The debate in the entry hall swelled, a tempest of feminine pleas and weary practicality that seemed to rattle the very china on its shelves. Doria's voice climbed, lyrical and desperate. "But the proclamation, Mother! It's a command as much as an invitation!"
"Our commands are here, child," Mrs. Malling countered, her voice thin but unyielding. "The beans won't string themselves, and the king's ball won't fill our pantry."
It was then that the front gate's familiar iron latch gave a soft, decisive clink.
Ethen, the eldest Malling sibling, slipped into the small front garden, hat in hand. He paused on the cobbled path, the late afternoon sun warming his shoulders as he listened to the familiar symphony of strife and love that was his family. A quiet smile touched his lips. He'd heard the news hours ago in the merchant quarter, where the Bellman's proclamation had set the streets abuzz like a kicked hive. The air there had been thick with speculation and scheming—talk of fabric shortages and soaring slipper prices. He'd come straight home, a plan crystallizing in his mind.
Stepping across the threshold, his solid frame momentarily blocking the late afternoon light, he added his voice to the fray, calm and measured against the feminine tension. "I can only see good in it, Mother," Ethen said, his tone respectful but firm.
"They are of an age. A royal gathering is an unprecedented opportunity. For young women of their standing, it could be a chance to step into a wider society, to make connections that could…" he searched for the right, unthreatening word, "…influence their futures."
His words hung in the air, weighty with implication. Village dances were one thing; a debutante ball at the palace was the very engine of destiny for those with titles or fortune. For girls like his sisters, it was a key to a locked door they had only ever glimpsed from the outside.
"I think it's odd!"
The declaration, sharp and sudden as a snapped twig, came from directly behind Ethen, making him jump. He turned to find Elowyn standing there, her arms crossed, her expression a perfect mixture of mischief and lingering annoyance. A smudge of garden soil adorned her cheek. She must have slipped in through the kitchen garden, silent as a shadow.
"Hello, brother," she said, her voice sweetly cheeky. "What brings you home with such timely arguments? And such lofty ones too."
"Must I have a reason to visit my dear family?" he questioned, recovering with an affectionate roll of his eyes.
"No," she conceded, edging past him into the crowded hall, her presence immediately altering the room's chemistry. "But you are currently blocking my way of entry. And you're all shouting. I could hear you from the lane."
Ethen realized then that in the fervor no one inside had yet marked his arrival. The scene before him was a tableau of domestic struggle: Doria and Eden, a whirlwind of desperate enthusiasm, continued to besiege their mother, who stood like a steadfast but fraying bastion, the basket of vegetables now forgotten at her feet. Their father's needed quiet was a lost cause.
It's good to be home, Ethen thought, a surge of fondness warming him in the familiar chaos. He had come without notice precisely because of the gossip murmuring like a river through every street and shop. The Ball was all anyone could speak of. He knew his mother's practical heart would see only obstacles, and he had returned, hat in hand, to try and tilt the scales toward possibility. Clearing his throat more forcefully, he prepared to enter the fray fully, a new ally in his sisters' golden dream.