The summer air drifted lazily through the tall windows of the White family's Paris manor, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming lavender from the gardens. Eira sat behind her wide mahogany desk, the deep green leather surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. A few folders and sealed letters lay stacked neatly at her elbow, a testament to Emma's relentless efficiency in running the affairs of House White.
She had been reading over an estate report when she heard the soft, measured knock on her office door.
"Enter," she called.
The door opened, and Emma stepped in — calm, poised, and as always perfectly respectful. Her dark skirts whispered against the carpet as she crossed the room, carrying a cream-colored envelope in one gloved hand.
"My lady," Emma said, placing the letter gently before her. "You have been sent an invitation. It arrived this morning by private courier — not by our owls or any known source. Except for a very unusual sigil."
Eira arched an eyebrow. "From whom?"
Emma clasped her hands lightly in front of her. "Alina Trévér."
For a moment, Eira didn't answer. Her eyes flicked down to the letter, its heavy wax seal unbroken. The sigil pressed into the wax was unmistakable — a stylized hawthorn tree, the ancient emblem of the Trévér family. She leaned back in her chair, the faintest shadow of surprise crossing her face.
"Alina Trévér… inviting me?" she said at last, her tone edged with disbelief. "Out of the blue?"
Emma inclined her head. "It would seem so, my lady. I thought it best to bring it to you immediately."
Eira tapped her fingers lightly against the desk. "In the middle of a blood feud with the Voclain family, she decides to extend a friendly invitation to someone who is—at best—a neutral observer? I find that curious."
"Not merely curious," Emma said, her voice even. "Suspicious."
Eira gave a wry smile. "I was trying to be polite."
Emma pulled out the chair opposite Eira and sat, smoothing the front of her skirt. "If I may offer my speculation… it is possible the Trévérs are seeking allies, and perhaps they see you as a candidate. Your relationship with the Voclain family has been… strained, to say the least. Aside from Isabella Voclain, you have little cordial connection with them — and she has already severed her ties to the family entirely. From the outside, one could assume you might be willing to lend assistance against them."
Eira's eyes narrowed faintly. "If that were true," she said slowly, "then Alina's memory is short. They burned my hotel in the Allée des Merveilles , Emma. Does that sound like someone extending the olive branch?"
Emma's lips curved in the smallest of wry smiles. "Indeed not, my lady. Unless the olive branch is dipped in poison."
Eira gave a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "No, this smells of something else. Something… less obvious." She reached for the envelope, turning it between her fingers but not yet breaking the seal.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint ticking of the brass clock on the mantel.
Emma tilted her head slightly. "Another possibility is that this invitation is meant not for diplomacy, but for misdirection. A performance, perhaps, intended to be seen by certain eyes. If others know she has extended a hand to House White, it could alter perceptions of the Trévérs in ways that suit her."
Eira considered that. "A gesture for the sake of appearances. To suggest she is open to dialogue. But then… why choose me, rather than some minor French noble who might be easier to manipulate?"
Emma's answer was immediate. "Because you are not minor, my lady. House White commands respect internationally. And your recent elevation to the Hogwarts Board of Governors has made you more visible than ever. Associating with you would signal influence, connections, and—whether you desire it or not—legitimacy."
Eira smirked faintly. "So, in other words, I'm a prop for her political theatre."
"In blunt terms," Emma agreed.
Eira set the envelope down without opening it. "Then perhaps the question isn't why she sent it, but what she expects me to do with it. Decline, and I appear cold or disinterested in peace. Accept, and I walk into whatever game she's prepared."
Emma's eyes met hers steadily. "I think, my lady, that she expects you to accept. And I also think we should."
Eira gave her a sharp look. "Oh?"
"Because," Emma said calmly, "whether this is a genuine offer or a trap, we will learn more by walking into it than by staying away. And we will go prepared."
Eira studied her for a long moment before leaning back in her chair. "You always did enjoy a calculated risk, Emma."
"It is in my nature," Emma said, her tone carrying the faintest thread of amusement.
They fell into a quieter rhythm then, trading more theories as the light shifted in the room. Emma suggested Alina might wish to broker some temporary arrangement—something not quite an alliance but perhaps a non-interference pact—if she feared the Voclains were gaining too much ground. Eira countered that such a proposal made little sense given Alina's recent scorched-earth tactics.
After a while, Eira rose and crossed to the window, gazing out at the garden. "No matter her reason, we go in wary. She'll be expecting curiosity, maybe even flattery. She will not find either."
Emma rose as well. "Agreed, my lady. And… there is one final detail I must tell you."
Eira turned, one eyebrow raised. "Which is?"
"The meeting place," Emma said, her voice even. "She has invited us to the Normandy coast. A beach, in the evening."
Eira blinked. "A beach?" She let out a quiet laugh, more incredulous than amused. "That is… an unusual choice. Dramatic, even. Almost theatrical."
Emma inclined her head. "Exactly. Which is why we must assume the setting is part of the message."
Eira returned to her desk, tapping the sealed letter against her palm before setting it aside. "Then we will see what she has in mind. But until then, we proceed as though every grain of sand on that beach will be listening."
Emma's lips curved faintly. "As you wish, my lady."
The envelope sat untouched between them, its red wax seal gleaming faintly in the afternoon light — a silent promise that whatever came next, it would be anything but simple.