The three girls introduced themselves one by one—Lady Brígh McDevitt, daughter of Viscount McDevitt; Lady Arian Irvin, daughter of the famed Maestro Irvin, the empire’s most celebrated musical composer; and Lady Monica Albert, daughter of Viscount Albert. These young dies, as Cece had mentioned before, often accompanied her to social functions whenever Eri and I were absent. Judging by the way they spoke and the easy rhythm of their conversation, I had a feeling I could get along with them just fine.

  We exchanged a few pleasantries, warm and effortless, though I couldn't help but notice Ofelia had fallen into a quiet stillness. Aside from her earlier greetings, she hadn’t spoken again—just stood there, perfectly composed, her gaze drifting but attentive, as if quietly assessing the room.

  Cece had just begun to tug us toward another table for introductions when something in the air shifted—subtle, like the soft rustle of petals before a breeze. The background chatter slowed, and I caught a flicker of movement from the garden path.

  Eri had arrived.

  Heads turned.

  And just like that, conversation around us dimmed to a hush, as if the garden itself paused to take her in.

  With every graceful step, she made a statement—no fanfare, no dramatics, just pure presence. Her mother, the fashion icon of Hertel County, had once again debuted a look that would no doubt ripple across the empire's salons and parlors by next week. But Eri? She simply wore it. Not to impress, not to funt. Just... because her mother told her to. Typical Eri.

  She glided toward us with effortless grace, her expression brightening the moment her eyes nded on us amid the garden crowd. A genuine, easy smile curved her lips—unbothered by the attention she was drawing, as if the dozens of turned heads simply didn’t exist.

  As she drew nearer, the full effect of her ensemble came into view.

  She wore a dreamy tea party dress that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a fairytale. The fabric, airy and translucent, shifted from a soft golden hue near the shoulders to a rich ember-orange at the hem—like sunlight filtering through autumn leaves. The dress fell just above the knee, a daring length made modest by her pristine white tights. Soft pleats gave the skirt a breezy, flowing silhouette that fluttered like butterfly wings with every step.

  Embroidered across the skirt were delicate, abstract motifs inspired by the markings of a spider’s abdomen—elegant and organic, almost floral from afar. I remembered Eri expining the pattern to Diana’s Assistant Meg back at the boutique, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm as she described the species that inspired it. The thread gleamed whenever it caught the sun, creating a luminous, almost enchanted effect.

  The bodice featured a sheer yoke trimmed with soft ce, and her long puffed sleeves ended in tiny stitched rosettes at the wrist. Slung across her shoulder was a round, canteen-style body bag in crisp white leather, accented with silver csps shaped like tiny beetles.

  At her chest sat a moonstone dragonfly brooch, its wings subtly iridescent. Her ballet-inspired shoes, ivory with golden ribbons wrapped neatly at the ankle, completed the look. And her hair—braided and coiled into a refined bun—glimmered with tiny gemstone butterflies, each one catching the light like dew on petals.

  Eri didn’t just arrive. She entered—and the entire tea garden adjusted its gaze to her.

  And just like that, she was standing before us, serene as ever.

  “I have finally arrived,” Eri announced, her tone calm and matter-of-fact. “I had to make sure everything was taken care of before I left.”

  Cece and I exchanged knowing looks. Everything, of course, referred to her Bug Haven—and with Eri, that wasn’t just a hobby; it was a sacred duty.

  Cece stepped forward first, her posture fwless as ever, slipping effortlessly into her hostess mode to remind her that this was, after all, a formal affair.

  “It’s a pleasure to have you grace us with your presence, Lady Eriche Hertel,” she said smoothly, her curtsy crisp.

  “Oh—right!” Eri blinked, catching on a beat te. “Thank you for inviting me, Lady Celestine Bourdelle. It is my utmost pleasure to be here.” She followed with a polite curtsy of her own—graceful enough, though unmistakably Eri.

  I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped me. “Lady Hertel, you’re an absolute head-turner! Just look at you—you’re stunning!”

  “Right? I love how this dress turned out!” Eri said brightly, giving a small twirl that made her skirt flutter like petals in a breeze. “Mommy made sure to include everything I wanted.”

  The sunlight caught in her embroidery as she spun, sending tiny glints of light dancing across the grass like golden fireflies.

  “Absolutely beautiful, Eri,” Cece chimed in, csping her hands with dramatic fir. “Now we can officially attend tea parties and soirées in style.”

  Eri and I shared a look—the kind of look that said, This is definitely more than what we bargained for, though neither of us dared admit it aloud.

  Around us, a few nearby girls leaned toward one another, whispering behind painted fans. I caught a few snippets: “Lady Hertel’s dress…”“Did Countess Hertel commission Madame Diana for her daughter’s dress? That embroidery—it's unmistakably her signature style, isn’t it?”“That embroidery—what even is that pattern?”

  “Well,” someone murmured with a sigh of admiration, “only Lady Hertel could wear something like that and look like a fairytale.”

  Ofelia remained silent, her gaze flicking over Eri’s outfit with the cool detachment of someone watching a puzzle unfold. If she was impressed, she didn’t show it—but she was definitely paying attention.

  Cece, ever the impeccable hostess, moved effortlessly into introductions, guiding Eri toward Ofelia, Brígh, Arian, and Monica with practiced poise. With barely a moment to breathe, she had us drifting from one table to the next—names, curtsies, compliments, and ughter flowing in a seamless rhythm as she presented us as if we were rare blooms making our first appearance in high society’s garden.

  It was almost dizzying, but also... oddly fascinating.

  The young dies we met each offered their own curated smiles and well-rehearsed greetings. Some were warm and sincere—I could feel it in the way they leaned in when they spoke, in the lightness of their tone and the softness of their eyes. Others, though they said all the right things, had a calcuting gleam beneath their polished manners. Their gazes flicked too quickly from our shoes to our accessories, as if mentally tallying each detail to weigh our worth.

  So this is the rhythm of noble society, I thought. A dance of subtle cues and silent judgments—all sugar-coated with smiles.

  Still, I followed Cece's lead, returning greetings with as much grace as I could manage. After all, this was the world I had chosen to live in now—one where truth often came in gnces rather than words, and sincerity was a luxury hidden behind yers of etiquette.

  And perhaps... Learning to read between those yers would be just as important as knowing which fork to use.

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