Three days after the birthday party, an invitation arrived at Lya's door.
Not for her parents. Not for Amy. For her.
The parchment was heavy cream stock, sealed with rose-colored wax stamped with the insignia of Lady Mirabel's house. Lya turned it over in her hands three times, certain there had been some mistake.
Lady Lya Varnath is cordially invited to a garden tea gathering at the residence of Lady Mirabel Ashford, on the 17th day of Summer's Glory, at three in the afternoon.
Beneath it, in slightly smaller script: Lady Amy Varnath and Lady Celia Rutherfurd join in extending this invitation.
Lya read that line four times. Amy had extended the invitation. Amy wanted her there.
"Why?" she asked the empty room.
The answer came two hours later, when Amy herself appeared at her door, a rare enough event that Lya actually stepped backward in surprise.
"Lya!" Amy swept in like sunlight, all warmth and eagerness. "You received the invitation? Say you'll come. Please say you'll come."
Lya stared at her. "Why?"
Amy's face fell into gentle reproach. "Why? Because you're my sister. Because everyone's been talking about the birthday party, and I hate that the last memory people have is of you being sent to your room. This is a chance to fix that. To show everyone the real you."
"The real me."
"Yes!" Amy clasped her hands. "Kind. Thoughtful. A little shy, maybe, but with a good heart. I told Mirabel and Celia that they've misjudged you. I told them you just need a chance." Her blue eyes shone with sincerity. "Please, Lya. Do this for me? For us?"
It was a trap. Every instinct Lya possessed screamed it was a trap. But Amy looked so hopeful, so genuinely invested in this fantasy of sisterly reconciliation. And the alternative, staying in her room, hiding, proving everyone right about her being sullen and antisocial felt like its own kind of prison.
"Fine," Lya heard herself say. "I'll come."
Amy squealed and hugged her, quick and fierce. "Oh, thank you! You won't regret it. I promise."
---
The Ashford estate sprawled across three acres of manicured gardens, a labyrinth of rose hedges and marble fountains. Lya arrived alone, Amy had gone ahead with their mother, something about helping with final preparations, and was directed by a footman through the gardens to where the tea would be served.
She walked slowly, deliberately late. Not too late, but enough to avoid the awkward pre-tea chatter where she'd have nothing to contribute. The paths wound between hedges taller than her head, fragrant with summer blooms. She could hear voices somewhere ahead, women laughing, but the hedge maze directed her in a winding path that seemed designed more for beauty than efficiency.
A turn. Another turn. The voices grew louder, then faded as she took a wrong fork. She stopped, orienting herself, when she heard something that made her blood chill.
"...honestly, I don't know how Amy stands it. The girl is insufferable with her wounded looks and her obvious jealousy."
Lady Celia's voice. Coming from the other side of the hedge.
"I know," another voice agreed, Lya didn't recognize it. "Did you see her at the birthday? Standing there like a martyr while Amy tried so hard to include her."
"The bracelet, though. Handmade. From servant techniques." Mirabel's laugh, light and cruel. "She might as well have wrapped it in a notice saying 'feel sorry for me.'"
"Well, today should be entertaining," Celia said. "Amy's plan is genius, really. By the time we're done, everyone will see exactly what kind of person..."
Their voices faded as they moved away. Lya stood frozen among the roses, her heart pounding.
Amy's plan.
She should leave. She should find a footman, claim illness, disappear back to the carriage. But if she did, they'd win. They'd say she was too scared to face them, too guilty, too antisocial. They'd twist her absence into more evidence.
Lya took a breath and kept walking. She would stay. She would be pleasant. She would give them nothing to use.
Another turn brought her to a small clearing where a table stood dressed in white linen, set with delicate porcelain cups and a three-tiered stand of finger sandwiches and petits fours. No one was there yet. This must be where the tea would be served.
As she hesitated, uncertain whether to wait or continue searching for the group, a maid emerged from a side path carrying a large silver teapot and a tray of steaming cups. She was young, perhaps seventeen, with a red face from hurrying. She didn't see Lya until it was too late.
