Vaylen leaned on the corner of his cutting table, arms crossed, watching Ilyari in quiet fascination.

  She had cleared the drafting desk, rolled out parchment, and sketched the pattern with swift, practiced strokes—her braid tucked over one shoulder, ink smudged across her knuckle. Bolts of cast-off fabric lay in a swirl around her: the bright orange, the off-white, the green patterned bolt that Vaylen swore on his shop’s name he would never sell. Silks, lace, linen remnants. What once looked like scraps now moved with purpose under her fingers.

  “That pattern,” he said finally, eyeing the green bolt with a shudder, “I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. I blame Brinna. She put something funny in my tea that day. Had to be.”

  Ilyari smiled without looking up. “You don’t see it yet, but it’ll come together.”

  “I see it, alright. A field of dizzy regrets.”

  She laughed softly, then began cutting red silk into perfect circles. Green silks were shaped into gentle leaf ovals, while longer strips were twisted into rope-thin vines. Her vision was blooming before her—a dress for a child, bright and garden-fresh, with poppies and leaves sewn along the hem in sweeping arcs. A little sash of off-white with handstitched edging. Lightweight, joyful, playful.

  “For the daughter?” Vaylen asked, already knowing.

  Ilyari nodded. “I don’t know her name yet. But she’ll know the dress is for her.”

  “And the gloves?” He gestured to the pile she’d set aside.

  She held up two sets—scaled-down lace-fingered gloves for the child, and a more elegant pair for the mother. But on Lady Talvane’s set, one ring finger was deliberately left open.

  Vaylen tilted his head. “So… you heard the gossip.”

  “I heard it,” Ilyari said simply. “But it’s not kindness if it only shows up when people deserve it. I think… maybe there's more to Lady Talvane than the rumors say.”

  Vaylen studied her for a long moment, then turned back to his station without a word.

  The next morning, just before sunrise, he hung a delicate dress on the frame by the back window—a soft silvery blue one, with layered panels and pearl-threaded trim. The kind of thing that made shopkeepers pause in their windows and wonder who the new noble girl was.

  “For you,” he said casually. “I had a few scraps of pride left lying around, figured I’d sew them into something that would make jealous tongues trip.”

  Ilyari stared. “Vaylen, it’s beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t embarrass me by crying. Just wear it like you own half the Empire.”

  ???

  The carriage rolled toward the Talvane estate under the lazy drift of morning clouds. Vaylen’s own, gleaming black and fitted with blue-trimmed velvet seats. He had even pressed a small satin pouch of dried flowers into Ilyari’s hands as she left.

  “Smells better than fear,” he said with a wink.

  She wore the silver-blue dress with grace and quiet strength. Her hair was braided back into a crown and interlaced with tiny white flowers—simple, but elegant. A box rested beside her on the seat: inside, the poppy dress, the green-and-silk gloves, and a handwritten card addressed only to Little Lady Talvane.

  As the carriage slowed before the estate, she saw them through the window.

  The other ladies.

  There were five in total, seated in a circle near the tall parlor window—each in silks and pastels, sipping tea from fragile cups with practiced grace. One of them pointed discreetly. Another leaned in. Their lips moved behind lace fans. Watching. Whispering.

  The driver stepped down, opened the door.

  Ilyari climbed out and took the box in both arms. She stood on the marbled porch, head high, posture flawless.

  The door did not open.

  Inside, she could still see the ladies watching.

  Five full minutes passed.

  Then the door swung wide with slow, deliberate elegance.

  Lady Talvane stood in the entry, eyes like polished glass. Her expression unreadable. She wore a high-collared dress of emerald green, and not a single strand of her golden hair was out of place.

  “Well,” she said, voice clipped. “Are you just going to stand there and look like a fool?”

  Ilyari bowed deeply—just enough, not a breath more.

  “My Lady Talvane,” she said softly, “thank you for the invitation. I’m honored to join you.”

  She held out the box.

  “I’ve brought a gift. Two, actually.”

  Lady Talvane’s eyes flicked to the parcel but she did not take it.

  “The larger box,” Ilyari continued, “is for Little Lady Talvane. I wasn’t sure of her name. The second contains a pair of gloves for you—handsewn to match. They’re… companions.”

  At that, something changed in Lady Talvane’s face.

  Only slightly.

  Something behind the eyes.

  She took the box at last.

  Behind her, murmurs rippled from the parlor.

