The garden walk opened into a broad, flowering expanse bordered by climbing wisteria and artfully arranged hedges. A string quartet played under a canopied alcove, and fragrant petals drifted like confetti in the breeze. The air smelled of honeyed tea and sweet grass.

Elira barely had time to fully absorb it before Lady Avenelle approached with open arms and a bright smile. “Elira, darling,” Lady Avenelle said brightly, spreading her arms in a half-embrace that never quite touched. “You look sweet as a sigh.”

“Thank you, Lady Avenelle.” Elira inclined her head with a smile. “The garden does most of the work.”

The older woman laughed, gesturing for her to follow. “Nonsense. Though I did make sure to match the flowers to my favorite guests.” She winked. “Come, there are a few young ladies I’d like you to meet. I imagine you’ll have more in common than any of you would with me.”

Elira allowed herself to be led beneath a flowering archway where three girls stood gathered beside a lace-draped table. A light tea service was being poured, and the sound of a string quartet filtered through the trees beyond.

“Lady Vianne Moray,” Lady Avenelle began, indicating a tall girl with soft golden hair and a faint smile.

“Lady Elira,” Vianne said smoothly. “What a pleasure.”

“And this is Lady Iselda Trenith,” she continued, gesturing to a girl in blush silk with dark curls and sharp, curious eyes.

Iselda gave a polite nod. “We’ve heard the season may finally be interesting.”

“And finally, my niece, Corrine Avenelle. She’s just come from Norfeld.”

Corrine, youngest of the group, offered a hopeful smile. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” Elira said easily, matching each of their expressions with a serene, practiced calm. She took her place beside them as Lady Avenelle excused herself to greet another guest, her departure as smooth as her entrance.

There was a moment of polite silence before Vianne lifted her cup. “I assume you’ll be attending the masquerade?” she asked, her tone light, but her eyes watchful as she took a sip of tea.

“I will,” Elira said. “My mother’s quite determined to ensure I don’t miss anything this season.”

Iselda let out a soft huff of amusement. “Naturally. It’s shaping up to be the most important event of the spring. There’s even a rumor about Lord Ferain being unmasked at midnight.”

“Accidentally?” Corrine asked.

“Hopefully not,” Vianne said, lifting one brow. “He has a very forgettable face.”

The other girls laughed lightly. Elira smiled too—appropriately, with care.

“And your costume?” Iselda asked, eyeing Elira’s pale dress with vague interest. “Something bold?”

“Ah,” Elira replied. “I’m keeping that a surprise for the night of.”

“Oh,” Vianne said. “I’m quite intrigued! I’ll be on the lookout for you.”

A beat passed, and then Iselda asked, “Will your brother be attending as well?”

There it was. Elira didn’t glance between them, but she didn’t have to. She could feel the attention. Vianne and Iselda were watching her carefully, though trying not to seem as if they were. It wasn’t surprising that they were circling Lucien like jeweled hawks just like they did in her previous life. It was unfortunate for them though, when she died, he hadn’t chosen anyone to make his official wife. He spent most of his time split between leading women of nobility on and the red-light district of the commoners’ side of town.

She sipped from her cup of spiced tea. “He’s expected, yes. My mother and father may miss it though.”

“He’s been selective this year,” Vianne said, choosing her words delicately.

“He always is,” Iselda added.

“Perhaps the masquerade will help clarify his preferences,” Elira said with a faint smile though she knew nothing of the sort would happen.

Corrine looked a bit lost at the undertones, but neither of the older girls missed them. There was a shift in posture—a slight tightening of shoulders, and a cooling of tone.

“You must know who he favors,” Iselda said.

“If I did,” Elira said sweetly, “I wouldn’t dare guess on his behalf.”

Vianne looked as though she wanted to press further, but the polite confines of the garden—and the nearby presence of Lady Avenelle—held her in place. A breeze passed through the garden, stirring the lavender and trailing vines. Elira let the silence linger a breath longer, then gave a polite tilt of her head.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said lightly, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirts. “The sun is a touch strong—I think a bit of refreshment might help.”

“Of course,” Vianne said with affected sweetness. “We wouldn’t want you to faint before the masquerade.”

“I’ll try my best not to cause a scandal,” Elira murmured with a smile, then turned from the group with practiced grace, never once showing her relief.

