I learnt that the art of disappearance was not about vanishing but about becoming uninteresting.
I mapped my week with military precision, identifying the spaces where Seraphina's presence was guaranteed and carving detours around them. Our shared Etiquette of the Court class became a study in polite evasion. I arrived exactly as the bell chimed, took a seat in the front row far from her usual place by the window, and departed the moment the lecturer dismissed us, melting into the corridor's current before she could catch my eye.
At mealtimes, I claimed a small, solitary table near the servants' entrance—a space previously shunned by nobility for its lack of prestige. I ate quickly, my head buried in a textbook on Imperial Law, building a fortress of mundane academic focus.
The whispers began on the third day.
"Have you seen Rosalind Thorne? She looks like a ghost."
"She's been ignoring Seraphina completely. After all Seraphina's done for her!"
"They say she's locked herself in her room, weeping over the prince. A broken heart makes one so… dramatic."
Seraphina's retaliation was elegant. She didn't confront me; she weaponised sympathy. I saw her in the sun-drenched courtyard, surrounded by a coterie of followers, her voice pitched to carry just enough. "I'm so worried about dear Rosa. She's become so withdrawn since… well, since she realised some affections could never be returned." A delicate, sorrowful sigh. "We must be gentle with her."
The narrative was being written around me: Rosalind Thorne, the pathetic, lovesick fool, driven to reclusion by unrequited love for the Crown Prince. It was a clever trap. It explained my behaviour while making me an object of pity, not suspicion. And it kept me firmly tied to the role of Cassian's infatuated admirer—the perfect motivation for a poisoning attempt.
I couldn't fight the rumour directly without drawing more attention. So I leaned into the second part of my strategy: self-improvement too blatant to be born of mere heartbreak.
Each morning, two hours before dawn, I slipped from the sleeping academy. The eastern training grounds were deserted at that hour, the equipment dew-slick and cold. Rosalind's body was soft, unused to strain, her lungs burning after a single lap of the track. But Selene's mind remembered discipline.
I started with the basic conditioning exercises taught to novice acolytes in the Church: flowing forms to build balance and core strength and meditation stances to focus breathing. There was no holy magic in the movements, only the muscle memory of a body that had once channelled divine power. As I moved through the sequences in the grey pre-dawn light, the familiar motions grounded me. This body would not be a liability. It would become a weapon, or at least a vessel strong enough to carry one.
During daylight hours, my battlefield shifted to the administrative offices. Using the pretext of researching a paper on "Noble Household Economics", I gained access to old ledger archives. The clerks, bored and underpaid, were happy to let a duke's daughter sift through dusty records unsupervised.
I was looking for financial pressure points. If Seraphina was planning to acquire poison, she would need money, discretion, and a vulnerable supplier.
On the fifth day, I found it. Buried in the quarterly trade reports from the Lower Merchant District was a minor notation: a long-established apothecary shop, 'Elixir & Essence', had suddenly cleared a substantial, years-old debt. The creditor was listed as 'Vale Holdings' – Seraphina's family.
The date of the debt clearance was three weeks ago. Right around the time the first playful notes about "special tea blends" had appeared in Rosalind's jewellery box.
My fingers traced the ledger entry. This was no rumour. This was a transaction. A struggling apothecary, suddenly debt-free to a powerful marquis's family. What had been the exchange?
A shadow fell across the ledger. I looked up to find a junior clerk hovering, wringing his hands.
"Lady Rosalind, forgive me, but your… companion is asking after you. Quite insistently."
I didn't need to ask who. Seraphina had grown tired of my evasion. The quiet war was escalating.
"Thank you," I said, closing the ledger with deliberate calm. "I was just finishing."
I exited through the archives' rear door, slipping into a narrow service corridor used by the laundresses. The smell of soap and steam filled the cramped space. I leaned against the cool stone wall, listening to the thump of my heart.
I had evidence, but it was circumstantial. A paid debt wasn't a crime. It wasn't even unusual. I needed something directly linking the apothecary to the poison and to Seraphina's hands.
But time was a luxury I didn't have. The tea party was in nine days. Seraphina's public campaign to paint me as emotionally unstable was progressing. And now she was actively hunting me through the academy.
Pushing off the wall, I made my way to my next class: Political Alliances. It was held in a large, amphitheatre-style lecture hall. As I entered, I saw her immediately. Seraphina had saved a seat. Not for herself—for me. Right next to her, conspicuously empty amidst her full circle of friends. Her eyes met mine, and she gave a small, wounded smile, patting the vacant chair.
A public test. Refuse her openly in front of dozens of peers, and I was the cruel, heartbroken girl lashing out at her only friend. Accept, and I walked back into the spider's parlour.
I gave a faint, apologetic smile and shook my head, mouthing "headache". Then I walked to the very top row of the amphitheatre, the seats usually occupied by students who wished to sleep unnoticed.
I felt her gaze on my back, cold and assessing, throughout the entire lecture.
That night in my room, I examined the threads of fate only I could see. The red thread of my death still pulsed, but it had grown more complex. Tiny, venomous crimson tendrils now branched from it, weaving through the academy toward Seraphina. But I also saw new threads: a thin, steady silver one leading toward the library archives and a fragile, hopeful blue one that had appeared today, stretching toward the Political Alliances hall.
I didn't know who or what the blue thread represented, but its colour was the same as healing magic. A thread of potential salvation.
There was a soft knock. Not Seraphina's assertive rap. This was tentative.
"Lady Rosalind?" It was the maid, Eloise. "A message was left for you at the front gate."
I opened the door a crack. She handed me a small, unsealed scroll. The handwriting was unfamiliar, bold and efficient.
Your research into household economics is commendable. The archives close at nine, but the east wing reading room is often overlooked. The records on regional trade dependencies (Shelf 14, Blackwood Annex) might prove more relevant to your interests than merchant debts.
- A Fellow Researcher
No signature. I stared at the note, my mind racing. Who was watching me? And were they a friend pointing me toward better evidence or a foe luring me into a more isolated trap?
The blue thread in my vision shimmered faintly.
I had a choice: continue my defensive retreat or follow this mysterious lead into uncharted territory.
Looking at the red, branching threads of Seraphina's plot, I knew defensive wouldn't be enough. I had to advance.
I folded the note. The East Wing reading room. Shelf 14. I would go tonight