Driving past the central square, Azalea noticed street town criers vying with one another as they shook stacks of fresh newspapers, shouting out the latest news.

“Ophelia, tell Joseph to purchase a fresh newspaper,” Azalea tossed out, looking into the carriage window.

The assistant knocked on the wooden wall of the carriage, relaying the order to the coachman. The carriage braked smoothly, and the servant quickly retrieved a copy from the vendor and passed it through the lowered glass.

“‘The Eastern Empire Celebrates Victory,’” Hansen read the headlines in an undertone. “‘Yet another border territory absorbed by the continent's giant. What awaits Aden in the near future?’”

Azalea merely squeezed her palm tighter into a fist, feeling a cold tension mount within her.

The carriage set off once more, heading toward the old ancestral estate of the Lazarus family.

This was the first time Azalea had crossed the threshold of so ancient a nest of the Werner aristocracy. The Lazaruses, although bearing a modest title of Marquises by the standards of their ambitions, stemmed from a lineage that in antiquity was second to not even the royal family itself. From generation to generation, this house sacredly revered traditions, strictly observing the precepts of its ancestors.

The Rosenthal carriage came to a stop before massive gates. The austere building of gray stone, thickly entwined with age-old ivy darkened by time, virtually breathed conservatism, arrogance, and exhaustion.

No sooner had Lady Rosenthal stepped out of the carriage than curious eyes of servants hiding by the windows fixed upon her. Her bold silk trouser suit looked like a rarity here, a challenge to established norms. Trailing behind her was a light sillage of refined chocolate perfume, while her steps along the gravel path were far too confident for an outsider. She knew full well that behind every heavy glass of this mansion, she was being observed right now.

An elderly butler, whose wrinkled face resembled a frozen stone mask, conducted her silently through an endless enfilade of state rooms. Everything here was thoroughly steeped in pompous history: austere portraits of ancestors in massive black frames, dimly gleaming knightly armor in the corners, and a thick, stagnant smell of wax. The old nobility clung to the past with a death grip, and the Lazaruses were the brightest example of that.

“Lady Azalea Rosenthal,” the butler announced hollowly, throwing open the parlor doors.

Seated behind a low carved tea table, surrounded by a retinue of two silent companion ladies, was the Dowager Lady Lazarus. She was clad in a closed, austere black dress, while her gray hair was adorned with an immaculate lace cap.

“Lady Rosenthal,” the old Marchioness barely nodded her head, not even contemplating rising from her chair. “I do not recall inviting so... eccentric a personage into my home.”

Azalea answered her with a smooth, flawless bow, noting how the Marquis's sharp gaze, full of concealed disdain, scanned her from head to foot.

“I am here on business requiring an audience with the head of the house. I am interested in matters of joint cooperation.”

Lady Lazarus narrowed her eyes, gathering a mesh of deep wrinkles around them.

“What common business could you possibly have with my son? Yeremiya receives no visitors without a prior invitation. Furthermore, currently he is occupied with a most vital state project - the construction of a new royal residence in the Empire. One ought not to pester him with trifles.”

Azalea smiled politely yet coldly.

“And yet I shall risk an attempt,” she inclined her head slightly, preparing to proceed deeper into the room, when suddenly she caught the caustic whisper of one of the ladies.

“Taste, my dear, is an inborn and inherited thing,” Lady Lazarus pronounced loudly on purpose so that the guest would certainly hear, taking a sip from her cup. “In our days, many attempt desperately to buy it along with titles and mansions. But traditions... they are like this ivy upon our walls. They cannot be grown in a single night.”

Azalea stopped and turned around slowly, a light smirk touching her lips.

“Traditions are wonderful up until the moment they transform into shackles,” Azalea looked the Countess directly in the eyes, not turning her gaze away. “Sometimes that very same ivy is capable of completely destroying the building upon which it grows if its roots are not pruned in time.”

A ringing, heavy silence hung in the spacious parlor. The companion ladies held their breath in fright - this was an open, daring challenge to the age-old foundations of House Lazarus.

The old Marquise froze for a second, but immediately switched the topic skillfully, although her voice dropped a whole tone lower.

“My son, Yeremiya, was... quite impressed with your auction house,” she squeezed out through her teeth. “Although of late he has become distracted to the utmost degree. They say a certain musical program was performed at your celebration? A certain maiden... from the bottom?”

