Elyse’s fingers tightened slightly on her teacup. Her smile wavered, just a fraction, as she looked to Zara, hoping for alliance, so response, so cue.
Zara stayed quiet.
Lorraine didn’t even shift in her seat.
And just as Elyse opened her mouth, likely to fill the silence with another passive-aggressive jab, Lorraine lifted her hands. Her movents were smooth and unhurried, like a queen who knew the battle was already hers.
Sylvia leaned in with perfect timing, her voice cool and asured as she translated: "Her Highness says she wasn’t aware the lady of the manor required invitations in her own ho."
A flicker passed through Elyse’s expression, but she recovered quickly. "That might be... I ca for Zara, of course. I wasn’t expecting... others."
Lorraine didn’t react.
Her eyes simply moved to Zara, then returned to Elyse.
Then, slowly, she uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them the other way. A statent without words: Continue your performance, I’m watching.
Zara fidgeted with her sleeve. The past few days had been hell. She had a feeling the one they called "The Silent Crown" wasn’t a simple woman. She was scared of her. She couldn’t explain that fear, but she felt suffocated in this manor. The only reason she was still here was because of Leroy. She wanted to protect him from his cruel wife.
The numbness in her body was gradually improving thanks to the new dications prescribed by the royal physician. She knew she had to regain her strength first before taking on the Silent Crown. She had to kill her.
Elyse lifted her tea delicately. "Still, I’m glad you’re here. It gives us a chance to... understand each other. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of one another soon."
Lorraine’s eyes flicked down to the tea. Then back to Elyse.
She smiled wider.
Sylvia waited, but Lorraine didn’t raise a single finger to sign. Her silence was answer enough.
Elyse set her cup down. "I suppose silence is easier than saying sothing unwise."
Lorraine finally lifted her hands, and only then, slowly... she signed a few precise signs, elegant as calligraphy.
Sylvia translated: "It is better to be silent than to be needlessly loud and dangerously dull."
Zara made a small noise in her throat, quickly covered with a sip of tea.
Elyse leaned back, lashes lowering. "How... clever."
Lorraine offered a gracious nod, as if she’d just accepted a complint instead of delivering an insult. Then she reached for her own cup, her movents languid and unhurried.
The drawing room suddenly felt a little colder.
Elyse recovered fast, as expected of soone seasoned in the duels of high society. She placed her teacup down with poised grace, as if Lorraine’s dig had never landed.
"I understand things can get... territorial. But I didn’t co here to quarrel."
She turned to Zara again, brushing a loose curl from the girl’s face. "I ca to extend an invitation. The Ladies’ Society is hosting a tea party. You’re new here, you might not know, but only the most distinguished won of the court, of course, are invited. And as the Prince’s... dearest, I thought it was ti Zara stepped into the light."
Her tone was warm. Her smile was radiant. And yet every word was a blade. Zara flushed, uncertain. Lorraine didn’t move.
Elyse continued, now turning her gaze with calculated sympathy. "You’ve never been invited, have you, Lorraine?" She spoke as if addressing a child she pitied.
Still, Lorraine didn’t sign. She didn’t flinch. But her jaw was clenched now, barely.
Elyse’s eyes sparkled with triumph. "I thought as much. Your status, of course. And the... reputation. I only asked for Zara today to spare you the embarrassnt, dear. Imagine how cruel it would have seed if you’d been ignored in your own ho."
Lorraine’s lips curled at last, just a fraction, cold and deadly. Her hands lifted, but Sylvia didn’t get the chance to translate.
Elyse rose, effortlessly cutting her off with a curtsy so shallow it was more insult than farewell.
"Do take care of yourself, Lorraine," she said, voice honeyed. "Your silence suits you. Always has."
She turned on her heel before Lorraine could strike back, skirts swishing as she moved through the drawing room like a conquering queen.
But as she reached the grand staircase, sothing caught her eye.
It hung alone on the far wall of the great hall, the only painting ever commissioned of Lorraine and Leroy.
Painted in their first year of marriage. Lorraine had been sixteen then, her heart hopelessly his. She stood in the portrait with a tender smile, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with quiet adoration. A girl in love. A girl who believed love would be enough.
Beside her, Leroy stood tall, masked in gold, covering his brow, nose, and cheekbones, dapper in his regalia. Only his cool eyes and sharp jaw were visible. His braid, draped behind one ear, was rendered with careful attention. He hadn’t looked at her in the painting. Just as he hadn’t in life.
He looked regal. Distant. Beautiful.
It had been years since Lorraine had last looked at it. She only looked now because Elyse was standing before it.
Lorraine entered quietly, her footsteps muffled by the rug, and stopped a few paces beside her half-sister. The scent of jasmine and frost, Elyse’s signature, hung in the space between them.
Elyse tilted her head with a contemplative hum. "Oh... I’d forgotten how earnest you looked," she said, almost fondly. "There’s such wonder in your face. Just like on the day you were married. Like a little girl playing dress-up... thinking you were in love. Thinking you were enough for a prince."
She glanced over her shoulder. Her smile was a razor wrapped in silk. "You know, Lorraine... You had all this only because I gave it up. I threw it to you like scraps." A pause. A slow, knowing smile. "And now... I want it all back."
Lorraine didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her hands were balled in the folds of her sleeves, her breath thin.
What could she say? That Leroy loved her now? That Elyse didn’t matter anymore?
Elyse turned back to the painting, stepping closer. She reached out, fingertips trailing along the bottom of the fra with idle reverence.
Then, slowly, she raised one hand.
Her erald ring caught the light. With one elegant flick, she dragged its sharp edge across the canvas.
A fine diagonal slash cut through Lorraine’s painted lips. Lorraine’s lips trembled.
Elyse gave a soft gasp, hand to her chest. "Oh...! How clumsy of ."
Then she turned, looked Lorraine in her eyes, and smiled, all innocent and sweet. "I suppose it was always too delicate," she murmured. "These old paintings... they don’t age well. So easy to ruin."
And with that, she left. No apology. No hesitation.
Lorraine remained rooted to the floor, staring at the girl she used to be... Still smiling. Still foolish. With a slash of silence across her lips.
And sowhere deep inside, sothing cracked.
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