A large, sprawling apple tree swayed gently above the tall garden lamp. The midday sun filtered through the lacy muslin curtains that separated the white tea gazebo from Lady Hildegard's blooming garden.
Margarita had arrived right after receiving the invitation. She packed quickly, asked Philipp when her brother was expected, then climbed into the carriage, still a little sleepy and disoriented. She loved these tea parties and made a point not to miss them, because the gossip was always the freshest here. Of course, there was another reason.
The house felt too big when Endels was gone.
Margarita sat on a small sofa, slowly stirring honey into her chamomile tea. Her wide beige skirt, like whipped cream, streamed across the floor and puffed slightly whenever a breeze blew in from the northern arch. The air filled with the clinking of porcelain and the quiet laughter of five women huddled around tiered trays of lemon tarts, marzipan swans, and pink marshmallows.
"Lady Brontman's birthday should outshine last year's," declared Lady Cecily, adjusting the red brooch pinned to her lavender bodice. "Her husband gave her a diamond ring the size of a quail egg at the winter ball. This year she'll expect no less than a crown."
Margarita bit into a shortbread cookie, crumbs immediately falling onto her pale blue gloves.
"A crown seems excessive. She already has three."
"Four," corrected Genevieve in her soft, catlike voice. She leaned forward, her thick chestnut curls nearly dipping into the bowl of syrup. "An emerald diadem from her late aunt, a ruby circlet from the king himself, a pearl-sapphire piece from her cousin in Prasnia, and the one Lord Brontman commissioned. Sometimes I think most of their family budget goes toward useless trinkets."
A collective sigh went around the table. Lady Hildegard, a woman of forty-three and the hostess and arbiter of all gossip, raised a thinly plucked brow.
"Brontmans could buy this town twice over and still afford an expensive trip to some islands," she said, surveying the table with her tired green eyes before continuing in a stricter tone. "Melissa entrusted us with choosing the decorations for the hall. Any suggestions?"
Cecily lit up, tossing her used napkin onto the tablecloth, leaving a red lip print behind.
"I insist on peacock feathers! We can hang them on the walls, use them in vases instead of live flowers. They're the latest trend in the capital. I saw something similar at Lady Wyston's masquerade — the effect was divine."
"Peacock feathers?" Genevieve scoffed, adjusting the lace fichu around her neck. "Too flashy. Lady Brontman prefers elegance. White lilies and silver candelabras."
Margarita took a sip of warm tea, suppressing a smile as the two women locked eyes like sworn duelists. Across from her, timid Lady Rosalind squeaked:
"Maybe...hydrangeas? They're her favorite, aren't they?"
"Hydrangeas wilt too fast," Cecily waved dismissively. "By midnight the ballroom will smell like a funeral."
"We could use glass flowers," Margarita suggested, reclining against a warm velvet pillow. "When night falls, the walls will glow like cathedral windows."
Genevieve's tight expression softened.
"That's very clever, Lady Margarita. You've always had taste."
"Only because my brother drags me through every gallery in the region," Margarita laughed, though the compliment warmed her chest. She plucked a marzipan swan from the tray, admiring its gilded sugar wings. "Speaking of gifts — has anyone decided what to get her yet?"
Rosalind murmured gently:
"I commissioned a miniature portrait of her late spaniel. Lady Brontman still mourns the poor thing."
"A portrait?" Cecily raised a brow. "Darling, she'll be sobbing into her champagne all night. You might as well have given her the gray handkerchief her spaniel used to sneeze in."
The women giggled, and Margarita used the moment to share:
"I bought a music box from the lacquer shop on Haigrove Lane. She does love novelties, doesn't she?"
"Oh," Rosalind sighed, placing her face between her cupped hands. "That's so much better than a painting of a dead dog."
Lady Hildegard hurried to console her, gently patting her shoulder.
"Your gift will be appreciated regardless, don't worry. I plan to give her a gold hairpin shaped like a phoenix."
The conversation resumed as Genevieve Brauss began boasting about her own gift. Margarita's gaze settled on the black rim of the marshmallow saucer. For a long time, she just stared, letting the others' bragging wash over her.