  “What beautiful tailoring—”

  “Look at that box, it’s monogrammed—”

  “Did she say she made them herself?”

  “Oh, I must have one—”

  Lady Talvane turned her head slowly.

  Two of the women stood, nearly tripping over each other as they rushed toward the foyer.

  “My Lady,” one gushed, “your daughter will be the talk of the Crescent Garden in that dress—please, does your seamstress take commission?”

  “She doesn’t yet,” said Lady Talvane, eyes unreadable as she looked at Ilyari. “But I imagine she will soon.”

  The woman beamed. “Please send me her name. I want to place a request before anyone else does.”

  “Two requests,” another added. “My niece is turning twelve and I refuse to be shown up again by that Drelan girl’s family.”

  Lady Talvane turned back to Ilyari.

  Her smile was slight.

  Chin high.

  Cool.

  “You needn’t have brought anything,” she said. “And I have no events that call for such... dramatic gifts.”

  Her voice was sharp.

  But she did not let go of the box.

  “They are mine now,” she said, turning into the house. “And I won’t let anyone else wear them.”

  As she vanished into the parlor, the door remained open behind her.

  Ilyari stepped forward, the sun catching on the pearl threading of her dress.

  And from the garden window, the watching noblewomen fell briefly, wholly silent.

  Ilyari offered the larger of the two boxes to Lady Talvane with a polite bow. “A gift, my lady. The larger box is for your daughter, and the other is a matching piece for yourself. I hope they meet your standards.”

  Lady Talvane raised an eyebrow but accepted the packages with practiced elegance. “My daughter?”

  “Yes,” Ilyari said, her tone even. “I heard she’d recently turned seven.”

  One of the noblewomen leaned forward, intrigued. “Oh, how charming! What is the little lady’s name again? I don’t believe we’ve met her.”

  Lady Talvane hesitated for the briefest second, then replied, “Her name is Avenel.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Several women cooed at the name while Lady Talvane opened the box. The fabric shimmered in the light—delicate, youthful, artfully pieced together with charm and elegance.

  “Well,” she murmured. “It’s certainly more than I expected from a princess without court.”

  Her voice was dry, but her fingers were already smoothing over the silk seams, and her eyes lingered on the miniature gloves—red silk blossoms stitched along the green cuffs.

  She opened the smaller box next and drew out her own matching gloves. Slipping one on, she flexed her hand, revealing the absence of fabric at the ring finger—her gold wedding band now gleaming openly beneath the morning light.

  “Ohhh,” a noblewoman gasped. “That’s divine. It makes the ring look even more regal!”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. Lady Talvane, you must commission more.”

  “Two matching commissions? From the same hand? You’re spoiled!”

  Another leaned over. “Tell me you’ll introduce me to your tailor.”

  Lady Talvane’s face softened imperceptibly as the women fawned over the gloves. But as she turned back to Ilyari, her tone cooled again.

  “All this was unnecessary,” she said. “I have no engagements that would warrant such finery.”

  She slipped the second glove on anyway.

  “And I won’t allow anyone else to wear them.”

  Her voice was like chilled wine—sweet, elegant, and sharp enough to sting.

  The parlor of Lady Talvane’s estate gleamed with practiced wealth. Light filtered in through gauze-curtained windows, casting dappled gold across a table laden with delicate cakes, fruit tarts, and sparkling citrus-glazed confections. Six noblewomen lounged around it like felines at rest, dressed in layers of pastels, sipping tea from paper-thin porcelain cups.

  Ilyari entered quietly, all poise and pleasant expression, and offered a graceful curtsy before taking the only available seat—slightly off to the side, but still at the table. She folded her hands in her lap, her fingers brushing the edge of the silken skirt Vaylen had gifted her.

  The noblewomen were playing a casual hand of Starcrowns, their jeweled fingers flicking cards across the table with light-hearted snickers and competitive smirks. One woman laid a Sun Suit and pretended to swoon.

  “Triple bloom!” she declared. “That’s six starlight points. Pay up!”

  Ilyari smiled and leaned forward slightly. “I’ve never played before, but it’s lovely to watch. If it’s alright, I’ll just observe for now.”

  Lady Talvane, reclining at the head of the table with one wrist draped over the back of her chair, gave Ilyari a cursory glance. “Suit yourself. It’s an easy game if you’ve got half a brain and a full purse.”

  Laughter trickled from the other ladies like the tinkling of crystal wind chimes.

