The water is scalding, exactly how I need it. As I scrub my skin, I try to scrub the panic from my mind. Analyze. Adapt. Survive. That is the office motto that has kept me alive for 25 years. If the bridge is broken, I won't fix it by crying. I need information.
I step out of the copper tub, Lily waiting with a thick, heated towel. We move in silence as she dress me in a simple but elegant gown of pale violet. I don't want to look like a 'disgraced' daughter today; I want to look like a woman who is in control.
"Is he still there?" I whisper as Lily fastens the silk laces.
"I... I believe so, My Lady," Lily murmurs, looking nervous.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy wooden doors. To my utter shock, Orlando isn't halfway down the hall or seated at the dining table. He is leaning against the opposite wall, his expression unreadable.
I stop in my tracks, my eyes wide. "You're still here?"
Orlando answers,"I said I'd wait, didn't I?"
"I thought you were just being polite—or mocking me again," I wisper, my voice filled with genuine surprise. I step closer, looking at him carefully. "Why are you waiting for me? Do you think I was going to sneak out? Or did you think I'd just go back to sleep and ignore father's order?"
Orlando's face shifts, a flicker of something—is it guilt? or annoyance?—passing through his eyes. He starts walking down the hallway, gesturing for me to follow.
"You're acting differently, Elanore," he says, not looking back. "The 'old' you would have taken three hours to dress just to make me angry. And the 'old' you never asked why I was doing anything. You just assumed the world revolved around your whims."
He stops at the top of the grand staircase and looks at me, his gaze sharp. "I'm waiting because if you're actually going mad, I'd rather be the one to catch you before you do something that embarrasses the family name. But..." He pauses, his voice dropping an octave. "You look... presentable. Let's go. Father's patience is a thin thread today."
The heavy doors open as the Butler's voice echoes through the vaulted ceiling.
"Lady Elanore and Lord Orlando have arrived."
The clinking of silver against porcelain stops instantly. I walk in, my head held high, matching Orlando's stride. We don't look like enemies; we look like a united front. And I can tell, the moment I see the Duchess's face, that this is the last thing she wanted to see.
The Duchess sits at the head of the table, her tea cup frozen halfway to her lips. Her eyes aren't just cold—they are piercing, darting between me and Orlando with a look of pure venom. She hates Elanore, but she hates a disciplined, calm Elanore even more.
I take my seat gracefully, smoothing my violet skirts. I feel her glare burning into the side of my face, but instead of shrinking away like the 'old' Elanore might have done, I feel a strange spark of satisfaction.
So, you don't like seeing us together? I think, a small, hidden smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Good.
I realize then that my presence is a weapon. The angrier she gets, the more she will lose her composure. In my world, the person who loses their temper first loses the negotiation.
"You are late," the Duke remarks, his voice like grinding stones. He doesn't look up from his plate, but the pressure in the room increased.
"My apologies, Father," I say, my voice smooth and professional. "I required a moment to ensure I was fit to join the family table. Orlando was kind enough to wait for me."
The Duchess's grip tightens on her spoon until her knuckles turns white. She lets out a sharp, forced laugh. "Kind? Orlando has always been far too patient with your 'fits,' Elanore. I hope we aren't expected to applaud you for simply waking up."
I turn my gaze directly toward her, meeting her glare with a calm, steady look. I don't argue. I don't cry. I simply pick up my fork and begin to eat, enjoying the way her eyes flare with rage at my silence.
If I'm trapped in this world, I'm not going to be a victim. If the Duchess wants a war, I should give her one—but I'll play by my rules, not hers.
The Duchess sits her tea cup down with a sharp clack that echoes in the room. She leans forward, when Orlando takes a seat closer to mine.
"Elanore," she begins, her voice dripping with a fake, motherly concern that make my skin crawl. "You are approaching your coming-of-age. Soon, you will be attending the Academy. A place for the elite, for the disciplined. You simply cannot afford to act like a flighty child anymore."
She pauses, waiting for me to flinch, to cry, or to snap back in anger. When I stay calm, her smile starts to disappear.
The Duchess's eyes narrows as she waits for my outburst. But instead of anger, I give her a small, knowing smile—the kind you give a competitor who has just made a very obvious mistake.
"You are absolutely right, mother," I reply, my voice calm and ringing clearly across the breakfast table. "Maintaining the family's reputation is a priority. I understand that when we are in front of outsiders or at the Academy, I must be the picture of a proper, disciplined lady."
I pause, catching the Duke's attention. He looks up from his plate, actually listening.
"However," I continue, leaning back slightly, "to act that way here, at this table, would be nothing more than a performance. It would be a pretension. I don't want to live my life wearing a mask in my own home."
The Duchess opens her mouth to interrupt, but I don't give her the chance.
"I will behave properly for the world," I continue, looking toward the Duke and then at Orlando. "But here, I should be able to behave normally. These are my brothers. This is my father. This is my family. If I cannot be myself with them, then what is the point of having a home?"
I see Orlando's fork pause in mid-air. The word 'family' seems to hang in the air like a challenge. By saying this, I have effectively labeled the Duchess's strict demands as "fake," while labeling my bond with Orlando and the Duke as "real."
The Duchess becomes speechless. If she argues, she would be admitting she doesn't want us to be a close family. She is trapped by her own logic.
"I will give the world the Lady they expect," I say, picking up my tea. "But I will give my family the sister and daughter they deserve. I believe that is the most 'proper' way to live, don't you agree, Father?"
The Duke clears his throat, his expression unreadable, but he gives a single, slow nod. "Consistency in public, comfort in private. A reasonable distinction, Elanore."
I see the Duchess's reflection in the silver teapot. She lookslike she has just swallowed a lemon. I've not only defended my right to be "nice" to Orlando, but I've also made her look like the only person in the room who wants us to be cold and distant.