Chapter 14: The Garden of Thorns

Escorted into the main foyer where the other ladies were seated, October was acutely aware she was the last to arrive.

The room was as ornate as one might expect of Lady Risa’s residence—gold filigree curling along the pale mint walls, sunlight streaming in from a stained-glass dome overhead that painted the floor in fractured hues. But despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, there was a layer of chill in the air—a polite frost cloaked in lace and perfume.

There were four ladies in total, seated with the casual elegance of those who’d learned to make lounging look strategic. Lady Rebecca Archibald, the Marquis Martin’s daughter, had her long fingers curled around a teacup as if it were a weapon. Beside her sat Lady Celeste Hardley, Count Richard’s second daughter, her posture delicate, lips curved into a sugar-dusted smile with a razored core. And then there was Lady Risa—flame-haired, sharp-eyed, the hostess of this carefully curated gathering.

It was Risa who had extended the invitation, and October had known better than to believe it as a friendly gesture.

The room stilled as she entered. No greetings, no fluttering hands—just the delicate clink of a teacup being set down, precisely and pointedly.

Lady Rebecca’s gaze swept over her like a tailor measuring cloth, cataloguing details to be judged. October felt the weight of that look, but didn’t shrink beneath it. Instead, she paused just inside the archway, allowing the full length of her forest green satin dress to catch the light, the jet-black lace trim a dramatic

contrast to the pastels worn by the others.

She looked like a midnight storm among spring breezes. Let them notice.

Lady Celeste offered a smile, sweet and sharp-edged. “Oh, Lady October… fashionably late?”

Only Lady Risa rose to greet her, lips curved into something unreadable. “Lady October,” she said, her voice silken with implied amusement. “We feared you had lost your way.”

October returned her smile, one dimple blooming with practiced innocence. “Apologies. The garden was quite enchanting. I thought I saw a nightingale.”

Lady Celeste chuckled, tapping a manicured finger to her cheek. “A nightingale? In the capital? How charmingly naive.”

October tilted her head as if considering it anew, voice light as spun sugar. “Oh, I must be mistaken then. Perhaps it was just the echo of someone singing lies.”

A beat passed.

Lady Celeste blinked.

Lady Rebecca arched her brow.

Then Lady Risa laughed—a sharp, delighted sound, like glass chiming. “How clever,” she said. “Come, Lady October, have a seat beside me.”

The seating was, of course, intentional. Risa sat in the center like a queen on a social chessboard, flanked by Celeste and Rebecca. The empty chair beside her was both an invitation and a spotlight.

October moved with the grace of a woman born to society’s sharpest edges, her heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor. She settled herself with elegance, folding her hands in her lap as if she belonged more than any of them.

Servants approached with silent efficiency, pouring fresh tea into delicate porcelain cups etched with vines. For a brief moment, conversation turned to harmless chatter—the temperamental spring weather, the Emperor’s new horses, a recent silk shipment from the east. But even those innocuous topics felt rehearsed, too pointed in their blandness.

The undercurrent, however, was unmistakable. It swirled just beneath the surface, like a current ready to pull someone under.

Lady Rebecca lifted her teacup with deliberate grace. “Your dress is… bold.”

October glanced down at herself. The deep purple suited her complexion, and the jet-black lace was a subtle nod to mourning—dignified, but dangerous. It was a dress meant to be remembered.

“Boldness becomes a necessity when one walks through thorns,” she said mildly, lifting her cup with a serene smile. “Besides, I find pastels make me look like I’m fading.”

Rebecca blinked, then gave a tight-lipped smile.

Celeste leaned forward, her chin resting delicately on one gloved hand. “Your family has been rather quiet since… last autumn. It’s good to see the Windsors among us again.”

October’s smile did not falter. “The seasons turn, Lady Celeste. Autumn passes, but it always comes again.”

Lady Risa’s eyes glittered like sapphires under firelight. “Some say the Windsors have… thinned their branches. Others say they’ve simply gone to ground. What do you say, Lady October?”

October sipped her tea slowly, letting the warmth seep into her palms. “I say storms prune weak branches. What remains grows stronger.”

The pause that followed was like the moment before thunder.

Lady Rebecca’s smirk curled like smoke. Lady Celeste narrowed her eyes, lips pursed. Risa, however, looked pleased—as if October were a particularly sharp knife she had just drawn from a velvet case.

Before anyone could escalate further, a soft voice spoke.

“That’s a lovely metaphor. And a rather brave one.”

October turned her head slightly. A young woman she hadn’t noticed earlier sat just slightly apart from the trio, almost in the shadows cast by the ornate curtains. She wore muted silver-gray silk, her presence quiet but grounded. Her brown skin was luminous in the golden light, her eyes steady and curious.

“Lady Yvaine of House Norwood,” Risa said lazily, not bothering to look her way. “She reads too many books.”

“That may be true,” Yvaine said with a faint smile, unbothered. “But I also know a hardy plant when I see one.”

October inclined her head in acknowledgment. “It is a pleasure to meet someone who tends gardens with wisdom.”

That earned a light chuckle from Yvaine, and a flicker of annoyance from Celeste.

The next round of tea was poured. Tiny cakes and sugared plums made their way across the table, though no one seemed especially hungry. The conversation shifted to politics and poetry, slipping between topics with feigned ease, each line laced with subtle barbs.

When the Emperor’s recent hunting trip was mentioned, Lady Rebecca’s eyes glittered.

“I hear he was seen near Lake Veldor. That’s close to your family’s estate, isn’t it?”

October met her gaze evenly. “So I’ve heard. But I imagine His Majesty enjoys quiet places when the capital becomes… too loud.”

“Or perhaps he enjoys hunting rare prey,” Celeste murmured, her smile returned, cruel and catlike.

October set her teacup down without haste. “One must be careful,” she said sweetly, “The most beautiful prey often hides fangs.”

That drew a few surprised laughs—one of the servants even coughed, clearly suppressing a reaction.

The air shifted then. October could feel it, as surely as she could sense the change in a gathering storm. A wary respect bloomed amid the tension. The hostility remained, but now it was mixed with curiosity. She wasn’t what they had expected—and they didn’t quite know what to do with her.

Even Celeste, though still composed, no longer wore her smugness as comfortably.

As the tea dwindled and the cakes crumbled to sugar-dusted crumbs, the gathering began to wind down. Gloves were smoothed, fans snapped open. October stood when Risa did.

“You surprised me today, Lady October,” Risa said, adjusting the fall of her skirts. Her smile was soft, almost affectionate—but her eyes remained guarded. “You wear a mask better than I expected.”

October met her gaze, unflinching. “One learns quickly when surrounded by thorns.”

The other ladies began to drift toward the exit in clusters of silk and whispers, but as October turned to leave, a voice stopped her.

“You’re braver than I expected, Lady October… but bravery draws eyes. Not all of them are kind.”

It was Yvaine again. She hadn’t moved from her seat, her fingers still curled around her untouched cup.

October paused. Their eyes met—two women who saw too much. “Thank you for the warning,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less steady.

She turned and walked away with measured steps, back straight, spine steady.

Only once she was seated in the carriage and the door closed behind her did her fingers tremble.

Not from fear.

From exhilaration.

She had stepped into the wolves’ den draped in purple and lace—and came out with not a single bite, only bloodied teeth behind silken smiles.

She had survived the thorns.

And she had drawn blood.