Dinner is the most important meal of the day. What better way to bond with your family? When better to awe your guests? And how better to intoxicate, interrogate, yet impress your enemies?

- The Laudable Lady's Menubook, vol. III, by Lady Audilya a'Dree

Another last-minute fitting, both attaching another train and trimming down some of the fabric, makes me late for dinner. I'm tempted to skip again, especially considering some of the worryingly thoughtful looks Mother was giving me on the ride home, but I dare not. They must think everything is as normal as possible—and more than that, I have to be in person for tonight's request to be heard.

But even though my pace is hurried, when I hear Father grumbling my name, I pause outside the drawing room door to listen.

"...hire all these servants for if none of them ever knows where she is?"

"Don't speak ill of my girls," Mother scolds warmly. "They're dear-hearts, every one of them. Besides—"

"I'm starving," one of the Twins—Raif—interrupts.

"Then go find your sister," Father says.

"Reiv—" Mother starts.

"We could start without her," Serran proposes.

The brief, pin-drop silence as everyone pauses speaks of Father's sharp gaze. "I won't have her abandoning us twice in two days."

"We'll find her!" the Twins announce in unison, feet scampering like hares.

Mother says, "Boys, that's—"

"Unnecessary," I finish, gliding through the door. I raise my brow as they draw to a stop in front of me. "As Mother kept trying to tell you all."

Mother greets me with a kiss on the cheek, her aura ringing with a silent laugh. We've been able to Hear each other since I turned onto the hallway. The Twins might have too, if they weren't so scatterbrained. I squeeze her hand, glad to see that whatever fears she harboured during the day have slunk away beneath our own roof.

Leif, the other Twin, crosses his arms at me. "If you'd been any later, I would have had to roast Raif."

"Hey!" he protests, drawing a decorative wooden dagger from his belt. "Not if I kebabbed you first!"

Leif pulls his fake dagger free too, but before the drawing room can dissolve into a dueling arena, a sharp snap rings through the air.

Father lowers his hand, brows raised mildly. "Behave."

Pouting, both boys sheathe their weapons, though they share a furtive glance that promises midnight mischief and duels on triple-rugged floors.

Father offers Mother his arm. "Shall we, my love?"

They stride through the drawing room into our dining room. Not caring that it's my turn to go next, the Twins bolt through behind. Serran doesn't spare me a glance, almost running me over as we reach the doorway at the same time. I jerk back to avoid a collision, but he doesn't flinch, as if I were invisible. Biting my tongue, I enter the room last.

Golden scrollwork caps the room's embedded columns and runs in shimmering lines across the trim. The variegated emerald green wallpaper is painted with such intricate detail, you'd think you were inside a gem itself, an illusion brightened by the gleaming candelabras. Another candelabra shines merrily on our long wooden table, lacquered dark green. At one end of the room, a gold-trimmed divider hides the servants' entrance, allowing them to appear as if streaming out endlessly from nowhere. At the room's other end, behind the head of the table, hangs a painting taller than I am of the Emeriald countryside.

Father sits down in front of it. Black-clad attendants pull out Mother's and my chairs to his right and left. Serran forgoes his usual seat at my left and takes Mother's side instead. The Twins, pleased with the casual bit of mischief, easily scamper to my side of the table.

Mother twists her hand slightly above her head, and the head attendant approaches. "Skip the appetizer course, please." Her voice lowers conspiratorially. "I fear the Twins might start a riot."

A smile dents the man's practiced face as he bows. "Very good, Your Grace."

"We would not riot!" Raif protests.

"Yes, we're very polite cannibals," Lief adds. Raif nods in agreement.

Father sighs, but a rare bit of humor edges his voice as he looks to his wife. "Are you sure about setting these rascals loose at the Census Ball?"

"Yes," she says, eyeing the boys with raised brows and rounded lips. "Because you are going to be perfect gentlemen, aren't you?"

"We've only been practicing all year," Leif scoffs, spinning a spoon around his fingers.

