It was Viscountess Avril who brought it up, somewhere between the second cup of Nulang and the last of the almond biscuits.
"Lady Cornwell, I have been meaning to ask — the perfume you wore at the Hodgson banquet." She tilted her head slightly. "What was it? I couldn't place it and it stayed with me the entire evening."
Beatrice felt something settle pleasantly in her chest. Not surprise — she had noticed more than one person lean slightly closer than necessary during the banquet — but the particular quiet satisfaction of something done well being recognised.
"It was a custom blend," she said, setting her cup down. "From a perfumery on Melania Avenue. A woman named Greta does commission work there." She considered for a moment. "The base is musk, kept light. Rose over it, but dry — not sweet. And iris for structure. The three together read as refined rather than floral."
"That explains it." Avril nodded slowly. "It was subtle enough that I wasn't sure I was even noticing it at first. And then I realised I'd been noticing it the whole time."
"Greta has a good hand for that," Beatrice said simply. "She understood what I needed without much explanation."
"I might have to visit her," Avril said.
"You should. Tell her what occasion and she'll do the rest."
"Half the room was looking at you that evening," Lady Amberville said from across the table, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather. "The perfume was part of it but not all of it."
Beatrice smiled. Liliana had a way of saying true things without dressing them up.
The attention that evening hadn't simply been a product of the dress or the perfume — she knew that. A mana-less noble, appearing at a formal event for the first time since her parents' passing, standing beside the very brother she was quietly at war with for a title. Of course people had looked. The curiosity alone would have been enough.
What mattered was what they had seen when they did.
"You're too kind," she said.
"I'm really not," Liliana said, and picked up her cup. "Ask anyone who knows me."
Avril laughed at that — a short, genuine thing. Even the other ladies smiled.
Beatrice did too. She understood the implication of her words. Liliana Amberville was simply...blunt.
"Lady Amberville's words are indeed true. I loved your dress as well, Lady Cornwell. The colours and design were so subtly unique! I reckon the dress was custom made as well?"
"It was," Beatrice said. "I had an idea of what I wanted — the aura of it more than anything specific. Something traditional but not forgettable. I told the seamstress as much and left the rest to her." She glanced down briefly. "The navy and gold were my only insistence. She did everything else."
"She did it well," Avril said sincerely.
"I'll pass that along to her."
"You should bring her name to the salon," Liliana said, in the same tone one might use to suggest a shortcut. "Half the ladies there are always looking for a new seamstress and the other half pretend they aren't." She set her cup down and looked at Beatrice with the particular directness that seemed to be her default setting. "You should come, actually. We meet every fortnight — it's mostly conversation, sometimes a reading, occasionally someone brings fabric samples and it turns into something else entirely. It's not as dull as it sounds."
Beatrice looked at her for a moment.
"I didn't think it sounded dull," she said.
"Good." Liliana picked up the last almond biscuit without ceremony. "I'll send you the address. Wear something comfortable, the chairs are terrible."
Beatrice was pleasantly surprised. It was good that she finally had the opportunity to expand her social circle, but more than that — it was the first time in years that someone had simply extended their hand toward her like this. She was momentarily lost for words.
It only took a few seconds to recover. With a bright smile, she answered, "Thank you for the invitation, Lady Amberville. I will be sure to attend."
Beatrice was excited.
The party wound down naturally after that. Cups were emptied, compliments were made about the Nulang, and the guests took their leave one by one with the pleasant unhurriedness of people who had genuinely enjoyed themselves. Beatrice saw each of them off at the door with the appropriate words and the appropriate smile.
When the last carriage had pulled away and the east sitting room had gone quiet, she stood for a moment in the doorway. The afternoon light was still coming through the glass panels, catching the trailing vines along the outer walls the same way it had that morning.
It had gone well. Better than well, if she was being honest.
She turned and went back inside.
Two days after the tea party, a pair of letters arrived together on Beatrice's desk.
The first was from Lady Amberville. True to her word, it contained the salon's address, the date of the next gathering, and a postscript that read: the chairs really are terrible, I wasn't exaggerating. Bring a cushion if you have a small one to spare. Beatrice read it twice, her mouth pulling at the corner despite herself.
The second letter she recognised by the seal before she even picked it up.
She opened it without hurry.
Earl Everleigh's writing was precise and unhurried, the kind of hand that didn't waste space. He expressed his regrets for the abrupt end to their conversation at the Hodgson banquet — the Empress's summons had been unavoidable, as she would understand. He had given considerable thought to what she had said. He would be in the Capital until the end of the month and suggested they meet then, at a time and place of her choosing, to continue the discussion properly.
Beatrice set the letter down on her desk.
She had expected to wait longer. A month at least, perhaps more — she had braced herself for it. The fact that he had written at all, and written like this, told her something. Not a yes. But no longer a nothing either.
She reached for Liliana's letter again and read the postscript one more time.
A small thing. But the morning felt lighter than it had in a while.