She let her steps carry her down the crushed-stone path toward the shade-lined tables where refreshments waited beneath white linen canopies. Glassware tinkled softly in the breeze. Attendants moved like clockwork. Elira stepped lightly between conversation circles, her expression composed, hands folded loosely in front of her as if the weight of silk and civility were second nature. She murmured polite thanks as she accepted a glass of chilled citrus water from a passing attendant and paused near the edge of a columned trellis overgrown with fragrant wisteria. From this vantage, she could observe without being obvious. And observe she did.

Around her, the garden party spun in soft tones and sharper smiles. Young nobles postured with effortless laughter while their parents played a longer game in the shade of linen awnings. Elira scanned faces like a ledger, weighing the worth of each—quietly, inwardly.

She moved first toward a cluster of low conversation, where a tall, well-dressed boy with a square jaw and too-loud laugh held court near the pastry tables. Kellan Merrow, she recalled. Son of a viscount who fancied himself progressive. Elira stepped within range of his gaze.

He brightened immediately. “Lady Elira, what a pleasure,” he said, offering a half-bow. “I was just telling Lady Brielle here about our House’s plan to double its militia. Can’t be too careful, with all the foreign rabble stirring up trouble.”

Brielle gave her a bright but brittle smile. Kellan looked expectant. Elira tilted her head politely. “And you think war will respect doubled numbers when it hasn’t respected borders?”

Kellan blinked. “Well, I mean to say—”

Elira’s smile remained serene. “I’m sure your House has it well in hand. What do I know of war anyway?” She gave a slight nod and drifted on, letting the silence trail behind her like perfume. No insight. No curiosity. Not worth the effort.

Farther down the path, another group held her attention more easily. Two boys and a girl leaned over a series of hand-drawn maps spread across a low marble bench. Garrin Velth, she noted—sensible, observant, from a minor house with growing influence in military consulting. The moment he saw her; he straightened and gave a brief nod of respect.

“Lady Elira. Are you fond of maps?” He asked, noticing her gaze.

“I’m fond of what they reveal,” she replied smoothly, stepping closer.

Garrin gestured to a sketched page. “We’re tracing waterline shifts in the southern province—Dalthorn. Reports say wells are drying faster than normal. If they lose a second harvest, there will be rationing by autumn.”

“Drought?” she asked.

“Looks that way,” the girl beside him said. “We sent a letter to one of the outpost towns—Creeve—and got back a list of missing livestock and crop failure. Quiet so far, but that’s how these things start.”

“And no one’s made it public?” Elira asked, softly.

Garrin gave a dry shake of his head. “Does anyone ever? It is also the very beginning so there is not telling if anyone of importance has noticed.”

Elira studied the map, taking note of the terrain lines and town names. “I imagine someone will need to be prepared when it finally hits.”

Garrin’s eyes met hers, the briefest flicker of something like recognition passing between them. “Exactly what we were thinking.”

She handed the map back and offered the barest smile. “Then I’ll hope the Crown starts listening. Sooner rather than later.”

“Would be a nice change,” Garrin muttered, but it lacked bitterness. Just awareness.

Elira let the silence settle before moving on. He’s paying attention. That’s rare. That’s useful. The next encounter was more familiar—Sabine Calloway, lounging with pointed disinterest near a pedestal of sugared fruit. Her father’s estate bordered two prominent trade lines, but Sabine had no love for courtship or manners. Her sharp tongue had already cost her two suitors this season. It made her interesting.

“Sabine,” Elira greeted, voice smooth. “You look positively unimpressed.”

Sabine didn’t look up. “I told my mother I’d rather eat dust than attend this party. She said I could do both.”

“I think you’ll find the cake has more flavor,” Elira replied dryly.

Sabine cracked a small smile. “You’ve changed.”

Elira arched a brow. “Have I?”

“You used to walk around like nothing and no one here was worth your time. Now you’re paying attention to people that would never have registered before.”

“I’m learning what deserves attention. I took the time away to grow up.” Elira smiled.

Sabine nodded once. “You’re dangerous now. I like it.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Sabine snorted. “Disappointing people is half the fun.”

They exchanged a brief glance—measured, unsentimental. Elira didn’t linger. Sabine might not want a cause, but she’d follow the smoke if the fire was interesting enough. Two names, then. Garrin Velth. Sabine Calloway. No promises yet, but the ground was fertile. The seeds were hers to plant. She just needed to decide who was worth pulling in and who would be dead weight in the end.

