Elira sat still as the morning light filtered through sheer curtains, soft and gold across the chamber’s pale walls and rugs. The hush of post-breakfast quiet had settled over the estate, and the rustle of skirts and the gentle clink of glass jars marked the only sounds in the room.

Three maids moved about her in a practiced rhythm—Lysa, who had returned per her request; Jeralyn, always stiff-backed and silent; and a new girl she didn’t yet know.

The dress for Lady Avenelle’s garden party was a gentle blue silk with lavender undertones, not the dramatic storm-shade from Tomas but something chosen from her own wardrobe. The neckline was modest, the sleeves embroidered with fine trailing vines, and the hem was light enough to drift around her ankles as she walked. It looked demure. Forgettable. That was precisely the point.

“You’ll want the silver pins, my lady,” Lysa murmured, approaching with a velvet tray. “For your hair. They match the stitching.”

Elira gave a slight nod, meeting her eyes just long enough to note the quiet confidence in her tone. “Yes. Thank you, Lysa.”

The other two maids busied themselves with her shoes and accessories, never daring to break the room’s careful stillness. Not here. Not around her.

“I’ve set aside a parasol, as well,” Lysa added. “In case the sun turns sharp.”

Thoughtful. Measured. Still testing the waters of favor, Elira thought—but that was fine. She didn’t mind watching the seeds she planted begin to stretch.

The new girl accidentally brushed her wrist against Elira’s sleeve while securing the cuff. She flinched and rushed an apology. When all Elira responded with was a nod, she scurried back to repack a case of hair combs. Jeralyn didn’t even glance up, she had stiffened when the new girl started her apology, but her eyes never left the task at hand.

Elira let them work, her mind already drifting to the party ahead—who would be there, who she needed to watch. Avenelle’s invitations always cast a wide net, but Elira had learned early that the ones who lingered near the wine tables or shade-latticed corners were the ones worth remembering. They would be the whispers of court someday, and she had no intention of being caught off guard.

A soft knock tapped at the door. Not Sorrel—this was too light, too polite. Elira tilted her head slightly, curious. “Enter,” she called, Lysa gently tilted her head back in place and pinned the last silver blossom into place.

The door creaked open, revealing a short, round-cheeked servant from the kitchens—Tala, if Elira remembered correctly. Her apron bore a faint dusting of flour and her hands were red from scrubbing.

“My lady,” Tala said, offering a quick curtsy, her eyes respectfully lowered. “Begging pardon for the interruption. Mistress Marna asked whether you’d prefer rose jam or honey glaze with the cakes for tea today.”

Lysa glanced up for a brief moment, then returned to folding the shawl across the settee. Elira smiled, slow and smooth. She rarely made specific requests for tea accompaniments. It was a message—Marna had something to pass along.

“The honey glaze,” Elira said calmly. “It suits the season better.”

Tala dipped her head in agreement. “Very good, my lady. I’ll just take that empty tray and be on my way.”

She crossed the room to retrieve an empty tray left on the edge of Elira’s dressing table. As she did, her hand brushed against Elira’s sleeve—light, fleeting—and when she stepped back, something paper-thin and dry slipped into Elira’s palm.

“Thank you, Tala,” Elira said, her voice even. “And do thank Marna for her attention to detail.”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl gave a final curtsy and left as quietly as she’d come.

Elira didn’t move at first. She let Lysa finish pinning the last curl into place, nodded approval when Jeralyn adjusted the hem, offered the usual pleasantries as the three maids curtsied and took their leave. Only once the door clicked shut behind them did Elira finally let her fingers unfold the small slip of parchment still cradled in her palm.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. Slanted and obviously written with speed:

"Tonight, at the east wing stairwell. After the second bell. Come alone and be careful—whispers are not always wind."

Elira’s thumb traced the edge of the message. So, someone wanted to meet. Someone who had access to Marna or trusted her enough to send word through the kitchens. Marna obviously trusted them too if she’d actually sent the note. Though, there was a chance that the maid used Marna as a cover and is working outside of her view. The east wing stairwell—clever. That passage hadn’t been used regularly since the old tutor fell down it a decade ago. It was a place that got cleaned but was never visited.

She walked to the desk, tucked the note inside the folds of a book in her drawer, and pressed it shut between the pages. Not burned. Not yet. If it was a trap, she’d need to remember exactly what was written. If it wasn’t, it might just be the beginning of something she needed.

Elira turned back toward the mirror, watching herself for a long moment. In the reflection, she looked like a woman preparing for war. The quiet had barely settled when the door clicked open again—softer this time, careful, like the wind nudging the latch.

“Sorrel,” Elira said without turning. “You’re late.”

“I’m precise,” came the muttered reply, followed by the sound of the door easing shut behind her. “Lysa and the others passed me in the hall. Didn’t want to risk being seen coming in right after.”

Elira gave a slight nod and turned from the mirror to face her. Sorrel had changed out of her uniform and into clothes that were more muted, the color a touch faded, the fabric soft with wear. Her braid was tight and her eyes sharper than the day before.

“Well?” Elira asked.

Sorrel pulled something from her inner pocket—a small swatch of thick fabric with a nearly invisible seam. “Ticket’s bought,” she said. “Name’s on it. Numbers match. I tucked it into the lining for now.” Her fingers ran along her side, near the waist. “Last night, I stitched hidden pockets into all my uniforms. Same spot. Sewn into the inside seam just beneath the bodice. It’ll stay on me. Always.”

