The ballroom of House Varnath blazed with light and laughter. Garlands of white roses draped every pillar, and a twelve-piece orchestra played a lively waltz. It was, by all accounts, a spectacular celebration.
Lya stood near the refreshment table, her fingers wrapped around a glass of water she had no intention of drinking. It gave her hands something to do. Her gown was new, she had to concede that much. A soft sage green, it was pretty in an understated way. But it had been chosen by her mother's maid, not her mother, and it fit well enough but not perfectly. It was the gown of a respected guest, not a daughter of the house.
Across the room, Amy glowed. Her dress was spun moonlight, layers of silver silk that caught every candle flame and scattered them like stars. The engagement ring from Crown Prince Elias, a sapphire the size of a teardrop, sparkled on her finger as she waved to yet another well-wisher. Presents surrounded her like a fortress: a pony from the Crown Prince's stables, a music box that played enchanted melodies from the Ambassador of Renan, a necklace of freshwater pearls from their father.
Lya's gifts, delivered discreetly to her chambers earlier that day, numbered three. A new bound journal from the head groundskeeper. A book of medicinal herbs from the castle healer. A beautifully carved wooden hairpin from the stable master's wife. Kind gifts. Thoughtful gifts. Gifts that reminded her she existed to someone other than her family.
"Lady Lya! There you are!"
Lya's stomach clenched. Lady Mirabel approached, one of Amy's inner circle, her smile sharp as a knife. Behind her trailed two other young noblewomen, their eyes gleaming with the promise of entertainment.
"Lady Mirabel," Lya said carefully. "I hope you're enjoying the celebration."
"Oh, immensely!" Mirabel gestured vaguely toward the gift table. "I simply had to ask what did you give your sister? We're all so curious. Amy has been mysteriously quiet about it."
Of course she had. Amy knew exactly how to maximize drama. Lya kept her voice level. "A small personal gift. Nothing extravagant."
"How modest of you." Mirabel's companions tittered. "But really, it must be something special. A sister's gift on your shared sixteenth birthday! I'm sure you wanted it to be meaningful."
Before Lya could formulate a response, a hand touched her elbow. She turned to find Amy beaming up at her, all warmth and sisterly affection.
"There you are, Lya! I've been looking everywhere." Amy slipped her arm through Lya's, a gesture that looked loving to anyone watching and felt like a trap to Lya. "Mirabel, you simply must stop interrogating my shy sister. She'll never show you herself."
Amy reached into a small pocket hidden in her skirts and withdrew the bracelet. She held it up, letting the candlelight catch the woven silver and blue threads.
"Isn't it beautiful? Lya made it for me. She spent weeks on it." Amy's voice rang with genuine pride or a perfect imitation of it. "She learned the technique from the groundskeeper's daughter, just so she could make me something special for our birthday."
The noblewomen exchanged glances. A gift made by hand, using techniques learned from servants. The implications rippled through the air like stones dropped in still water.
"How sweet," one of them managed.
"Very… personal," Mirabel added, her smile widening.
Lya felt heat crawl up her neck. "I wanted to give her something that couldn't be bought," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Something that required thought rather than coin."
The words came out wrong. She heard it immediately. They sounded defensive. Judgmental. As if she were criticizing the lavish gifts piled on the table.
Amy's eyes widened slightly, the picture of innocent surprise. "Oh, Lya, I didn't mean... of course I love it! I wasn't comparing it to anything else." She clutched the bracelet to her chest, protecting it from imagined criticism. "It's precious to me precisely because you made it."
Which somehow made Lya feel even worse. Now she looked like the ungrateful one, attacking her sweet sister for no reason.
"I didn't mean..." Lya started.
"Lya."
Their father's voice. The Duke materialized beside them, Crown Prince Elias at his shoulder. The Duke's expression was pleasant, they were in public, after all but his eyes had gone hard.
"Your mother wishes to speak with you. In the library."
The library. Not a public conversation. A private one. The last time Lya had been summoned to the library, she'd emerged with her ears ringing and her cheeks wet.