Raif elbows his brother and nods at Father. "We'll do great. Mother's been a very good teacher."

Father hums. "It's not your mother's skills I doubt."

Golden trays come out with hearty bowls of duck soup and sourdough bread, soft herb cheese and red grapes, and roasted carrots in honey, with stuffing and duck gravy. Wine flows into Father's, Serran's, and my cups while strawberry cordial fills Mother's and the Twins'.

I spoon my soup away from me, proud to see the boys both do the same. "Have you asked anyone to go with you yet?"

"I did," Lief says with a smirk. "Raif is too much of a turkey."

"Be kind," Mother chides.

"Apologies, Mother. I meant to say, of course, that Raif turns strawberry-red when he sees a girl. Which might be a medical condition the House doctor should check into." Lief jabs a spoonful of soup into his mouth, but that can't hide the twinkle in his eye.

Poor Raif, meanwhile, is turning just the color Lief said. Usually at this point he would stick his tongue out at his brother, but lacking that option in polite company, he just scowls.

I tap the table to get his attention. "Which girl?"

He smiles up at me sheepishly. "Anavire d'Skain."

Pleasure swirls in my chest, and I take a sip of my wine. That was just the girl I'd prepared for him. "I think you should give it a go," I say. "Things often go better than we think."

Serran snorts and mutters, "Especially when the great Sylnavi d'Reiv blesses them."

Raif's nose scrunches. "You know Anavire?"

Father, meanwhile, shoots Serran a warning look, and I turn away from Serran's glower and toward the more civil thread of conversation. "I know her older sisters. They're nice girls."

"What about you?" Serran says, voice edged. "Have a date to the Ball yet, sister?"

Normally, Serran is my ticket into social events. Because somehow, even though the world listens to me and envies me, most people don't seem to truly like me. And I find no pleasure in accompanying a man I tricked into letting me ride his arm—except when tactically necessary—or letting the hordes of lesser men cling to mine. Serran has historically helped me navigate the more personal side of finding a date—much the way I did for the Twins, though they don't realize it.

I look away from him before the pain in his eyes pains me as well. He expects me to say no—revels in it even. It sets thorns in my stomach, but I paint a hopeful look onto my face as I turn to my parents. "Well," I say, "I might."

Mother's face falls. "Please don't tell me it's with that duke."

Father watches me sharply.

"What duke?" Leif says.

"An anonymous note was sent," I say, for truth is one of the best defenses against mother's aural prying. "Asking to meet in the palace tomorrow during the Parade." My eyes flick to Father's unreadable face. "I was hoping you might not mind my disappearance for a half hour or so?"

Father tears a bit from his bread. "Only cowards don't reveal their names."

"Perhaps twenty years ago." I soak a little of my bread in my broth. "Many girls today find a secret admirer romantic."

"Do you?"

I shrug. "I find the prospect of a meeting intriguing at least. And I haven't had anyone else ask."

Father narrows his eyes, likely thinking I could entangle anyone I wanted around my finger. Which is exactly the problem. It's weakness, perhaps, but I don't want living jewelry for a date. I drop my eyes to my bowl.

Mother sets a hand to his elbow as if to reassure him I speak honestly. I take a sip of my wine, swallowing down the bitter taste. Sometimes to sell one lie, you have to wrap it in a bit of shameful truth. Men, for reasons I still don't fully understand, rarely ask me to things without being prompted. I've often wondered if despite all my wealth, beauty, and power, if something was broken with me—not quite human.

Or perhaps it is as Mother once said, and men just don't like knives.

Father sighs. "Where is this meeting?"

"In the palace," I answer.

"So you said. Where?"

"In the Gardens," I admit. "We're to play Crests and Banners."

"Oh, Reiv," Mother says with a sigh. Ever the hopeless romantic, she peers up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

Father considers her, then considers me. I press my lips together, waiting hopefully. He taps his thumb to his lips and shakes his head. "You girls are going to be the death of me." His hand spins. "You can go with an escort."