She glanced toward the shaded edge of the main lawn, where a scattering of lower-ranking nobles lingered near the drinks table. Among them, a girl stood half-turned away from the crowd, scribbling in a small notebook with quick, deliberate strokes. Mirielle Thorndale, someone that was on her list before this party. What a fantastic opportunity.

Her gray dress was simple. Her posture quiet. But the attention in her eyes—focused, measuring—was unmistakable. She wasn’t here to gossip. She was here to listen. Elira adjusted the fold of her sleeve, handed off her empty glass to a passing server, and turned toward Mirielle. Time to meet the mind behind the ink.

Elira stepped off the gravel path with careful poise, letting her skirts sway just enough to seem effortless. She crossed the stretch of short-trimmed grass where lesser nobles mingled near the drinks table, smiling and gesturing with the exaggerated ease of people used to being overlooked.

Elira approached without hesitation. “I’m told the ones who observe the most tend to speak the least,” she said, her voice light and conversational.

Mirielle looked up, blinking once in mild surprise before offering a reserved nod. “Then I’m likely in danger of being both underestimated and misunderstood.”

Elira smiled. “I’ve found that to be a useful place to begin.”

Mirielle studied her, then—openly, unapologetically. “Lady Wyncrest,” she said, with a small dip of her head. “You’ve had quite the return.”

“So, I’m told.” Elira gestured to the notebook. “And what are you writing about us all, Lady Thorndale?”

“Only what’s safe enough to forget by morning.” Her lips quirked slightly. “Or dangerous enough to remember.”

Elira laughed, a breath softer than amusement. “You don’t strike me as the forgetful type.”

“I don’t strike many people at all,” Mirielle said evenly, “which is why I’m rarely noticed.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Elira said, folding her hands before her. “Or perhaps convenient, depends on the person’s preference I suppose.”

Mirielle tilted her head. “Are you trying to flatter me, or interview me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Mirielle didn’t smile—but she didn’t walk away, either. “And what brings the Duke’s daughter to my quiet corner?”

Elira let her expression shift into something poised and sincere. “Curiosity,” she said. “You’re not here to charm suitors or trade gossip. That makes you interesting.”

“Most nobles find that makes me dull.” Mirielle sighed. “I have no use for gossip, and suitors are less appealing than a hang nail since they all want you to as dull intellectually as they are.”

“Ah, but your intelligence is what pulls me to you. I think you could do amazing things if given half the chance.” Elira beamed. “Though you would have to put yourself out there to do so. I believe someday you will.”

A pause stretched—thoughtful, measured. Then Mirielle closed her notebook gently, her fingers resting on the worn leather cover. “I’ve found people tend to forget the ones who don’t ask for attention,” she said. “That makes it easier to listen. Listening helps gather information that otherwise wouldn’t be shared to people like me.”

Elira gave her a slight nod of agreement. “I imagine you’ve heard quite a lot.”

“Enough to know that many couldn’t put two dots together even if they were labeled in number order.” Mirielle sighed again. “Though I can’t say much here, surrounded by just those people.”

“Then perhaps we’ll talk again.” Elira suggested. “I could invite you to my home, or possibly out on the town?”

“Perhaps,” Mirielle said quietly. “If you’re not afraid of being seen with someone who doesn’t fit. You will get quite a few strange looks with me by your side.”

Elira’s eyes didn’t waver. “Sometimes the ones who don’t fit are the ones most worth the time. I told you, I believe you’ll be going somewhere in life. Something more than a wife and mother, I mean. I hope you’ll look to my invitation favorably.”

Elira gave a slight nod to Mirielle, then turned to walk back toward the refreshment tables. She felt Mirielle watch as she walked away, but she never called her back. The rest of the garden party unfolded without consequence. She drifted from group to group, offering polite nods and forgettable comments. If anyone noticed her detachment, they didn’t mention it. The whispers about her return to society were beginning to lose their edge—replaced now by the duller hum of curiosity.

She let her eyes wander toward the far hedge, where Lysa stood at attention, subtle and patient. Elira approached her with an easy step and a soft voice. “Would you be so kind as to have the carriage readied? I think I’ve smiled enough for one day.”

Lysa gave a nod, dipping just low enough to maintain decorum. “Of course, my lady.”