Chapter 4 – Tea That Tastes Like Conspiracy
The morning salon was held in the Glass Pavilion, a crystal-domed greenhouse on the eastern terrace where noble ladies gathered three times a week to drink imported tea, trade veiled insults, and decide whose reputation would be quietly murdered before luncheon.
Officially it was called the "Ladies' Literary and Botanical Society."
Unofficially every servant in the academy called it the Viper Garden.
I followed Evelyn at the regulation three paces behind, carrying a small silver tray: teapot, porcelain cups, and a plate of rose-macarons no one would dare eat until the hierarchy had been re-established with smiles sharp enough to draw blood.
The pavilion doors were already open. Inside, twenty ladies sat in a loose circle of gilded chairs, their pastel dresses arranged like poisonous flowers. The air was thick with perfume and anticipation.
The moment Evelyn appeared, conversation stopped as cleanly as a throat being cut.
Every pair of eyes turned.
I felt Evelyn's spine lock (one heartbeat of fear, then ice).
I stepped half a pace closer than protocol allowed. A silent message: I am still here.
Lady Marguerite, the duke of Southmarch's eldest daughter and today's hostess, rose with a smile that never reached her eyes.
"Lady Evelyn, how gracious of you to join us after… last night's excitement."
The word excitement dripped with venom.
Evelyn inclined her head exactly the correct degree (neither servile nor defiant). "The invitation was impossible to refuse, Lady Marguerite."
They both knew the invitation had been a summons.
I moved forward to serve.
The ritual was precise: the hostess first, then clockwise by rank. I poured, bowed, retreated. My sleeves were long enough to hide the thin blades sewn along the seams.
As I circled the room I listened.
"…heard the prince has already ordered the engagement ring melted down."
"…such a pity, after she spent years terrorising poor Saintess Lilia."
"…exile, they say. Or worse."
Each whisper was a dart. Evelyn sat perfectly still, gloved hands folded in her lap, crimson eyes fixed on nothing.
I reached her side again and poured her tea last (a deliberate breach of etiquette). Several ladies noticed and tittered.
Evelyn took the cup without looking at me, but her little finger brushed my wrist once. A secret thank-you.
Lady Marguerite leaned forward, voice honeyed. "Tell us, Lady Evelyn, now that the engagement is dissolved, will you be returning to your northern estates? I hear the winters there are… unforgiving."
Translation: Will you crawl away and die quietly?
Evelyn lifted her cup. "The north forged me, Lady Marguerite. I find southern heat rather… stifling."
A collective intake of breath. The first direct strike.
I hid a smile behind the teapot.
Marguerite's eyes narrowed. "Speaking of the north, I was so sorry to hear about your late father. Such a tragic accident (falling from his own tower during a storm). One almost wonders if the Clermont family has a habit of… misplacing important things."
The temperature in the pavilion seemed to drop ten degrees.
I felt Evelyn's fingers tighten around the porcelain until I feared it would crack.
No one else in the room knew the truth. I did.
The original Rin's notebook had an entire section written in code.
Entry dated six years ago:
Duke Aldric de Clermont discovered his younger brother was selling military routes to the empire. Confrontation in the north tower. "Accident" arranged. Official verdict: drunk, slipped on wet stone. Real verdict: pushed. Order came from the royal palace itself. Crown Prince Cedric's seal on the letter I burned.
Evelyn had been fourteen. She had watched her father fall from the tower window while the prince (her fiancé) stood beside her and whispered, "It was necessary."
That was the day the north learned what betrayal tasted like.
And the day Evelyn learned that her future husband had murdered her father to keep a war from starting.
I set the teapot down with deliberate care.
Marguerite was still smiling. "Or perhaps the Clermonts simply attract misfortune. First your mother lost to fever, then your father to gravity, now your engagement to—"
I moved.
One step forward, just enough that my shadow fell across Marguerite's lap.
"Forgive the interruption, my lady," I said, soft as silk, "but the tea is growing cold. And cold tea is so… bitter, don't you find?"
Every eye turned to me (a maid daring to speak uninvited).
Marguerite's smile froze. "I was not addressing you."
"No," I agreed, "you were addressing my lady. And I find that when people speak of bitter things, they often forget how easily bitterness can be returned."
A collective gasp.
Evelyn's cup paused halfway to her lips.
I bowed (perfect, shallow, lethal). "Another macaron, Lady Marguerite? The rose flavour is particularly intense this season."
Marguerite opened her mouth, closed it, then forced a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "How… devoted your little maid is, Lady Evelyn."
Evelyn set her cup down with a delicate clink.
"She is," Evelyn said, voice clear enough to cut crystal. "Some of us still value loyalty. It's a rare vintage these days."
The silence that followed was exquisite.
I retreated one step, eyes lowered, heart singing.
Round two to us.
When the salon finally ended and the vipers slithered away, Evelyn waited until the last skirt vanished through the doors.
Then she turned to me.
Her hands were shaking (rage or leftover fear, I couldn't tell).
"You risked too much," she whispered.
"No," I said. "I risked exactly enough."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it:
"Thank you for remembering what they all pretend to forget."
I inclined my head.
Always, my lady.
For the duke who trained me.
For the girl who watched him fall.
And for the woman who still carries that night in her eyes every time she looks south toward the palace.
The war had been declared long before I arrived.
I was simply the first soldier to answer the call.