As the morning light gilded the edges of the buildings on Fifth Avenue, Amelia stood before the brass door of the secondhand jewelry store. The air was crisp, her breath forming brief white puffs. She tightened her dark gray wool coat, her fingertips in her pocket brushing against a small, cold, hard object—a diamond brooch Margaret had "lent" her, one she had scarcely worn. It was a classic bow design set with small diamonds, delicate, but to her taste, overly sweet and youthful, bearing the unmistakable mark of a "handout."
The bell chimed softly. The silver-haired gentleman looked up, his gaze behind his spectacles as unreadable as ever. He seemed to recall the young lady from her previous visit, giving a slight nod.
"Good morning, miss. How may I assist you?"
Amelia placed the diamond brooch on the emerald-green velvet tray. "Could you appraise this, please?"
The gentleman donned white gloves, picked up his loupe, and examined it closely. The diamond's clarity and cut were undoubtedly excellent, the brand mark clear. He considered for a moment, then quoted a price.
Amelia paused. The price was nearly thirty percent higher than she had anticipated. She had thought this seemingly unremarkable brooch might fetch, at most, enough for a mid-range accessory.
"This price…" she hesitated.
"Former Winters collection. The craftsmanship and materials are fine, and the brand carries a premium," the gentleman explained calmly. "I happen to have a client currently inquiring about vintage pieces of a similar style."
So that was it. It wasn't just the item's intrinsic value; it was amplified by the aura of the "Winters" label and timely market demand. Understanding dawned on Amelia, accompanied by a touch of absurdity. Here, even the things she discarded gained value because of the identity she was inhabiting.
She didn't hesitate, nodding her agreement. Cash was placed into a plain envelope once more, noticeably thicker this time. She carefully tucked the envelope into the innermost compartment of her handbag, thanked the gentleman, and left.
Next, she went to the flagship store of a jewelry brand famous for its opulent, vintage-inspired style on Madison Avenue. The windows dazzled, a world apart from the serene, antiquated shop she had just left. Inside, the light was bright yet soft, the air faintly scented. The sales associates were impeccably trained, their smiles polite, their eyes making swift, professional assessments of each entering customer.
Amelia went straight to the hair accessory counter. She knew Catherine's gown and main jewelry for the birthday gala had long been decided by Margaret and Mrs. Weston—a matching ruby set. Her gift couldn't be something that stole the spotlight, nor could it be a cheap, perfunctory token. A set of complementary ruby hair ornaments would be appropriate, demonstrating a "sister's" thoughtfulness—though beneath that thoughtfulness lay only cold calculation.
Her eyes scanned the displays, finally settling on one. It was a complete set of ruby and diamond hairpieces: a main forehead comb, with two smaller side clips. The design featured entwining vines and blooming tiny flowers, the rubies serving as flower hearts, diamonds outlining the leaves and stems. It was ornate and delicate without being cumbersome. The number on the price tag consumed almost eighty percent of the funds she had just acquired.
She pointed to the set. "May I see this, please?"
The associate carefully retrieved it, laying it out on a black velvet pad. The gems refracted brilliant fire under the lights, the craftsmanship truly exquisite.
"I'll take this set. Please gift-wrap it." Amelia presented her credit card without a moment's hesitation. The expense pained her, but it was a necessary investment—an impeccable birthday gift fitting for a "Miss Winters," and simultaneously the most effective tool to silence any potential criticism from Margaret and Catherine about her being "stingy" or "thoughtless."
Stepping out of the store with the deep blue box tied with a silver ribbon, the afternoon sun felt glaring. She glanced down at the now significantly thinner envelope in her hand, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint, almost self-mocking twist. The irony was palpable: using the stepmother's jewelry for money to buy an expensive gift for the "sister" who made every effort to slight her.
* * *
At the same time, in the back garden of 840 Fifth Avenue.
The rare warm autumn sun filtered through the yellowing, withering vines, casting dappled shadows on the white wrought-iron tea table and chairs. A crisply starched linen cloth covered the small round table, upon which sat a set of bone china teacups, luminous and smooth. Margaret, in a light apricot wool dress with a matching cardigan, elegantly held the pot, pouring steaming **Darjeeling tea** into a cup. The liquor was a clear, bright red, its distinctive muscatel fragrance lingering in the cool air.
