Several ladies coughed into their napkins. Alexandra visibly choked. Irina stared at Gabriel like he'd just called down lightning.
Veronne stiffened, then reached—too fast—for her tea.
"You know," she said, lips twitching, "I did hear the Princess had a keepsake from your time together. A little letter, or was it a—?"
"A forged confession?" Gabriel interrupted smoothly, lifting a brow. "A dried flower? Perhaps a lock of hair she plucked while screaming at the palace gates?"
Veronne faltered, caught.
Gabriel didn't smile. "You must forgive me. I don't have the luxury of remembering a time with Anya fondly. Unless you count her attempt to strike me in front of the Empire at the coming-of-age ball or her attempt at mimicking my bond."
The air at the table turned to glass.
Irina blinked rapidly, as if trying to decide whether she should breathe. Alexandra didn't bother; she simply picked up her tea again with slow, theatrical precision.