"Now, Father?"
"Now."
She extracted her arm from Amy's grip. Amy's face crumpled with concern. "Father, please don't be angry with her. She didn't mean anything by it. It's my birthday, and I just want everyone to be happy."
The Crown Prince's cold gaze swept over Lya. "Your sister has a remarkable talent for casting shadows on sunny days."
Lya's hands curled into fists at her sides. "Your Highness, I merely answered a question about..."
"You merely answered." He stepped closer, blocking her from the view of most of the room, his voice dropping so only she and her father could hear. "You merely stood here, in your inferior gown, with your inferior gift, making your sister defend you on her own birthday. Tell me, Lady Lya, is there a single celebration in your life where you don't find a way to make yourself the victim?"
The words hit like physical blows. Lya felt the blood drain from her face.
"I'm not trying to be a victim," she whispered. "I'm trying to exist. Is that forbidden too?"
The Duke's hand closed around her upper arm, grip bruising. "You will not speak to the Crown Prince in that tone."
But Elias held up a hand, a thin smile playing at his lips. "No, no. Let her speak. Let's hear what else the injured party has to say." His grey eyes, once warm when they'd chased each other through the palace gardens as children, now held nothing but contempt. "You exist, Lady Lya. We're all acutely aware of it. The question is why you seem to believe your existence requires constant acknowledgment, constant apology, constant reassurance that you're just as valuable as your sister."
"That's not... I never said... "
"You don't have to say it." Elias's voice carried now, drawing the attention of nearby guests. "It's in every sigh, every downturned look, every poorly chosen word designed to remind everyone that poor Lya has so much less than perfect Amy. You gave her a handmade gift—charming. But you couldn't simply give it. You had to make sure everyone knew it was handmade. You had to make sure they knew you'd spent weeks on it. You had to make sure they compared it to everything else she received."
"That's not what happened," Lya said, her voice cracking. "Lady Mirabel asked"
"Lady Mirabel asked what you gave your sister. A simple question. And somehow, by the time you finished answering, you'd managed to paint yourself as the devoted, underappreciated sister who gives from the heart while everyone else gives from the purse." Elias shook his head slowly. "It's a gift, really. A terrible, destructive gift."
Amy appeared at Elias's side, her hand on his arm. "Elias, please. It's my birthday. Let's just forget it. Lya, it's fine, really. I love the bracelet. I'll wear it always."
She held it up again, and somehow the gesture looked like forgiveness. Like grace. Like everything Lya could never be.
Whispers rippled through the gathered crowd. Lya caught fragments: "...always does this..." "...jealous of the attention..." "...poor Amy, having to manage her sister even on her birthday..."
Lya looked at her father. His face was stone. She looked at her mother, who had appeared at some point, and saw only cold disappointment. She looked at Amy, who gazed back with with wide, worried eyes, the eyes of someone who genuinely believed she was being kind.
"Lya." Her mother's voice, quiet and final. "You're upsetting your sister. You're upsetting our guests. Go to your room."
"But I didn't do anything"
"Now."
The word carried the weight of years. Lya felt something inside her chest crumble, just a little, like mortar giving way between stones.
She walked. There was nothing else to do. Past the staring nobles, past the whispering ladies, past the servants who quickly looked away. She walked out of the ballroom, down the corridor, up the stairs, through the door of her room.
She stood in the darkness, listening to the muffled music drift up from below. The laughter. The celebration. The party that continued without her, because it had never really included her.
The tears came eventually. Hot, silent, humiliating. She pressed her fists against her mouth to muffle the sounds, because the walls were thin and she refused to give anyone more evidence of her weakness.
On the table beside her bed sat her three gifts. The journal. The book. The hairpin.
She picked up the hairpin, running her thumb over the carved wood. Simple. Humble. Made by hands that worked for wages.
Like the bracelet.
Like her.
She sat on the edge of her bed, alone in the dark, and cried until the music stopped and the castle fell silent and the first grey light of dawn crept through her window.
Sixteen years old.
It felt like a life sentence.