The formal dinner was a masterpiece of calculated opulence, a theater where every glance, every gesture, every murmured word was part of a performance. The long table in the state dining hall was a river of polished ebony, set with gleaming silver that reflected the light of a hundred candles and the cold, faceted jewels of the nobility. Laughter and conversation swirled like expensive perfume, thick with political nuance and subtle flirtation.
Nova, anchored in her drab servant's dress of undyed wool, was part of the scenery, a moving piece of the backdrop. Her duty was to be a phantom present, necessary, but utterly invisible. She had spent eight years perfecting the art of erasing herself, of moving without sound, of seeing without being seen.
