Chapter 15: The Mask Slips

Emeric POV

Calla organized a garden tea that afternoon, the kind of pretty, pointless gathering pack women use to show off good china and better manners. A handful of visiting elders sat under the shade canopy, sipping something too sweet, while she moved between them like she'd been born knowing exactly how to work a room.

Then Wren walked past carrying a tray of extra cups, and Calla's whole demeanor shifted into something performative enough to catch my attention immediately.

"Wren!" She waved her over, bright, delighted, like she hadn't spoken to her in weeks instead of hours. "Come sit with us for a bit. You've been working too hard."

Wren stopped, tray still in her hands, clearly weighing whether refusing would cause more trouble than accepting.

"I've got things to finish," she said.

"Nonsense." Calla was already pulling out the empty chair beside her, patting it like this was the most natural invitation in the world. "You deserve a break. Doesn't she, everyone?"

A few of the elders murmured polite agreement, charmed the way people always seemed to get charmed by Calla within minutes of meeting her.

Wren set the tray down and sat, stiff, clearly uncomfortable being put on display like this.

"She's been so strong through everything," Calla told the table, reaching over to squeeze Wren's hand, her voice gone soft and admiring. "I don't know how she does it. If I'd been through half of what she has, I don't think I'd handle it with this much grace."

"Prison, wasn't it?" one of the older women asked, not unkindly, just curious in that blunt way old wolves get.

"She doesn't like talking about it," Calla said quickly, protective now, "and I respect that completely. I just think it's remarkable, watching her rebuild herself. Honestly, she's stronger than I am."

I watched Wren's face carefully during all this. Nothing moved there. No gratitude, no discomfort beyond the initial stiffness, just a kind of patient endurance, like she was waiting out.

"You're too kind," Wren said finally, flat, the bare minimum required to keep the moment moving.

"I mean it." Calla's eyes actually looked a little wet, impressively convincing. "You've taught me so much about resilience since you came home."

The elders ate it up, several of them murmuring approval at Calla's generosity, at how sweetly she treated a sister who apparently wronged her so badly once. I found myself watching not Calla's performance, but Wren's stillness underneath it, the exact blankness of someone who learned that reacting cost more than it was worth.

The tea wound down eventually. Wren stood to collect the empty cups, and Calla rose with her, offering to help carry things inside, still radiating warmth for the benefit of anyone still watching.

I followed a few steps behind, curious, not quite ready to head back inside myself.

They rounded the corner into the narrow servants' hall connecting the garden to the kitchen, and I stopped just short of turning it myself, catching sight of them through the gap where the door hadn't fully swung shut.

Calla's whole posture changed the second they were alone.

"You need to stop making this so difficult," she said, low, none of the warmth from five minutes ago anywhere in her voice now.

"I didn't do anything." Wren kept stacking cups onto the tray, not even looking up.

"You sat there and let everyone fawn over you like you're some kind of tragic hero. Do you have any idea how that looks?"

"You're the one who invited me to sit down."

"Because refusing would've looked worse!" Calla's voice stayed quiet, controlled, but something sharp had crept into it now, an edge that hadn't been anywhere near the garden table. "I have to manage everything around you constantly. Every word, every look, making sure nobody sees what you actually are underneath all that quiet suffering."

"What I actually am?"

"You know what I mean." Calla stepped closer, and even from where I stood I could see her posture had gone rigid, controlled fury dressed up as concern. "Alpha Vane's been sniffing around you. I've noticed. Everyone's noticed. You need to remember your place here, Wren. You're not the one he's here for."

"I never said I was."

"Then act like it." The words came out clipped, final. "Stop making yourself interesting. Stop giving people reasons to ask questions. Some of us worked very hard to build the life we have, and I'm not about to watch you unravel it because you can't sit quietly for five minutes."

Wren finally looked up at that, something unreadable in her expression, calm in a way that seemed to unsettle Calla more than any argument would have.

"I'm not trying to unravel anything," Wren said. "I'm just existing in the same house as you."

"Well, existing loudly," Calla snapped, then caught herself, visibly reeling the sharpness back in. "Just.. be more careful. That's all I'm asking."

Wren picked up the tray without another word and turned to carry it into the kitchen, done with the conversation entirely.

And that's when I saw it.

The second Wren's back was turned, Calla's whole face changed. The softness dropped away completely, replaced by something tight and ugly, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, watching Wren's retreating back with an expression that had nothing sisterly left in it at all. It lasted maybe two seconds before she smoothed it back into something presentable, fixing her hair, adjusting her dress, resetting herself for whatever audience came next.

Two seconds. That's all it took to see the whole performance for exactly what it was.

I stepped back before either of them noticed me there, walking a slow loop around the garden instead of heading straight back inside, giving myself time to sit with what I just watched.

Calla's version of sisterly devotion, the soft eyes, the admiring squeeze of the hand, all of it had been for the elders at that table. The second there was no audience left worth performing for, something else entirely had surfaced, brief but unmistakable.

I thought about Garrett's face on the path yesterday, unable to answer a simple question about whether he ever actually asked Wren her side. I thought about Wren in that garden shed, flat and unbothered, telling me the truth wouldn't matter to anyone who mattered.

I was starting to understand exactly why she stopped bothering to say it out loud.

Whatever actually happened between these two sisters years ago, I was no longer convinced the story I'd been told at that dinner table bore much resemblance to the truth at all.