Elira let the tension ease from her shoulders. “Good. That will be our ticket to a better life. One far away from this house.”

“I’m not losing it,” Sorrel said, as if daring the universe to try. “Not for anything.”

“Nor should you.” Elira walked past her and sat back at her vanity, rearranging the perfume absent mindedly. “There’s something else.”

Sorrel looked up. “Let me guess. You want me to follow someone?”

“No,” Elira said quietly. “I want you not to.”

Sorrel frowned. “Come again?”

“I received a message just now. Anonymous. It asked for a meeting—tonight, after the second bell. The east wing stairwell.”

Sorrel stiffened. “A meeting in the middle of the night with a stranger in a part of the house no one uses anymore? Sounds friendly.”

Elira smiled faintly. “I’m not asking your opinion. I’m telling you I’m going.”

“And I’m telling you that’s reckless.” Sorrel glared back.

“Probably. But I’m going anyway.” Elira flashed her with a daring smile. “It could be the worst or best decision I end up making but I won’t know if I don’t do it.”

Silence. Then Sorrel muttered, “Shouldn’t go alone.”

“I must. If they see you, they’ll bolt. If they see me, they might speak. I need to know what this is about, and I can’t afford to look like I brought back up.”

Sorrel’s jaw clenched. “Then at least let me wait in the corridor. Far enough not to be seen—close enough if something goes wrong.”

“No,” Elira said. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t risk even that. As you said that part of the house isn’t used. The only time someone ventures that way is to do a spot of cleaning, and no one cleans over there in the middle of the night.” She stepped forward, lowering her voice. “I told you because I trust you. And because if something does happen, you’ll know where I went and when. That’s enough.”

Sorrel looked like she wanted to argue. Badly. But after a long, bristling pause, she folded her arms instead. “Fine. But if I hear you so much as sneeze at breakfast, I’m locking you in your chambers.”

Elira smiled. “Duly noted.”

“You’d better come back,” Sorrel muttered. “And in one piece.”

“I plan to.” Elira reached out and squeezed Sorrel’s shoulder, brief but firm. “Thank you. For the ticket. For the pockets. For the worry.”

Sorrel rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t make a habit of the midnight cloak-and-dagger meetings without back up. Preferably me.”

“No promises.”

Sorrel shook her head and turned toward the door, but before she opened it, she paused. “You don’t owe me explanations, Elira. But if you ever need someone at your back… I’m there. Alright?”

Elira’s voice was soft. “Alright. I’ll meet you downstairs” And with that, Sorrel slipped out the way she came, quiet as a falling petal.

Elira descended the main steps with measured calm, parasol balanced lightly on one shoulder, a small satchel tucked neatly at her wrist a short while later. The breeze caught the faint scent of rose oil from her gloves, and she let her expression fall into the carefully schooled softness expected of a noble daughter about to spend her morning in society.

Behind her came the sound of soft footsteps—two sets. She didn’t need to look to know who they were. One would be Sorrel, and the other a maid assigned by Madam Grelle.  

“My lady,” Sorrel said, her tone smooth, perfectly deferential.

Elira gave only a slight nod in acknowledgment, as any highborn girl might. Lysa followed a half-step behind Sorrel, quiet as always, her eyes downcast, her posture textbook. Both women looked every inch the Wyncrest staff—crisp aprons, polished shoes, composed expressions. It was remarkable how well and quickly Sorrel had taken to the role.

Once they reached the waiting carriage, one of the footmen bowed and opened the door. Elira stepped in first, her skirts whispering against the edge as she entered. Sorrel followed, seating herself across from Elira with hands folded properly in her lap. Lysa took the spot beside her, spine straight, eyes trained modestly out the window. No one spoke.

The carriage jolted gently into motion, wheels crunching across the gravel path as they made their way toward the Avenelle estate. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and quiet. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden lines across the velvet seats. Elira sat with her gaze cast downward, her posture flawless, her demeanor muted into polite invisibility. That, too, was part of the act. There would be eyes on her today. It was better to play the part everyone expected.

Across from her, Sorrel’s gaze flicked toward her briefly—no more than a glance, but meaningful. They wouldn’t speak here. Not yet. But Elira didn’t miss the faint curve at the edge of Sorrel’s mouth. Something had happened in the short time they were apart.

The countryside passed in soft blurs of green and blue, random flowerings adding splashes of color along the way. The air grew sweeter as they neared their destination, and the breeze that fluttered in through the small window carried the scent of lilacs and fresh-cut stems.

When the carriage at last rolled to a gentle halt, Elira’s eyes lifted. Before them rose the gates of House Avenelle—tall wrought iron woven with ivy and early wisteria blooms. The family crest, a silver crescent wrapped in vines, hung from banners on either side. The gate stood open in welcome.

The carriage door swung open, and an attendant gave a polished bow. Elira stepped down with the aid of the footman, her dress catching the sunlight in soft waves. She glanced only briefly at the scene ahead—a winding garden walk lined with flowering trellises and fresh white petals scattered across the cobblestones. Beyond it, music floated like perfume in the air, and laughter drifted on the breeze, light and harmless.

Behind her, Sorrel and Lysa stepped down, falling into place a few paces behind. Their heads were bowed, their presence neatly forgettable. Just as it should be.

Elira adjusted the lace cuff at her wrist, lowered her gaze, and stepped beneath the archway of flowers as if she were nothing more than what she appeared: a delicate bloom among many, cultivated for display, not danger. She smiled softly, demure and empty of thorns. Let the garden believe she was theirs.