The high walls of the gallery were adorned with dozens of canvases of varying sizes. Some of them hung low but were separated from the guests by elegant stanchions, which no one was permitted to cross. Around the statue of the “Madonna,” positioned in the center of the hall and draped in a flowing fabric that shimmered beneath the ceiling lamps, sat the musicians, filling the air with refined melodies. Along the walls upon the tables rose fountains of beverages, exotic fruits, and desserts resembling works of art. All the decorations and floral compositions were rendered in strict yet luxurious silver-and-blue tones.

The guests discussed everything. Some admired openly, while others attempted to forage for flaws in every detail, if only to conceal their own envy.

“How vulgar! To carve a woman out of stone. Who ever conceived of such a thing?” exclaimed a stout lady, fanning herself irritably.

“Out of stone?” her companion responded with explicit delight. “Is that not a living person? She appears as if real! I thought she was an engaged actress.”

Dozens of voices merged into one continuous hum. The guests inspected the exhibits of the exhibition with unconcealed curiosity, as if spellbound by this art so uncustomary to them. Marcus and Elena, having separated, skillfully cruised between the groups of guests, maintaining the conversation and striving to devote attention to everyone.

Ophelia descended to deliver a command to a servant - the time had arrived to herald the mistress of the house.

Azalea stood at the summit of the grand staircase.

Her ballroom dress appeared as if woven from the scales of some unknown beast: the fabric shimmered as though composed of a scattering of precious stones and, with every movement, played like the deep waters of a mountain lake. Ornaments of pearls and diamonds lent her image that provocative chic so valued by high society, while her shoes appeared as if carved from a single crystal.

“Lady Azalea Rosenthal!” the herald’s voice heralded loudly.

No sooner had Azalea stepped from the shadow into the light of the staircase than silence held sway in the hall. It appeared that all these people simultaneously unlearned how to breathe.

She commenced her descent down the steps gracefully. The dress flowed smoothly in her wake, catching the light of thousands of lamps and creating an almost magical, dazzling halo around her figure.

Elena, standing not far off, gasped involuntarily, pressing her palm to her chest. She had witnessed this attire during fittings, she had witnessed it upon sketches, but now, in the light of hundreds of lamps, it appeared almost divine, as though Azalea had descended from the pages of legends.

Beside her, a young countess, whose dress was an unskilled attempt to copy the style of the mistress of the house, released her fingers from surprise. The crystal goblet that slipped from her hands shattered into tiny fragments with a piercing ring. This sharp sound, like the strike of a whip, delivered the crowd from their torpor.

The hall exploded into a whisper that currently resembled the hum of a disrupted beehive.

“This is... this is incredible,” whispered that very same stout lady who a minute prior had labeled the statue vulgar. “Her dress... it is as though it glows from within.”

“Did you witness her shoes?” another interrupted her, examining Azalea with unconcealed envy. “Is that rock crystal? Can it truly be diamond? I have never witnessed anything similar. They must be worth a fortune!

“Did you notice she does not even look upon us?” snorted a young lass, frantically adjusting the hem of her gown, which she had purchased in the finest salon. “Ought she not be more grateful for our arrival? She comports herself as if she were a queen. Merely a trader from the Empire.”

Azalea did not hear these words. She had no business with what was babbled over there. She witnessed solely what was required for her. She registered immediately that none of the highest nobility was present at the reception. She took another step, straight into the circle of directed light, which reflected instantaneously from the facets of her dress, passing in a bright flash over the faces of those present, compelling many to involuntarily cover their eyes.

“It appears the lighting was adjusted poorly,” she spoke with a soft smile and nodded to a servant, who, by a couple of manipulations, dimmed the light directed at the mistress of the house.

The guests followed what had transpired in surprise.

“Are these the lamps that the representative of the Chamber of Commerce talked about?” the man, who was watching the scene with curiosity, asked the man next to him.

“By all appearances, just so. Are they not produced within the Eastern Empire?”

“They are produced by the Rosenthals, to be more precise,” a third added.

Azalea descended the staircase smoothly, and her every step was accompanied by a barely perceptible, melodious chime—as though time itself was subjected to her movement. She directed her steps unhurriedly toward the center of the gallery, to where the majestic statue of the “Madonna” rose. Under her gaze, the crowd parted like a living stream, obeying an instinctive desire to clear the way for her who currently appeared the sole genuine source of light in this hall.

Reaching the platform upon which the statue stood, Azalea ascended the elevation gracefully. Now she was visible to every person present. Turning around, she swept the hall with her gaze.

“Ladies and lords, I am delighted to welcome all of you to this evening as the head of the House of Rosenthal,” her voice, amplified by the natural acoustics of the gallery, filled the entire space softly yet distinctly, reaching the most distant corners of the hall. “I thank you for resolving to share this evening with us. We strived to prepare everything to full glory, so that even the most fastidious guests would be content. Enjoy the evening and the art.”

Azalea took the goblet presented by a servant.

“To the House of Rosenthal and to its bright future!” she exclaimed.

At that moment, the silence holding sway in the hall was replaced by a tense hum. In the shadow of the columns, a group of elderly lords exchanged by no means congratulatory glances.

“A woman?” hissed one of them, squeezing his cane so that his knuckles turned white. “And the head of the house? To where exactly is her spouse looking?!”

“She is divorced,” another responded, grimacing with distaste. “Unheard-of audacity! Why, how does she even dare to comport herself in such a manner in public?!”

But their indignation was drowned in the general impulse.

The larger portion of the guests raised their goblets, echoing her, though there were those who preferred to remain apart.

The massive doors of the gallery unfolded.

“His Majesty King Gerhard!” the herald’s voice swept across like thunder.

For the aristocracy, this became the final blow. Gerhard of Aden had earned fame throughout his entire reign as a man who did not attend receptions of nobility below the ducal level. Yet currently, the king entered the hall without redundant pomp, though his aura compelled people to part. His gaze went still upon Azalea. Approaching closer, he extended his hand to her and assisted her with descending.

“I beg your forgiveness, Lady Rosenthal. I was compelled to delay slightly, yet I could not miss your reception,” he bowed and kissed her gloved hand.

A wave of whispers ran across the crowd.

“It is unbefitting for a king to apologize before a subject,” Azalea spoke with a polite smile.