  Ilyari kept her smile.

  As the tray of desserts came around, she politely accepted a teacake with a sugared poppy glaze—and, reaching for her fork, hesitated. She chose what she thought was the correct one, outermost, delicate, narrow.

  Lady Talvane’s voice cut across the table.

  “That’s a fish fork, dear.”

  A ripple of laughter.

  Ilyari flushed faintly. “Ah. Thank you for the correction.” She switched it out smoothly and continued with grace, though her hands were a little tighter in her lap.

  Tea was poured again—round two, as the pastries dwindled and the room filled with the warm clatter of porcelain.

  And that’s when she entered.

  The tea servant.

  Mousy brown hair in a loose twist, lips slightly too painted, and an arrogant flounce in her step like she knew every gaze she drew. Her curves were emphasized by her tightly-laced uniform, and her slightly rounded stomach was no longer hiding—no longer a question, but a visible, undeniable truth.

  She made her way around the table with syrupy smiles, refilling each cup with practiced charm.

  When she reached Lady Talvane, she bowed low and poured with exaggerated care. “Milady,” she purred.

  Lady Talvane did not acknowledge her beyond the barest flick of a finger. Ilyari, watching the exchange, waited a breath, then took the moment to gently speak.

  “Lady Talvane,” she said quietly, “would you mind trying on your gloves now? I’d love to see if the fit is just right.”

  Lady Talvane turned her head slowly.

  There was a pause.

  And then she reached into the box beside her seat and drew out the gloves. The ladies leaned forward like birds eyeing a rare flower.

  She slid one on.

  Gasps rose around the table.

  “They’re perfect,” one woman whispered.

  “Absolutely divine,” said another. “Look at how the stitching follows the line of her knuckles—”

  “The bare finger,” another murmured, “it makes your wedding ring catch the light so beautifully—”

  Lady Talvane’s lips lifted into the smallest smile. “So it does.”

  She flexed her fingers—slow, graceful—and examined her hand like she was seeing it anew.

  Across the table, the maid’s eyes narrowed.

  When she reached Ilyari, the tea pot tilted too sharply.

  Hot liquid splashed down—aimed right at Ilyari’s lap.

  A collective gasp.

  “Oh dear!” the maid gasped, hand to her chest. “So clumsy of me. My apologies—must’ve slipped.”

  Lady Talvane’s voice was silk-wrapped steel. “Oh, Miss Aierenbane. You weren’t quite the main topic, but now you certainly are.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You may excuse yourself to clean up. It wouldn’t do to stain the upholstery.”

  Ilyari stood smoothly, dabbing the spill with a folded handkerchief from her sash. “It’s alright. Fortunately, this is spell-treated fabric. No stain, no soak.” She lifted the edge of her skirt—the water beaded and slid right off.

  Not a drop had soaked through.

  The women murmured again, one even clapping softly in surprise.

  Ilyari offered a low bow. “Still, I’ll freshen up before returning.”

  Lady Talvane’s eyes flicked briefly downward to confirm there was no visible damage. Her smile was brittle now. “Yes… do.”

  As Ilyari left the room, the murmurs she left behind were not kind.

  “What a bore.”

  “So quiet, like a ghost in silk.”

  “Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flirt, doesn’t even know her forks—”

  “I heard she was a tailor’s apprentice before all this.”

  “Oh, that explains it.”

  “Honestly,” Lady Talvane said aloud to soft laughter, “perhaps she’d be more useful with a needle than with a title.”

  The laughter that followed was smooth and honeyed, but behind it, something sour lingered—unspoken and unresolved.

  The water in the guest basin was scented with lavender and mint—an attempt at luxury that didn’t quite mask the sting of humiliation clinging to Ilyari’s skin. She had dabbed at her dress with careful precision, even though there was nothing to clean. The fabric, stitched with mana-treated threads and layered smartly, had repelled the tea entirely. Not a stain. Not even damp.

  She took a breath. Then another. Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the basin, the cold marble grounding her.

  “I knew it was enchanted,” came a small voice from the doorway.

  Ilyari turned.

  Standing there, framed by soft sunlight through leaded glass, was Avenel—the daughter of Lady Talvane. Her curls were swept back in a neat half-braid, and she clutched the edges of her skirt with excitement.

  “Thank you for the dress,” she said, eyes wide and bright. “Mama didn’t tell me it was a gift. But I knew. I saw the thread pattern. It looks like fairy garden swirls.”