“Naomi, Your Grace. That talented girl works officially for House Rosenthal,” Azalea answered firmly. “I strongly advise you to memorize her name. In short order, it shall thunder across the entire country, and far beyond its borders.”

Lady Lazarus turned to stone before her eyes. Her hand holding the fragile cup trembled with suppressed rage, while a young noblewoman seated on her right immediately bustled about, attempting to soothe the agitated mistress of the house.

The butler, appearing hastily in the doorway, signaled to follow him.

Leaving the parlor, Azalea dropped softly to her assistant on the move:

“That maiden... is she the exact betrothed whom the Dowager Marquise is forcibly imposing upon Yeremiya?”

“Yes, milady, that is she,” Ophelia responded just as quietly, noticing how the servant accompanying them suspiciously craned his neck, attempting to overhear their words.

“We must unquestionably learn more about her. Write a letter to Josephine as soon as we return to the estate.”

Yeremiya Lazarus's study differed drastically from the gloomy atmosphere of the rest of the house that was frozen in the past. Here there was less ostentatious luxury, yet an ideal, almost military order held sway. The young Marquis himself stood by a high window, attentively studying blueprints against the light, and in his slightly stooped figure read a deep, restrained melancholy.

“Lord Lazarus,” Azalea entered without knocking, closing the heavy door behind her with confidence. “My thanks for according me a few minutes nonetheless.”

Yeremiya turned around sharply. In his tired eyes read the struggle of a man waging war against himself with all his might.

“I by no means expected your visit, Lady Rosenthal.”

“I came to discuss the affairs of the auction house, but prior to that...” Azalea made a small, pregnant pause. “I should like to make certain how my guest reached home safely that evening. It appears our chef accidentally overdid adding strong liqueur into the dessert on that occasion, and poor Naomi absolutely cannot tolerate alcohol. I was genuinely anxious on her account.”

Yeremiya tensed visibly. The mere name of the actress pronounced aloud inside his study acted upon him more powerfully than any threat.

“Why does the condition of some actress concern you so much?” harsh notes cut into his voice.

“Naomi now serves House Rosenthal. I personally hired her as the face for our auctions,” Azalea answered with an unperturbed smile. “That is precisely why I care for her. Perhaps no less than you do, Lord Lazarus.”

Clenching his jaw, the Marquis pulled himself away from the papers.

“She... is the face of your auctions?” his voice unexpectedly grew hoarse and fell almost to a whisper.

“Precisely so. And since we have begun speaking of this... Permit me one small audacity, Your Grace?”

Yeremiya looked at the guest guardedly, beneath his brows. Truth be told, he would never have agreed to this meeting, but Naomi's name, sounded so confidently, bound his hands - he feared harming the girl with an incautious refusal.

“What other audacity?” he asked hollowly.

“Do you intend to continue observing your beloved woman from the shadows on the sly until the end of your days, or do you possess enough courage to compel this entire arrogant high society to demonstrate respect toward your feelings?”

Lord Lazarus froze, stunned by the directness of the question. For a person who was seeing him merely for the third time in her life, this was the height of insolence. Yet at the same time, it hit the exact target - this was that very burning, unresolved question that tormented his soul every night and that he feared to pronounce even into the emptiness of his own study.

Azalea nodded silently to Ophelia, and the latter soundlessly placed a thick leather tube upon the polished edge of the table. Yeremiya cast a distrustful glance at it out of the corner of his eye.

“Inside is a detailed blueprint of a building that I designed myself. Yet the project is raw; I require an experienced patron and builder - one such as you,” Azalea pronounced calmly. “If you resolve finally to answer for your feelings and cease hiding, build this building prior to the arrival of winter. If, however, you prefer to remain a simple spectator of another's drama further still - simply toss this tube into the hearth.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and headed toward the exit with a confident stride.

Yeremiya looked after her for a couple of seconds, and then, yielding to a strange impulse, ripped the cap off the tube and unrolled the thick sheets. Peering into the lines and calculations, he did not fully comprehend the purpose of the construction at first, yet somewhere at the very bottom of his soul he clearly realized what this space was actually intended for.

As though awakening from an obsession, he rushed to the door, ran out into the semi-dark corridor, and overtook Azalea by the staircase already.

“What is this?” out of breath, he blurted out, clutching the blueprints in his hand. “What exactly do you wish for me to build for you?!”

Hearing this, Azalea stopped and turned around, while a light, triumphant smile played upon her lips.

“A theater, Your Grace. And you shall build it not for me, but for Naomi.”