As the evening progressed and wine flowed more freely, their hostility had crystallized into a practiced performance. A carefully choreographed dance of praise for some and indifference toward others.
“Tell me, Ellowa,” Lord Brightcrest said, his voice carrying across the table, “how progresses your enchanted embroidery for the High Lady’s Solstice exhibition? Mistress Moonleaf mentioned your silverthread technique was quite revolutionary.”
Ellowa preened, setting down her fork with deliberate grace. “Quite well, Father. The Royal Artisans Guild has requested I demonstrate my method at their next gathering, once the Bloom Season is over.”
“As we expected,” Lady Clemenbell nodded, her smile beatific. “Your artistic sensibilities have always been impeccable.”
Evryn took another sip of wine, his gaze drifting briefly to Mariselle. Not a single word of acknowledgment had been directed her way. She cut her food with precision, each movement displaying flawless etiquette, her expression unchanged as though she’d long ago grown accustomed to being rendered invisible at her own family table.
He wondered what they might say if they knew of some of her more unorthodox accomplishments. “Outperforms even the most skilled riders atop a pegasus,” he imagined Lord Brightcrest announcing with grudging pride. “Can dash at top speed through moonlit forests with the grace and swiftness of a woodland spirit,” Lady Clemenbell might add, perhaps while dabbing away a tear of maternal joy. “Possesses the delicate touch of a master thief, having liberated manuscripts from beneath a writer’s nose without detection,” Ellowa could declare with a hint of admiration.
My little blue-haired thief, Evryn thought, the phrase floated unbidden through his mind. He smiled into his wine glass. That was one he hadn’t usedbefore. It suited her, though—this woman who had somehow stolen into his thoughts with the same stealth she’d employed in borrowing his writings.
And her laugh—stars, her laugh in Dreamland. He’d been completely mesmerized by it, that sound of pure, unrestrained joy. It was quite possibly the best laugh that had ever existed, bold and genuine in a way that made everything else fade into insignificance.
He glanced up and found Mariselle watching him with a slight furrow between her brows, most likely questioning why he was smiling at whatever inane thing her parents had just said.
He cleared his throat and wiped his expression clean. “Lord Dawndale,” he ventured, turning to Petunia’s father, “I understand your trading house has developed new protective containers for transporting delicate magical artifacts. Are these innovations applicable to other sensitive cargo?”
Lord Dawndale barely glanced up from his plate. “Possibly,” he replied, the single word hanging in the air for a moment before he returned his attention to his meal, effectively closing the conversation before it had begun.
An awkward silence descended, broken only by the delicate clink of silverware against fine porcelain.
“Oh!” Lady Dawndale exclaimed suddenly, as though remembering a particularly vexing thought. “You simply cannot imagine the nightmare we’re enduring next door. An absolute infestation of gossip birds has taken up residence in our garden. Wretched creatures, squawking the most inappropriate observations at all hours.”
“They’re merely repeating what they hear, Mother,” Petunia interjected mildly.
“That’s precisely the problem,” Lady Dawndale huffed. “I had every intention of mixing a proper deterrent potion to be rid of them, but Petunia”—she cast an exasperated glance at her daughter—“actually advocated for the pests. Said they add ‘character’ to the garden, of all things!”
Evryn suppressed a smile. What an entertaining turn of events. He’d overheard Petunia complaining about those ‘feathered menaces’ outside her window while working on the dream core with Mariselle, and now she was protecting the darned things. But of course she was. Mariselle’s dry-witted cousin would naturally find kinship with those feathered truth-tellers, both of them refusing to soften reality with comfortable lies. In a family that tradedin veiled insults and pristine facades, both Petunia and the birds were unwelcome disruptors of the carefully maintained illusion.
“Speaking of gossip and its circulation,” Lady Brightcrest said, her tone deceptively light as she turned her gaze toward Evryn. “Your grandmother’s tea house has quite mastered the art, hasn’t it? Fascinating how information flows so efficiently through certain channels. The Charmed Leaf has become quite the sensation over the years. One wonders what … special methods the Rowanwoods might employ to achieve such remarkable popularity.”
“Mother,” Mariselle murmured, the warning clear in her tone.
“It’s merely conversation, dear,” Lady Brightcrest replied without looking at her daughter. “Surely Lord Rowanwood doesn’t mind sharing a few trade secrets with his future family?”
“If there are any trade secrets to share, Lady Brightcrest, I fear I am woefully uninformed of them,” Evryn replied politely.
“Ah, I see.” Lady Brightcrest returned to her meal with evident displeasure, neatly slicing her asparagus spears into precise sections.
Evryn pressed his lips together, recalling Mariselle’s comment about stringy green stalks tasting of bitter disappointment. Now was not the appropriate time to laugh out loud.
“I must say, Lord Rowanwood,” Lady Brightcrest continued after chewing thoughtfully on a sliver of asparagus, “you’ve been most tolerant of our daughter’s limitations.” Her smile was brittle as she gestured toward Mariselle with her fork. “Not every gentleman would be so understanding.”
Evryn had to pause for a moment in his attempt to mask his incredulity. Was Mariselle’s own mother truly speaking of her this way? “Tolerant is hardly the word I would choose, Lady Brightcrest,” he replied.
“Oh?” Lord Brightcrest’s eyebrow arched. “What word would you choose, then?”
Confused. Fascinated. Increasingly enchanted.None of which he could admit out loud. “Fortunate,” he said instead, reaching for his wine glass once more. “Exceedingly fortunate that the soulbond chose the two of us.”
Across the table, Mariselle’s fork paused halfway to her lips, her eyes flicking up to meet his for the briefest moment before returning to her plate.
“How diplomatic,” drawled Ellowa, twirling her wine glass between slender fingers. “Though I wonder if you’ll feel the same once you’ve spent awinter with her. Mari does tend to grow rather tedious with prolonged exposure.”
Petunia, seated beside Mariselle, set her knife down with slightly more force than necessary.
“I’m sure Lord Rowanwood has already discovered Mariselle’s shortcomings,” Lady Brightcrest added, as if discussing the weather rather than eviscerating her daughter’s character before company. “She was never quite as quick to master the social graces as Ellowa. We’ve tried, of course, but one must accept that some plants simply won’t flourish no matter how carefully tended.”