  Ilyari smiled gently and crouched a bit to meet her height. “It is a fairy dress.”

  Avenel gasped. “It is?”

  “Mmhm.” Ilyari pretended to lower her voice like telling a secret. “Woven from thread spun by spring fairies. There’s a story too—would you like to hear it?”

  Avenel nodded so vigorously her braid bounced.

  “Well,” Ilyari said, brushing a silken fold of the dress, “once upon a time, in a quiet little glen between seasons, there lived a young fairy with a garden no one ever visited. The trees were too tall, the wind too shy, and everyone thought it was too far to bother.”

  She smoothed a fold in the girl’s sleeve.

  “But the fairy loved her garden and waited patiently. One day, a traveling squirrel stopped for tea. Then a family of mice. Then a noble fox. And the more guests she welcomed with kindness, the brighter her garden bloomed. Soon, even the wind couldn’t resist visiting. They had tea parties every week, and everyone said she had the warmest welcome in the whole forest.”

  Avenel sighed, dreamy-eyed. “That’s a nice story.”

  Ilyari brushed a stray curl behind the girl’s ear. “That’s because it’s yours.”

  A hush fell.

  Ilyari turned—and there stood Lady Talvane, silently watching from the hall. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She stepped forward, voice low, raw.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why do you bother? Why don’t you hate me?”

  Ilyari rose slowly, hands folded before her. “Why should I be cruel, Lady Talvane? What would it fix?”

  The older woman’s composure slipped further, her fingers tightening at her sides. “You don’t understand. That girl serving tea… she’s not some hired help. She’s a plant. Sent by a rival House. They call it something else, but it’s the same tactic—they put someone in your household, let them get close, and slowly, quietly… they unravel you.”

  Ilyari stayed still.

  “She claimed she was with child,” Lady Talvane continued. “My husband didn’t deny it. But I don’t believe it. Not truly. I know him. Or… I thought I did. But no one would believe me over her. Not without something bigger.”

  “So you planned to humiliate me,” Ilyari said softly. “Make me retreat. Disappear.”

  “It would have worked,” Lady Talvane said bitterly. “It was already working.”

  Ilyari shook her head. “Then I’m glad I was prepared.”

  Lady Talvane blinked. “You knew?”

  “I suspected,” Ilyari replied. “But I also believed there was something more beneath it all. People talk, Lady Talvane. But they rarely understand.”

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Finally, Lady Talvane’s voice broke, smaller than before. “Do you know what pattern you embroidered into those gloves?”

  “Yes,” Ilyari said. “It’s a pattern from Willowgrove’s archive. A glyph from the old garden stones. It means ‘trust.’”

  Lady Talvane looked down at her hands. She had put the gloves on out of obligation, but she hadn’t removed them.

  “I felt it,” she whispered. “When I slipped them on. Something warm. Like… like I was being seen again.”

  Ilyari stepped closer. “I’m trusting you with something, Lady Talvane. Willowgrove is… more than it seems. If you know someone who understands its history, I’d like to ask for your help. But quietly. No one can know.”

  Lady Talvane gave a slow, trembling nod. “I may know someone. My grandmother used to speak of houses bound in silence and gardens that remembered their makers. I’ll send word. But you must never admit it came from me.”

  “I won’t,” Ilyari promised. “Some things are meant to be whispered.”

  Lady Talvane looked at her again—and then, for the first time, she stepped forward and hugged her.

  Avenel clapped softly behind them.

  “I’ll go back now,” Ilyari said after a beat, smoothing her skirt. “Before someone thinks I vanished.”

  Lady Talvane nodded. “They’ll talk, still. But now, they’ll be confused. That gives you power.”

  Ilyari arched a brow. “You are a noble.”

  Lady Talvane smirked faintly. “I try.”

  As Ilyari stepped back into the parlor, two of the women turned to greet her with thin smiles and fanned interest.

  “So,” one said, voice syrupy, “where is it you’re staying these days, dear?”

  “Oh yes,” said the other, eyes glittering. “I heard a whisper that you were squatting in some old ruin. Is that true, or just a romantic exaggeration?”

  Ilyari smiled.

  official debut into noble society—and did it wearing spell-treated silk, with a tailor’s grace and a diplomat’s patience. From an unopened door to whispered admiration, she handled insult, politics, and hot tea sabotage without flinching (bless that fabric charm).??

  ?? Who do you think Lady Talvane is protecting?