Lady Elyria's study room always smelled of dried rose petals and ink. The scent clung to the carved wood panels, to the pages of ancient Montclair ledgers. And now, it clung to Marcella's skin as she sat opposite the former duchess, trying not to visibly flinch with every flick of Elyria's fan.
Tap. Snap. Flick.
That damn fan.
"Tomorrow night, we are hosting a ball at Ashenholt Duchy." Elyria drawled, voice smooth and unmoved by the tension she knew she was provoking. "A Flameball in honor of the sanctity of your union."
Marcella blinked. "A… ball?" The words scraped out, thin and uncertain. Her throat burned with the sudden dryness of dread.
Elyria's chin dipped the barest fraction, an acknowledgment cloaked in finality. "It has already been announced. Invitations sent. The entire northern court will attend."
Marcella's pulse kicked up. The ball night. She remembered it from her last life and it had not been a celebration.
