Iris fought to keep the grimace from her face. “We have had the pleasure of making each other’s acquaintance, yes.”
“I heard the most extraordinary rumors about your exchange at the Opening Ball,” Lady Featherlock added. “Something about exploding chandeliers?”
“Gossip birds do love to embellish,” Iris replied smoothly. “A minor magical mishap, nothing more.”
“Goodness, it was a little more than minor, I would say,” Lady Fawnwood observed. “It was practically?—”
“Oh! I do believe I just saw Lady Rivenna arrive!” Iris interrupted, rising suddenly from her seat. She forced an apologetic smile. “Please excuse me. I promised to attend to her should she grace the gathering with her presence today.”
Without waiting for a response, Iris moved away from the table, her heart pounding as she heard Lady Fawnwoods’s final comment float after her: “Such impulsive manners. One wonders what Lady Rivenna was thinking.”
Instead of heading toward the house where she had pretended to see Lady Rivenna, Iris veered toward a more densely planted section of the garden, where climbing plants created a natural corridor leading away from the main gathering. The foliage grew thicker as she advanced, magical flora intertwining to create a lush, emerald sanctuary. Unlike the meticulously arranged flower beds of the main garden, this areahad a wilder beauty—not unkempt, but allowed to grow with artful abandonment.
She continued until the voices of the tea party faded entirely, replaced by the gentle bubbling of a hidden stream and the soft chiming of bell-shaped flowers. Finally, in a small clearing surrounded by dense flowering shrubs, Iris allowed herself to sink to the ground, her back pressed against the trunk of a blue oak.
Drawing her knees to her chest—a thoroughly unladylike posture that would have scandalized her grandmother—Iris took a deep, shuddering breath. The constant vigilance required to navigate these social waters was exhausting. Every conversation was a minefield, every expression a potential misstep. How was she to endure an entire season of this? How was she to snare a wealthy suitor—a prospect that still repulsed her to her core—when even the approval of Lady Rivenna Rowanwood herself had failed to soften society’s disdainful gaze?
Lost in thought, Iris didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until a startled gasp broke through her reverie. She looked up to find a young woman standing at the edge of the clearing, her hand pressed to her chest in surprise. “Oh!” the stranger exclaimed. “I do apologize. I didn’t realize anyone else had discovered this hiding place.”
Iris scrambled to her feet, mortified to have been caught in such an undignified position. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Please, don’t get up on my account,” the young woman said quickly. “I came here to escape all that proper posturing myself.” She gestured vaguely back toward the main garden.
Iris hesitated, then settled back against the tree, though with slightly more decorum than before. The young woman—who appeared to be close to Iris’s own age—wore a gown of blush pink that complemented her porcelain complexion anddark hair. There was something familiar about her, though Iris couldn’t recall where she’d seen her.
“I’m Rosavyn,” the young woman said, moving further into the clearing. “May I join you? I promise I won’t insist on proper tea party conversation.”
“Please do,” Iris said, surprised to find herself smiling. “I’m Iris.”
“Iris Starspun,” Rosavyn nodded, settling gracefully onto a mossy stone near the tree. “Yes, I know who you are. Everyone does.”
Iris felt her smile falter. “Ah. The infamous half-breed who dared challenge Lord Jasvian Rowanwood at the Opening Ball.”
To her surprise, Rosavyn laughed—a bright, genuine sound. “That’s precisely how I know you! Anyone who stands up to my insufferable brother earns my immediate admiration.”
“Your brother?” Iris blinked, suddenly recognizing the resemblance—the same dark hair, the same elegant bone structure, though Rosavyn’s features were softened by an expressiveness that Jasvian’s lacked. “You’re RosavynRowanwood.”
“I am indeed,” Rosavyn confirmed. “Though unlike my brother, I don’t consider it my personal mission to maintain the proper order of the universe through sheer force of disapproval.”
Iris couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “He does have rather strong opinions.”
“Strong, unwavering, and frequently tiresome,” Rosavyn agreed with a dramatic sigh. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of him. He has shouldered rather a lot of responsibility since …” She trailed off, then shook her head. “Well, enough about gloomy Jasvian. I owe you an apology.”
“You do?”
“For that dreadful business at Elderbloom Park,” Rosavyn said, her expression turning contrite. “When I was forced toquite literally run away from you. It was horribly rude, and I’ve felt terrible about it ever since.”
Iris’s mind flashed back to the incident—the two young women who had spotted her and then fled in the opposite direction. Now she recalled where she had first seen Rosavyn. “Oh. I … That’s quite all right.”
“It isn’t, actually,” Rosavyn said firmly. “But I appreciate your graciousness. Faylira Bridgemere was with me, and when she saw you approaching, she practically yanked my arm from its socket in her haste to escape. I didn’t have a chance to protest before she was dragging me halfway across the park.”
“I see,” Iris said, remembering the speed of their retreat with a pang.
“I should have broken free and come back to introduce myself properly,” Rosavyn continued, genuine regret in her voice. “Or at least sent a note of apology. I truly am sorry.”
The sincerity in her voice was unmistakable, and Iris felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. “There’s nothing to forgive. Though I’ll admit, up until today, it has been rather a lonely introduction to Bloomhaven society.”
“I can imagine,” Rosavyn said, leaning forward slightly. “Bloomhaven society excels at two things: maintaining rigid traditions and passing judgment on anyone who dares to deviate from them. They act as though you’ve committed some terrible offense by merely existing. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”