Catherine sat opposite her, distractedly flipping through the latest fashion magazine. The glossy images of models and lavish gowns seemed unable to hold her attention. Her fingers traced the smooth coated paper irritably, making a faint rustling sound.
Standing attentively nearby was a woman around forty, slender, with a face so stern it bordered on severe. She wore a standard black uniform dress, her hair pulled into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. She was Margaret's personal maid, named **Helen**, who had served the Winters family for many years and was one of Margaret's most trusted confidantes. At this moment, her eyes were slightly lowered, but her back was ramrod straight, like a spear.
"Madam," Helen's voice matched her person—efficient, clear, devoid of excess emotion. "The person assigned to follow her reports that Miss Amelia went to Mr. Weston's this morning and sold a diamond bow brooch. Then, she proceeded to **Vanstar Jewelers**."
Margaret picked up her teacup, gently blew on the steam, and took a sip, her movements composed. "Oh? What did she buy?"
"A complete set of Vanstar's new autumn collection ruby and diamond hairpieces. The full set, including a forehead comb and side clips." Helen quoted a specific, rather substantial sum. **"A full twenty-eight thousand dollars."** She emphasized the number.
Catherine looked up from her magazine, her pretty face instantly wearing unconcealed disdain. She gave a soft sniff. "A twenty-eight-thousand-dollar hair set? That's practically Vanstar's entry level. She really can't shake that tacky, impoverished air, can she? Thinking that amount buys anything decent?" In her view, jewelry at that price point was merely one of the less notable items in her own collection.
Margaret set her cup down; the porcelain made a clear *tink*. The gracious smile remained on her face, but her eyes were a placid, deep sea. "While not exceptionally valuable," she began slowly, her tone as if commenting on the weather, "it certainly won't cause embarrassment. At the birthday gala, the gifts from your cousins and the like will likely fall within a similar range. Her gift, at the very least, is faultless on the surface. It maintains appearances."
"Mother!" Catherine threw the magazine onto the table, her voice rising with clear displeasure and grievance. "Are we just going to let her get away with it? Ever since she came back, everything has changed! Ryan… Ryan doesn't even look at me properly anymore! You saw it yourself at the dinner the other night!" Remembering how Ryan had defended Amelia and coldly dismissed her on the terrace made her feel as if needles were pricking her heart.
Margaret's smile faded slightly but didn't vanish. She reached out, giving her daughter's hand a gentle pat. The gesture was tender yet carried an undeniable, calming authority. "Cathy, patience." Her voice dropped, audible only to the three at the table. "These days, she's just returned. The novelty hasn't worn off yet. And…"
She paused, her gaze drifting toward the swaying tree shadows in the depths of the garden, her expression turning pensive. "Your father, though ill, asks about her whenever he's lucid. In his heart, he still carries some guilt toward Elizabeth… toward Amelia. And…" She brought her eyes back to Catherine, a glint of shrewdness flashing within. "An old friend of Elizabeth's from her days in Paris, the Comtesse de Durand, somehow got wind of the news. She wrote a letter the other day, inquiring rather pointedly about Amelia's circumstances. That lady is notoriously stubborn, protective, and places great stock in aristocratic propriety. If we were too overt, it could backfire."
Catherine bit her lip, her eyes reddening slightly. "So we just let her swan about here, pleased with herself?"
"Pleased?" Margaret gave a light laugh, the sound like wind over cold porcelain. "My silly girl, letting her stand in the sunlight for a while doesn't mean she can avoid the shadows forever." She picked up her teacup, took another sip, her movements deliberate. "Making her utterly repulsive to this circle is actually quite simple. Don't forget, she's no unblemished innocent. She carries a stain that can't be washed away."
Catherine blinked in confusion. "A stain? You mean… those rumors about her having a bad temper, being uncouth?" She didn't think those were fatal enough.
