Emily sat across from Charlotte in her drawing room, the table between them strewn with society papers, folded letters, and a scattering of invitations. The afternoon light slanted through the lace curtains, catching dust motes in the air.
Charlotte tapped one of the papers with a lacquered fingernail. "Here — Clara claims Adrian gave her a ruby pendant, yes?"
Emily nodded, jaw tight. "She wore it at Lady Darnell's ball. Everyone remarked on it."
"Then we find out who truly gave it to her. A jewel that fine doesn't appear from nowhere. A merchant sold it, and merchants keep records."
Emily leaned forward. "You think we can prove Adrian never touched it?"
Charlotte smiled faintly. "I think we can prove Clara did not get it from him. That's enough. Rumors thrive in shadow — drag them into the light, and they wither."
For the first time since Evelyn's death, Emily felt something like purpose stir in her chest. "You see everything so clearly."
Charlotte's gaze softened. "Clara is a performer. I've spent years watching performers, my dear. They flourish when the audience applauds — but when the audience begins to question, the mask cracks. That is where we strike."
Emily's heart burned with gratitude. "Evelyn would have liked you."
Charlotte reached across the table, resting her hand gently over Emily's. "Then let us fight for her memory. And for Adrian's future."
The city outside buzzed with the growing hum of politics. In taverns, people argued over who should take Lord Gray's seat. In the halls of the guilds, Crowne whispered promises of prosperity. And in parlors and tea rooms, women like Emily and Charlotte wove their own quiet campaigns, one whispered rebuttal, one exposed falsehood at a time.
That evening, Adrian sat alone at his desk. A single candle flickered, casting long shadows across the room. Before him lay a half-filled page, words scratched, crossed out, begun again. He pressed the pen against his temple, closing his eyes.
He thought of Evelyn, of her faith in him. He thought of Lord Gray, whose voice had once guided him through the tumult of the council. And he thought of the city itself — its workers rising at dawn, its ships leaving the harbor, its children trudging to school with books under their arms.
At last, he began to write.
"I will not ask the people to trust me because my opponent cannot be trusted. I will not stoop to insults, nor drag this city through the muck of slander. I will only remind them of what I have done, and of what we have already achieved together.
I will speak of the schools we built, where children who once labored in mills now learn to read and reckon. I will speak of the trade laws that no longer crush small merchants beneath unfair tariffs. I will speak of the housing reforms, where families no longer freeze through winter in crumbling hovels.
I will remind them that when I promised, I delivered. That when I swore to serve, I did not serve myself but the city.
And if that is not enough — if truth is not enough — then let them choose another. Let them choose Crowne with his glittering promises, his rich allies, his words smooth as oil. But I believe New Albion is wiser than that. I believe her people will see."
He laid down the pen and stared at the words, his heart both heavy and lifted. This was not Evelyn's hand to guide him, nor Gray's voice to steady him — it was his own, at last.
Outside, the city lights burned in the dusk, and the storm that had been building for months pressed closer.
Adrian Vale folded the paper, knowing it was not yet a speech — it was a promise.
And promises, once spoken, had to be kept.
Adrian had grown used to polite distance in recent weeks — councilmen who once clasped his hand now nodded stiffly, their smiles strained. That was why Lord Gillingham's gesture startled him. The elder statesman, a man whose voice carried weight in every corner of New Albion, rose during the council's recess and strode across the chamber with purpose.
"Vale," he said, clasping Adrian's hand firmly, "I've watched you these last years. Seen the reforms you've driven through, the schools, the housing acts. The city owes you more than rumor can ever tarnish. I want you to know — you'll have my backing in this election."
For a moment, Adrian could not speak. Gillingham's support meant influence, respectability, and the trust of men who might otherwise have drifted to Crowne's side. He inclined his head, voice low but steady. "I will not squander it, my lord. I promise you that."
The older man smiled, a rare warmth lighting his lined face. "See that you don't. Crowne plays at politics like a game of dice. You, Vale, play as though the city itself were the prize. That difference matters."
Adrian left the chamber that day with renewed vigor, his step lightened, the old fire rekindled in his chest. For the first time since Evelyn's death, he believed he might not merely survive but prevail.
In the glittering salons and drawing rooms of New Albion, another battle was gaining strength. Charlotte Wilson opened her home to a select circle of women —sharp-tongued, observant, and influential in society's whispers. The tea table gleamed with silver pots and delicate cakes, but it was not refreshments Charlotte served that day. It was strategy.
"My friends," she began, her tone even but commanding, "you've all heard Clara's tales. Some of you may have believed them; I do not judge. She is skilled in performance. But performance it is. I tell you plainly: Adrian Vale never bestowed the gifts she parades. I have seen the proof. What she offers is deceit, wrapped in velvet."
There were murmurs, skeptical but intrigued. Charlotte pressed on.
"You know me. I do not speak without cause. I would not jeopardize my name for a petty quarrel. But lies rot the foundations of our society. If we allow an actress to topple an honorable man with nothing more than invention, then who among us is safe from ruin?"
She let silence hang, then smiled faintly. "We need not shout her down. We need only let her own tongue betray her. Ask questions. Demand details. Catch her in contradictions. Do this, and the city will see her as she truly is."
One by one, heads nodded. Emily, seated at her side, felt a thrill of triumph. For weeks she had fought alone; now, she was no longer outnumbered. Allies were gathering — clever women who knew how to wield a cutting remark like a blade.