Brightened by the Starlight Tower, the garden was a sea of scents and shades. Bees and butterflies flitted from tri-colored petals and clusters of reddish-pink sedums to the marigolds. Great coneflowers of orange petals radiating from dark centers mingled among velvety blue salvias, tall spikes of licorice-smelling lavender flowers, and boldly colored peppers.

For a brief moment, it made Mydea forget winter was at their doorsteps, before a chilly night wind slapped her across the face, sending shivers down her spine.

She was no stranger to the cold, but it was colder among the clouds.

“It’ll be warmer in a week,” said a voice like velvet. “The city always heads into the Everbloom when winter sets in.”

“I’ll take your word for it, my lady,” Mydea said.

She found it hard to place the woman’s origins when she could only see half her face. The woman’s hair was braided into a single strand, not unlike a rope used to ascend the mountains, and it left her nape bare. She had a complexion darker than even Lara’s or her own, which suggested she was a Dunelander.

“I must admit, I’ve not been on Aelisium for long,” Mydea continued.

The woman paused her inspection of a wilting, papery marigold standing by itself to glance at Mydea. Her dress was a flowy thing, hugging her chest before spilling out like a bell from there, and swung with her every movement. It was made entirely of silk and suited her figure well. “You arrived today, didn’t you? I spotted Lady Lara accompanying you earlier.”

The flecks of skyborn silver in her eyes didn’t escape Mydea’s notice. The Empress only had two daughters and three nieces, but only one would be at today’s gathering as the host. “As you say, Your Excellency,” she said, curtseying. “I am Lady Mydea of the House External Kolchis. Thank you for inviting me for high tea, Princess Mirah.”

Mirah graced her with an amused smile. “The eyes always give it away,” she complained. “It takes the fun out of masquerade balls entirely.”

“Perhaps you could hide it behind a minor glamour?” Mydea said.

“Ah, but I do so enjoy the attention,” Mirah said, turning back to her plants. “You’re rather early, you know.”

I’m treading in unknown waters, Mydea thought. Seeing who arrived with whom would at least give her an idea of the factions at court. “I thought I might enjoy the flowers,” Mydea said, adjusting the angle of her headpiece, which was shaped to look like a fern frond. “I find one rarely has the chance once seated.” She cared more for the tea they made than the trouble of planting them, but having Aspyr for a brother left one with a healthy appreciation for the art.

“Is that so? You ought to sit at my table then. I’ve a lovely arrangement as my centerpiece, and I just know it’d go to waste on half the women coming.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose,” Mydea said. Being honored with a seat at the princess’ table, especially when she was a newcomer and from a house not particularly noteworthy in the grand scheme of Empire, would attract attention and more than a little suspicion. Lord Pleonexia thought poorly enough of Kolchis as it was without adding more fuel to that fire.

“I insist,” Mirah said in a tone that brooked no further argument.

Mydea tilted her head. “Then I’d be honored, Your Excellency.” If the princess wanted her there as the host of the event, there was little she could do about it. It’d be rude to refuse in stronger terms, and might turn her into a pariah. Worse, the ire of a princess so early on could be just as dangerous as Lord Pleonexia’s ire, and so long as they didn’t make a habit of appearing together, some suspicion could be safely managed.

Maids and manservants in the imperial livery of white and gold continued to prepare for the afternoon tea, inspecting the silver cutlery and glassware, and setting up three-tiered trays on the low, round tables.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Mirah sighed, and took a step back. Her lady’s maid seemed to appear from thin air—always the mark of an excellent attendant at public events—offering her an intricate silver bowl half-filled with water and purple petals. The princess rinsed her hands in the scented water, dried them on a towelette another maid presented, while a third woman helped her put on some lacy gloves and an elaborate headpiece of pearls and feathers. “What a shame.”

“Your plants?” Mydea guessed.

“Yes,” Mirah said. “I’ve been working on a breed of Duneland marigolds, but they’re still lethally vulnerable to the cold. I’ll have to arrange for another batch from Rivergard.”

“Forgive me, but wouldn’t it be simpler to set up a glasshouse instead, Your Excellency?” Mydea asked. “I’m sure they could keep your desert plants alive throughout winter.”

“Perhaps,” Mirah said with a cryptic smile. “Ah, the other guests are arriving. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Mydea? My maid will show you to our table.”

“Of course, Your Excellency,” Mydea said, curtseying once more. She watched the princess leave for the appropriate amount of time, before allowing herself to be seated at the central table, where a bouquet of aconite and petunias was on display. All at once she felt silly for suggesting the glasshouses to the princess. Neither of these flowers bloomed during the harvest season after all.

I shouldn’t forget where I am, Mydea chided herself. This is Aelisium, the City on High.

Men and women, though mostly women, began trickling into the gardens in twos and threes, hailing from six of the eight eminent regions. Are these women all here for Prince Jaeson? Mydea thought. Still, why would Princess Mirah trouble herself hosting an event and inviting so many of her half-brother’s potential brides? Dunelanders did not hate the Marcherkin like they did the Bloomlings, but the two peoples skirmished along the desert passes easily.

“There has to be some mistake.”

Mydea looked up, and rolled her eyes at the familiar face.

The maidservant frowned. “I apologise, my lady, but there’s no mistake. This is Her Excellency’s table.”

“Surely not,” the woman from Blacksand Bay said heatedly. “This, this woman is here.”

“It’s lovely to see you too, Vivyan,” Mydea said.

“If you wish to be seated elsewhere, my lady…” the maid trailed off.

“Yes,” Mydea said, “do trouble Her Excellency with the seating arrangement. I’m sure that would go over well.”

Vivyan glared at her, then shook her head at the maid in response. “No, that won’t be necessary. Here is fine.” She dropped into the seat besides Mydea.

“Do smile more. That look of yours might give me nightmares,” Mydea said.

“This doesn’t make us friends.”

“We’re sharing a table for high tea, you’re not marrying my brother,” Mydea said dryly. She gestured to the tables surrounding them. “This isn’t the athenaeum anymore. Look around.”

Vivyan sniffled. “As if I’d ever marry so poorly. Your mother wed herself to a strawborn peasant.”

“I see your insults haven’t gotten any better,” Mydea said. The words might have stung when they were younger, but one could only hear it so many times before it wore off. Besides, the Blacks had been strawborn not so long ago, having only come into their lordship in the last century. Young by the standards of nobility. “Have you noticed the oddities?”

“I’ve noticed one of them,” Vivyan said, looking pointedly at her.

Mydea showed her her teeth in a wolfish smile. “You would, of course, be an expert in guests, having been one yourself oh so many times. Tell me, when was the last time Lady Pleonexia invited you to tea?”

She flushed. “More recently than you at least!”

“Such high standards, comparing your mighty principal house to mine.” The Blacks were barely a principal house in truth, and Mydea half-suspected the move had been to further spite Kolchis given it occurred within a year of their mother’s death—and Lord Pleonexia’s refusal to renew the warrant external. “Despite the difference in our ranks, we still find ourselves seated in the same table,” Mydea said. A round one at that. Which was a bold choice from the princess, especially since her guests were seated not by rank or region or even race, like in the days of old.

It was said some hosts among the Vaynish Plains or the Heartlands still did things that way. Silly as the practice was, at least Mydea could understand the misguided thinking behind it. The current randomness seemed to be achieving nothing but heightening tensions unnecessarily, if the conversations she could hear overhead were anything to go by.