Isolde's POV
The embers in the hearth had long faded when a sharp knock came at my chamber door.
I turned from the window, where the moonlight stretched pale across the floor, and called softly, "Enter."
The steward from earlier, the same who had wheeled the Duke into the ballroom, stepped inside. His composure was impeccable, his tone careful.
"His Grace requests your presence in his study, my lady."
My pulse gave a quick, betraying flutter.
"At this hour?"
"Immediately, if you please."
I hesitated only a heartbeat before gathering the folds of my gown. "Of course."
The corridors of Ravenshade stretched long and silent as I followed him, their marble floors gleaming faintly beneath the dim glow of the chandeliers above. The light wavered across the portraits of past dukes whose painted eyes seemed to follow my every step. The air smelled faintly of smoke and old wood, the hush of an ancient house that never truly slept.
The steward stopped before a set of heavy oak doors and rapped once before opening them.
"Her Grace, the Duchess of Ravenshade," he announced formally.
Elias sat behind his desk, a single chandelier casting a low, golden light over the room. Shadows carved across the sharp planes of his face, the hollows beneath his eyes, the calm precision of his hands as he finished a note.
"You may leave us," he said to the steward without looking up.
The door closed behind me with a muted click.
I dipped into a curtsy. "My lord."
The Duke's gaze lifted from the parchment and settled on me, gray, steady, unreadable. For a moment, silence ruled the space between us.
Then, at last:
"You carried yourself well tonight."
The words startled me more than any reprimand could have.
"Thank you, Your Grace," I replied, careful to keep my tone even.
His eyes lingered, as though testing whether I believed him. "Composure is a rare thing under scrutiny. Most crumble before the weight of a hundred eyes. You did not."
"I only did what was expected," I said quietly.
"That," he replied, leaning back in his chair, "is precisely what keeps this house standing, people who do what is expected of them."
The remark could have been praise or warning; with him, it was impossible to tell.
He set his quill aside, fingers steepled. "The council will meet at dawn. You will attend with me. They will want to see the woman I married, not a frightened girl from the provinces."
A faint chill crept through me. "I understand."
"Do you?" His voice softened, but not kindly. "The council governs half the estates that bear our crest. They are wolves in velvet, courteous when it suits them, cruel when it doesn't. Speak carefully."
"I will, my lord."
He nodded once, a dismissal disguised as acknowledgment. "That will be all. You may retire."
I curtsied once more. "Goodnight, Your Grace."
He did not answer, already returning to his papers.
I turned to leave, the corridor beyond glowing faintly under the chandeliers. My hand had just brushed the banister when another voice called behind me.
"Lady Isolde."
A maid stood near the archway, dipping a small curtsy. "Her Grace, the Dowager Lady Marguerite, requests your presence in the south drawing room."
Of course. The Duke's aunt.
I followed her through another set of corridors, where crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stars, their light scattering across the polished floors.
Lady Marguerite sat near the hearth, her posture regal, her hair a crown of soft silver coils. When she turned, her eyes, pale and sharp, seemed to see through everything I was.
"Come closer, child," she said. "Let me see you properly."
I obeyed, offering a small curtsy. "Your Grace."
She studied me for several long seconds, her expression unreadable. Then, faintly:
"You looked well tonight. Composed. You didn't tremble, though I half expected you to."
I blinked, unsure whether it was praise or provocation. "That is kind of you to say."
Her smile curved like a blade hidden in silk. "Kindness rarely survives in this house, my dear. Best you learn that early."
"I'll remember," I murmured.
She leaned back, folding her hands over the armrest. "Still, I must admit… you handled yourself better than many would have in your place. That shows a measure of strength."
"Thank you, my lady."
"But strength without shrewdness is a candle in the wind," she went on smoothly. "You'll find the Duke's council full of men who smile and call you 'Your Grace,' then count the hours until you fall out of favor."
"I'll be careful."
Her gaze softened, only slightly. "Do that. But don't be invisible either. Ravenshade needs a Duchess with presence, not one who hides behind her husband's name."
For a long moment, the crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the chandeliers filled the silence between us.
Then she rose, her movements slow but deliberate. "You'll meet the council tomorrow, yes?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good." Her lips curved again, faint and knowing. "Then remember this, they will test you. And my nephew will not stop them. He'll want to see what you do."
I swallowed. "I see."
"Do you?" she asked softly, her tone almost pitying. "Perhaps you will."
She turned back toward the fire, her profile regal and distant. "That will be all, child. Rest well. You'll need your strength."
I curtsied deeply and withdrew.
Outside the drawing room, the corridor shimmered faintly under the chandeliers, their light cold, distant, and utterly unyielding.
Two meetings, two lessons.
The Duke's restraint.
His aunt's precision.
And I stood between them, learning slowly that grace was not survival, not here.
At Ravenshade, poise was a weapon.