'I wonder if my brother's back yet', the thought flickered through her mind.
Margarita gripped her teacup tightly.
For some reason, everything felt dull today, and she kept drifting into her own thoughts. Margarita scolded herself for it but couldn't help it.
She wanted to go home.
When the tea party turned to a debate about the appropriate glove length for summer soirées, Margarita smoothed her skirts, gave a dry smile, and stood up. The garden's hostess immediately latched onto her elbow with sharp fingers, holding her in place.
"Leaving already, dear? I wanted to talk about marital prospects. You're nineteen now, not the age to delay such matters."
Margarita suddenly imagined Endels rolling his eyes, then grumbling over another stack of papers: "Everyone rushes to get married like it's an achievement. You know what real achievement is? Not starving to death under these taxes."
And he was right — but who didn't want to dream of something more romantic?
She placed a hand on the woman's wrist and bent to plant a chaste kiss on her powdered cheek.
"We'll talk about it soon. After Lady Brontman's birthday, perhaps?"
The marchioness released her with a sigh and waved a hand.
"Very well, go. Just remember, a woman's prospects melt like butter if she waits too long."
Margarita froze. Her pale face still bore the same polite smile, her rose-colored eyes wide open.
"How strange. I always thought women became more valuable with age. Or am I mistaken?"
Genevieve covered her mouth to stifle a chuckle. Lady Hildegard pressed her lips together, frowning down at the broken slice of cake on her plate.
Margarita gave a slight nod, turned away, picked up her parasol, and walked with a light step toward the carriage waiting at the corner of the estate.
"Good day to you, ladies."
Rosalind and Cecily waved her off.
Tossing the parasol into the carriage, Margarita sighed and, filling her lungs with the earthy air, said to the coachman:
"To the market. I want to buy something for my brother."
Margarita weaved quickly between the stalls, darting from one vendor to another. Her servant, a lanky young man named Tom, trudged behind her with a woven basket, in which jars of imported coffee beans trembled with each step — the only vice of Endels that Margarita encouraged.
She stopped at a booth draped in silks, running her gloved fingers across a piece of fabric the color of storm clouds.
"Too gloomy," she muttered, picturing her brother's impassive expression as he received yet another gray vest — of which his wardrobe already contained about ten.
Tapping a finger against her lips, Margarita turned toward a stall hung with old maps. Her brother was fond of geography — perhaps a map of the northern trade routes? But the prices were outrageous, and the ink on the parchment looked suspiciously fresh. Instead, she turned to a display of quills in varying sizes.
As she bent down to haggle with the vendor, two figures blocked out the sun.
Their robes were black and long, with the hems nearly brushing the ground. The sleeves at their wrists were embroidered with white threads, each curling into strange semicircles.
Priests.
The one whose face was hidden beneath a hood bowed.
"Lady Alder? Blessings upon your house."
Tom stepped closer, but Margarita raised a hand to stop him. The priest's companion — a young man with a vivid gaze — offered a piece of parchment sealed with black wax.
"The Church of the Passion Cross humbly invites you to our inaugural mass."
Margarita accepted the invitation with some doubt.
"You know my name, gentlemen, but I don't believe we've met before."
The second man shook his head and smiled gently.
"All who walk in the light are known to our Church. We arrived here ten months ago, and only yesterday was our cathedral finally completed. So in exactly one week, we open our doors to all. For you — an invitation of special regard, Your Grace."
Margarita slipped the parchment into her purse and clasped her fingers together, deciding not to ask about the "special regard."
The priest continued.
"We make no demands, but we would be most honored if you attended."
Then he stared unblinkingly at Margarita, as if he expected an instant and decisive response from her. It was weird.
Tom cleared his throat loudly, shifting his burden. The man blinked, as if remembering where he was.
"Forgive us. We'll take our leave now."
They melted into the crowd before Margarita could respond.
"Should I inform His Grace about…?" Tom whispered uncertainly.
"No," the marquise said sharply.
She didn't buy anything else — not the quills, nor the honeyed gingerbread Tom had been eyeing with longing.
The carriage jostled dully over ruts. Hills and fields blurred into a single strip, but Margarita, staring out the window, saw only her own dim reflection.