They collided. The maid stumbled. The tray tilted. Tea sloshed, not boiling, thank the gods, but hot enough to make the maid gasp as it splashed her arms and apron.
"Oh, no, no, no..." The maid dropped to her knees, trying to gather the scattered cups. "I'm so sorry, my lady! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking, please forgive me"
Lya knelt beside her, reaching for cups. "It was my fault. I was standing right in the path. Are you burned? Let me see."
The maid stared at her, brown eyes wide with shock. "My lady?"
"Your arms." Lya gently took the maid's wrist, examining the reddened skin. "This needs cold water and salve. Where's the kitchen?"
"My lady, I can't, the tea service..."
"Forget the tea service. Go take care of your arms. I'll handle this."
The maid looked torn, terrified of consequences. "But the ladies, they'll be here any moment!"
"Then I'll explain." Lya squeezed her hand briefly. "What's your name?"
"Elara, my lady."
"Go, Elara. That's an order."
Elara fled. Lya looked at the scattered cups, the spilled tea, the disarray. She couldn't leave the table like this. Quickly, she gathered the fallen cups, righted the tray, and arranged the remaining tea service as best she could. The pot was still warm, still half-full. She found a cloth and wiped the table, then stepped back to survey her work. Not perfect, but presentable.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
Lya turned. Lady Mirabel stood at the entrance to the clearing, flanked by Celia and three other young noblewomen. Behind them, Amy appeared, her expression shifting from curiosity to something Lya couldn't read.
"I was looking for you all," Lya said, keeping her voice even. "I took a wrong turn and ended up here. A maid was bringing the tea and we collided. She was burned, I sent her to the kitchens."
"A maid," Mirabel repeated slowly. "You sent away the maid."
"Her arms were injured. She needed treatment."
Celia exchanged a glance with Mirabel. "How... compassionate of you."
Lya felt the familiar heat crawl up her neck. "I didn't want her to suffer punishment for an accident that was partly my fault."
"How noble." Mirabel's smile didn't reach her eyes. "And where is this maid now? I'd like to hear her account of events."
"She went to the kitchens, as I said."
"Then I'm sure she'll return shortly." Mirabel swept past Lya to the table. "Shall we sit, ladies? I'm sure our tea will arrive momentarily."
They sat. Another maid appeared, a young man Lya didn't recognize, carrying a fresh pot and more cups. He served silently and efficiently. The conversation flowed around Lya like water around a stone, gossip about the court, speculation about the Crown Prince's upcoming tour of the northern provinces, complaints about dressmakers who couldn't follow simple instructions.
Lya said nothing. She drank her tea. She ate a small sandwich. She watched.
Amy was in her element, laughing, contributing, the center of attention. Occasionally she would glance at Lya with what looked like concern, as if checking on a sick relative. Each glance drew the attention of the others, reminding them that the dark, silent sister sat among them.
Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. The maid Elara never appeared.
Lya was beginning to hope she might escape without incident when Amy set down her cup with a slight frown.
"The tea is different," she said. "Did you change the blend, Mirabel?"
Mirabel looked confused. "No, it's the same as always. Why?"
Amy pressed a hand to her stomach. "It tastes... strange. Metallic." She took another sip, then grimaced. "No, definitely strange."
Lya looked at her own cup. The tea tasted fine to her. Ordinary.
Amy set her cup down more firmly. "I don't feel..." She stopped. Her face had gone pale, a greyish pallor beneath her usual bloom.
"Amy?" Celia leaned forward. "Are you well?"
Amy's hand went to her throat. Her eyes widened. "I can't...something's wrong..."
Then she vomited.
It happened fast, too fast for anyone to react. One moment Amy was speaking, the next she was doubled over, retching violently into her lap, onto the table, onto the pristine white linen. The ladies scrambled back, chairs scraping, screams rising.
"Amy!" Celia shrieked.
Amy tried to speak, but only made a choking sound. Her eyes rolled back. She slumped sideways, caught at the last moment by Mirabel, who screamed for help.
Lya sat frozen, her cup still in her hands, watching her sister's face turn an alarming shade of grey.
"Poison," someone whispered. "Someone poisoned the tea."
And then all eyes turned to Lya.