Margaret shook her head, the corner of her mouth curving into an icy, almost imperceptible smile, like the moment a viper stills before striking. "Those are nothing. The reputation that can truly ruin a person is one stained with blood." Her voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper, yet each word was clear and struck with force. "A past of 'matricide' isn't so easily erased by time. It's just that with the passing years, those involved have died or disappeared, and people have slowly forgotten."
Helen remained with her eyes lowered, like a lifeless statue, but her ears were clearly capturing every syllable.
Catherine drew a sharp breath, her eyes widening slightly. "Matricide? You mean… Aunt Elizabeth? But wasn't it said she died of illness?"
"She died of illness," Margaret set her cup down, her fingertips lightly tracing the smooth rim, her tone as flat as if discussing which rose bush in the garden needed pruning. "But a sick person is most vulnerable to emotional distress, especially deep-seated sorrow. Back then, little Amelia was deeply ashamed of her mother's status as a 'mistress.' It's said she publicly defied Elizabeth more than once, saying hurtful things like, 'Why can't you be respectable like other mothers?' or 'I'm mocked because of you.' Elizabeth was already frail, her illness fluctuating. To be rejected and accused by her only daughter in such a manner… you can imagine her state of mind…"
She wove the details, her tone as certain as if stating facts. These lies were half-truths, mingling with the reality that Elizabeth had indeed been melancholic over her status and the probable rebellion and pain of a young Amelia, then maliciously distorted and amplified into a venomous blade aimed at the most vulnerable aspects of human nature.
"Later, Elizabeth's condition deteriorated sharply. The doctors said heartache had aggravated her physical illness. Not long after, she passed." Margaret concluded, raising her eyes to her daughter. "Don't you think that counts as… words cutting like knives, literally worrying one's own mother to death? A girl who could be so cold and harsh to her own mother—how selfish and vicious must she be at her core?"
A slight chill ran down Catherine's spine, but then a mix of excitement and malice surged within her. If such a reputation were solidified, Amelia would never find a place in New York society! No one would accept an ill-omened person who had "worried her mother to death."
"But… how do we make people 'remember' these old stories?" Catherine asked eagerly.
Margaret smiled gently, the expression regaining its usual softness, yet it made Helen beside her almost imperceptibly tense. "The birthday gala is the perfect occasion, isn't it? So many guests, so many tongues. A few 'unintentional' sighs of regret, a few 'insiders' hinting at more than they say… Stories spread fastest, especially ones laced with scandal, conspiracy, and ethical tragedy." She turned to Helen. "Helen, if I recall correctly, there are still one or two old servants from the main house who attended to Elizabeth, later transferred elsewhere?"
Helen gave a slight bow. "Yes, madam. There is Martha, who was in charge of the laundry back then. She was later transferred to the Long Island estate and retired two years ago, now living in the Bronx. Her hearing is somewhat poor, but she enjoys chatting with people, especially… reminiscing about the old days."
"Excellent." Margaret nodded, her tone mild. "Find a suitable person to pay a visit to this nostalgic old soul. Catch up, have a chat. When one is old, memories easily become muddled. Mixing up heard fragments with one's own thoughts is common." She instructed as if it were nothing, but the implications sent a chill down the spine.
Catherine's face finally broke into a satisfied, anticipatory smile, as if already seeing Amelia isolated and humiliated at the party.
Margaret picked up her teacup again. The rising steam blurred her finely wrought features. She gazed at the few late-blooming roses in the garden, stubbornly holding their last flashes of vivid color against the autumn wind.
"Remember, Cathy," she said softly, her voice as gentle as a mother lulling a child to sleep, "the sharpest blades are often sheathed in the softest silk. All we need to do is make a slight cut, and let the poison within flow out on its own."
The sun gradually slanted westward, casting a golden-red afterglow over the garden, beautiful yet carrying the poignant beauty of peak followed by decline. The tea had cooled, the floral scent remained, but beneath that fragrance, a faint, elusive **hidden scent** of conspiracy and decay seemed to begin wafting.
A breeze drifted through the colonnade, carrying a vague, cold breath from the depths of the great house.
The storm was gathering, and the gala's brilliant lights were about to be lit.