,” she replied, removing her gloves. “Now, is the gown ready to be fitted, or should I sit and start composing a stern letter of disappointment?”

Tomas gestured toward the curtained alcove. “Your highness of melodrama, it awaits.”

Behind the curtain, she slipped into the gown, her fingers brushing over the smooth silk, her breath catching slightly at the weight and precision of it. She was surprised to find a completed gown as usually those would take weeks to finish, especially a masterpiece like the one she now had on.

“You better not be pacing,” she called.

“I pace for no woman,” he replied with a grunt.

She emerged moments later. Tomas went still. The dress was a storm — deep, glimmering gray with undertones of midnight blue. It hugged her bodice, the neckline sweeping just below her collarbone, elegant and composed. The sleeves were sheer and graceful, with golden beaded threads like rainfall tracing her arms. The skirt flared with layered gauze, a whisper with every step.

“Well?” she asked.

Tomas didn’t move. “You’re going to get someone killed in that.”

Elira turned, letting the layers swirl. “Just someone?”

“At least.” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing like he was seeing a piece of art he couldn’t quite believe he made. “You’ll be unforgettable.”

She smirked. “You sound like you’re complimenting yourself.”

“I am. This is my masterpiece.” Tomas gave a crooked smile.

“I’ll have to remember to credit you when the court is on fire.” Elira replied.

“Please do.” He gave a crooked smile. “But put it at the bottom of the gossip pages. I like subtle fame.”

She chuckled. “You know, for someone who grumbles about nobles, you certainly enjoy impressing one.”

He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t mind nobles who talk like they’re not the center of the world.”

“You must be talking about someone else,” she said innocently, running a hand down her skirt. “I am the center of the world.”

“You’re not there yet, Lady Wyncrest. But I think there’s hope.”

She gave him a sly glance. “I’m glad I met you, Tomas.”

He blinked. “That was almost sincere. Do you need water? A fainting couch?”

Elira rolled her eyes. “It’s the dress. I’m overcome by how brilliant I look. It’s impressive it’s already finished; I was not expecting that nor a perfect fit.”

“There it is,” he muttered, turning back toward his sketches.

She slipped back behind the screen to change. “Will you come to see it on the night?”

He paused. “To the masquerade? Not invited.”

“I could get you in.” She suggested.

“I’ll pass. Not my scene.” Came the cool reply.

She peeked around the curtain. “Then I’ll dance for both of us.”

He grinned. “Make it scandalous.”

“Oh, I intend to.” She grinned back.

As Elira stepped out, the dress carefully boxed and tucked under one arm, she exhaled into the cold. Tomorrow, the garden party. In two weeks, the masquerade. Her entrance would be a ripple in the still waters of high society and the storm beneath the silk was just beginning to rise. She made her way back home, allowing some hope that Sorrel would greet her in the next day or two. She was running out of time for the lottery ticket and it would be hard to come up with a back up plan if missed.

That worry felt useless when she pushed her bedroom door open to find Sorrel standing just inside the room. She stood ramrod straight and half-silhouetted by the fire that had been stoked in her absence. The girl had changed since their first meeting: her posture firmer, her uniform crisp, hair neatly tied back. Still too thin. Still too wary. But her eyes, bright and flighty, tracked Elira’s every move with something like respect—and something else too. Loyalty, perhaps, at its earliest roots.

“Well,” Elira said, letting the door fall closed behind her, “either Madam Grell has taken a remarkable liking to you, or you’ve managed to complete your training ahead of schedule.”

Sorrel gave a short nod. “She said I picked up fast. Figured I was ready.” A beat passed. “I waited here. Hope that’s alright. I know you said the morning after but I was eager to show you what I can do.”

“It is,” Elira said, setting the box down gently on the low table beside the chaise. “You’re exactly where I need you.”

Sorrel’s brows lifted faintly at that, but she didn’t speak. Elira stepped closer, her tone softening just enough to match the hush of the firelight. “There’s a task I need done,” she said, voice calm but precise. “A quiet one. No uniform. No maid duties. Just a trip to town tomorrow morning. You’ll leave early—before the others are stirring. Take the carriage to the edge of the southern quarter and walk the rest.”

She reached for her writing desk and pulled free a small folded note from the false-bottomed drawer. She didn’t hand it to Sorrel yet—only looked at her. “This errand is important. Quietly done, quickly finished. No names, no questions. You’ll take coin, find a shop with lottery books, and purchase a ticket under the name Wren Blackthorne. The numbers and name are here.” She tapped the note. “Do not lose this. Do not speak the name to anyone. When it’s done, burn this slip and keep the one they give you hidden on your person at all times. When the draw is done, you’ll fetch the winnings and deposit it into the bank on the eastern boarder of town. I’ve already set up an account under the name Wren Blackthorne.”

Sorrel’s eyes narrowed as Elira spoke, but her mouth stayed closed. When Elira was done, she said, “Wren Blackthorne. Got it.”

Elira held the note out to her. “If anyone asks where you were?”

“I’ll say you sent me to town for embroidery silk. Or face cream. Or something noble and pointless.” Sorrel gave a cheeky grin.

Elira’s smile touched her eyes this time. “You’re catching on quickly.”

Sorrel tucked the note into the inside pocket of her skirt. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Elira walked back toward the firelight, folding her hands behind her back. “There’s a maid here named Lysa. You’ll find a way to speak to her—quietly, naturally. No pushing. Just… be friendly. I want to know what she believes, who she trusts. And if she’s the sort who might be persuaded.”

“You want her watched?”

“I want her understood,” Elira corrected gently. “If she can be turned, she might be useful.”

Sorrel nodded again, slower this time. “Alright. I’ll see what I can find.”

Silence stretched a moment between them. Then Elira asked, quietly, “Was it terrible? The training?”

Sorrel gave a tight-lipped grin. “Only half. Madam Grell could glare a mirror into cracking, but she wasn’t the worst. Some of the others…” She shook her head. “It’s a viper pit in the laundry when the head maid’s not around.”

Elira sighed. “Good. Then you’re ready for the rest of this house.”

At that, Sorrel gave the smallest smirk. “Not sure anyone’s ready for this house.”

Elira laughed—soft and unexpectedly. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is a very important day.”

As Sorrel moved to leave, Elira called after her. “And Sorrel?”

The girl turned back. “Yeah?”

“Well done.”

A flicker of something crossed Sorrel’s face. Not surprise. Not pride, exactly. Maybe recognition. Then she dipped her head and vanished back into the hall with quiet, confident steps. Elira stood alone again, the dressbox still unopened beside her. The game was moving faster now and, at last, she wasn’t playing it alone.