The maids hurried forward, distributing the sugared petals. Salviana accepted hers gracefully, biting into the crystalized violet with perfect calm. The sweetness broke across her tongue like glass.
Inside, she thought, It tastes like pride. Bitter, even beneath the sugar.
But outwardly, she smiled faintly, dabbing her lips with her napkin. "Lovely," she murmured.
Across the table, Irene sat rigid, shoulders stiff, her rose petal untouched.
Beatrice's tea, Abigail's violets, Irene's roses—the air was now saturated with rivalry, the hall thick with whispers and unspoken daggers. Salviana could feel every pair of eyes shifting, measuring, waiting for the next clash.
She smoothed her skirts, adjusted her jeweled hairpin, and folded her hands atop the table with serene poise.
Let them watch, she thought. Let them test me. If they believe I came unarmed, they will soon learn—my silence is a blade, and I know how to use it.
