The carriage ride back to the Aurelion estate was, as always, an exercise in exquisite torment.
Seraphyne sat across from her sister-in-law, Thalyra, a woman whose perpetual state of defiant mourning had curdled into a permanent, caustic bitterness. Beside her, her niece Veyra filed her nails with a small, jewel-encrusted tool, the soft, scraping sound grating on Seraphyne's every nerve.
"The soiree was dreadfully dull," Thalyra announced to the carriage at large, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Lady Celestria's idea of scintillating conversation is comparing different shades of beige for her new drapes. I nearly died of boredom."
"You are always nearly dying of something, Mother," Veyra murmured without looking up, her own voice a silken, venomous whisper. "It is your most consistent character trait."
Thalyra's dark eyes narrowed. "And your most consistent trait, my dear Veyra, is your remarkable ability to be both beautiful and utterly useless."
