The sun had scarcely touched the roofs of the city when life inside the kitchen of Rosenwald was already boiling at full throttle. Servants were preparing breakfast, scuttling through the premises with trays, and arranging food upon the table. Within the small dining room whose windows faced the garden, a tranquility held sway, interrupted solely by the rustle of newspaper pages and the chiming of a silver spoon against the edge of porcelain.

Azalea sat in an armchair, her legs tucked beneath her. She wore a simple domestic robe of soft cotton - no corset, no silvery brocade. Her hair, which had been styled into a complex coiffure yesterday, cascaded over her shoulders today in soft, slightly tangled waves. She would have appeared as the embodiment of morning peace were it not for the sharp, tenacious gaze with which she scanned fresh issues of the metropolitan newspapers.

“Listen,” Marcus, sitting opposite with a cup of strong coffee, unfolded The Metropolitan Herald. “‘The Enigmatic Lady Rosenthal: A Blessing from the Heavens or an Exquisite Mirage? Yesterday's reception left more questions than answers, but one thing is clear for certain - the gold of the crown currently smells of roses.’”

Azalea snorted, not breaking away from her sheet.

“Mundane. Foolish. And dreadfully written. The headline and most likely the contents were born of the imagination of some backwater reporter.” She unfolded the paper. “Whereas here it is even more entertaining. A small note in The Evening Star. The author compares our house with the estate of the First Minister of Trade and poses the question of whether the sapphire on the pins is a secret symbol of a new political party.”

Elena entered the dining room, carrying an armful of fresh newspapers and weeklies under her arm. She appeared highly content.

“Gossip operates to our advantage, my dears,” she smiled. “The maids in neighboring manors speak of nothing but your 'self-illuminating' stones. The jewelers in the city are in a panic - queues of ladies have already formed before them, desiring to order 'the exact same as Rosenthal's, but for any coin.' I fear, however, no one will be capable of repeating that miracle with the diamonds. Ah! What a wonderful morning it is today, after all.”

Azalea set the newspaper aside, took a fresh brioche, and looked thoughtfully out the window. There, beyond the line of the well-tended garden, scaffolding was already visible.

“Let the gossip stoke interest. Every morning they ought to awaken with a new rumor regarding us. The chief matter is that prior to the opening of the auction house, the name of Rosenthal becomes firmly embedded in the life of every resident of the capital. We must hasten the opening of the commercial venue in Werner. It is time for civilization to arrive in Aden.”

Marcus nodded, making a notation in his ledger.

“The construction proceeds according to plan, but the officials from the city council are attempting to draw out the issuance of permits for the warehouse premises. Evidently, they await 'tributes.'”

“Grant them not a single grosh,” Azalea cut him off, a cold glint flashing in her eyes. “From day to day, we shall receive official authorization bearing the royal seal. Let them merely attempt to solicit anything beyond the fee established by law.”

The residence of the Duke of Werden, father to Queen Ingrid, resembled a crypt: cold stone, heavy portieres, and the stifling scent of age-old dust.

Prior to crossing the threshold of this gloomy mansion, Berthold Moonforest, he had returned to his family name with disgust and rage upon realizing that no utility remained from the name of von Berge, wandered for a good half-hour along the adjacent narrow streets. He walked, stumbling over the cobblestones, clutching his fists convulsively, and continuously muttering curses under his breath.

“Ungrateful wench... monster...” he hissed, spraying saliva into the emptiness. “I raised her, placed her in a fine house, and she dared to put me out the door! Rosenthal... a harlot in diamonds! Who knows how she even acquired this coin?! A wretched girl dares to dictate to me?! To me?! I shall find a way to handle you...”

Following a long verbal tirade, Berthold stood inside the reception room for two hours now, nervously crumpling the hems of his worn kaftan in his hands.

Finally, the massive doors of the study opened. The Duke of Werden, an old man with a face carved out of grey granite, did not even offer Berthold a seat. He stood at the window, inspecting his vineyards, as though the guest did not exist at all. In truth, he had no business with this man. Nonetheless, he had resolved to hear him out upon learning who he was.

“Your Grace,” Berthold commenced, his voice trembling betrayingly. “I have arrived to warn you. That woman... Azalea. She designates herself Rosenthal, but she is my daughter. She is dangerous. She has bewitched the king with her 'art' and these counterfeit stones! She targets the place of your daughter; she wishes to shatter the influence of the old families!”

The Duke turned his head slowly. His gaze was disdainful, like that of a person who has discovered an insect within his wine.

“Moonforest,” the Duke's voice was dry as parchment. “Have you arrived here for me to resolve your familial troubles? Your daughter, no matter how she designates herself, is merely a trader. Granted, she commands some capital. Granted, she amuses the king with new trinkets. But to position her in the same tier as my daughter, in whose veins flows the noble blood of ten generations?”

“But Sire, she builds something vast! She was impoverished, whereas currently...” Berthold babbled.

“Enough,” the Duke raised his hand imperiously. “Ingrid is the queen. Her position is steadfast. Whereas this... Rosenthal... will vanish of her own accord as soon as His Majesty's interest in a new toy passes. In the end, he is also a man, and Ingrid is his legitimate spouse. Now depart. I command no time to listen to the nonsense of a ruined noble.”

“But I...” Berthold cut himself off beneath the icy gaze of the guard.

A minute later, he was textually put out beyond the gates of the estate. He stood upon the pavement, choking with humiliation. His entire plan - to utilize the influence of the Werdens to reclaim "his own" - crumbled into dust.

Berthold trudged along the narrow street leading to the outskirts when he heard a quiet rustle of footsteps behind his back.

“The Duke is a fool,” a quiet voice devoid of emotion rang out. “He is far too accustomed to the grandeur of his ancestors to notice that the world around is altering.”

Berthold turned around sharply. Within the shadow of a brick arch stood a person in a deep, dark hood. The face was not visible - merely a pale chin and thin lips frozen in a barely perceptible smirk.

“Who are you?” Berthold recoiled. “What do you require? I command no money.”

“I am one who comprehends that Lady Rosenthal is not merely a 'toy,'” the stranger took a step forward, remaining in the shadow. “She is an affliction. And if the Werdens are far too proud to defend themselves, then there are others...”

Berthold leaned forward greedily.

“Can you assist me? Return her under my control?”

“I can grant you resources so that you become a substantial problem for her,” the stranger extended his hand from beneath his cloak. Resting upon his palm lay a heavy purse that clinked with gold, alongside a sealed letter. “But forget regarding the Duke. Why, you wish to punish your insubordinate daughter, do you not?”

Berthold looked at the purse. His eyes sparkled.

“What is required of me?” he spoke, snatching the purse quickly and setting about counting the coin.