A Poisoned Friendship

A week passed since the silver mine came to light. The Duke then told me about an invitation - to a salon. This wasn’t any grand ball or stiff ceremony. It would happen at Lady Ellington’s residence, where thinkers, painters, and open-minded aristocrats often met. He said little, only that it marked a gentler start to our connection. There, people would notice us side by side in a space filled with talk and shared curiosity - less like duty, more like choice.

The emerald gown is what you’ll put on, he stated, gaze fixed once more on the paper in his hands. With Alex at your side, you’re expected to go. He would arrive later. Not a request of any kind. More like being sent where needed.

A soft hush lived in the green dress, speaking without sound. Elegance sat quietly in its folds, no shouting needed. The fabric, a clever shade of green silk, brought warmth to my skin, lifted the color in my pale eyes. Money and good sense curled into its presence, more than any name ever could. My hair shifted under Liza's hands, shaped gently now, some strands left free near my cheeks. Her voice came slow when she said I seemed easier to talk to - words not often heard from her.

Friendly. This stood as the aim.

A tall plant sat by the wall, leaves trembling now and then. Conversations there leaned on art, drifted into old songs, skipped idle talk completely. Sunlight poured through tall windows, touching spines of novels stacked sideways. A guest spoke lines about waves crashing, voice rising, falling. My fingers warmed around a mug that tasted bitter. In corners of the space, someone familiar stayed close to the frame of the doorway. Light reached most spots except where he stood.

That was when she came into view.

Warmth followed where she walked, threading between people like light after dawn. A cream-colored dress, nothing fancy but striking all the same, fell gently over her frame. Golden hair twisted into a loose coil atop her head, neat yet soft. Her smile didn’t pretend; it reached her eyes each time. Pausing near an old thinker, then bending slightly to chat with a shy player of strings - she made space for both. That was Beatrice Sandoval.

Here she stood. Real, closer than any page could bring her. Her look carried a quiet glow - less dazzling, more haunting. Not the sort that stirs envy, but something deeper, like memory. When her eyes moved across everyone present, they paused right where I was. Something about her gaze, soft like earth after rain, shifted just a touch with interest. Moving closer now, people stepped aside without thinking, as if pulled by quiet habit.

It hadn’t happened yet, our meeting, she meant. Her words flowed like sunlight through syrup. Call me Beatrice Sandoval, that was her name. You’re the one they call Miss Rimestone, if guesses hold true. Talk of you moves fast among them. Not sharp or cold did she speak - instead, eyes lit with quiet mischief.

“Not all of it favorably, I imagine,” I replied, managing a small smile.

“Oh, pay no mind to that,” she waved a dismissive hand, her bracelets tinkling softly. “Courtiers have the memories of gnats and the morals of… well, never mind.” She leaned in slightly. “I think it’s wonderfully brave. To follow one’s heart against such… overwhelming expectation.” She glanced meaningfully toward the door, where Noah had just entered.

There he was, looking across the space. My direction caught his gaze, then it shifted - landing on Beatrice beside me. A quiet shift crossed his expression, too brief to name. Then voices pulled him in, bodies closing around like a current taking hold.

Beatrice’s touch on my arm brought me back. Her hand was soft, but her grip was firm. “He is a hard man, you know. The Duke. All sharp edges and hidden depths.” She sighed, a sound of pretty sympathy. “It cannot be easy, being the focus of such a formidable person. If you ever need a friend to navigate these waters, I should like to offer my help. We women must stick together.”

Out of nowhere, her voice came soft, clear, just right. Full of care, full of warmth - exactly what I’d waited weeks to hear. Yet when her fingers settled on my arm, something shifted. Through the fabric, a strange coolness crept in, not from the air but from beneath the gesture itself. Like touching marble under fine cloth. That kindness? Smooth. Too smooth. As if rehearsed behind closed doors.

Something deep inside me tightened, after four years of staying unseen and always watching who she really is. Not now - this was the one person everything else once spun around. My being here changed that old tale completely.

Funny how those words came out so tight," I told you, voice not quite matching what I felt inside.

Her smile never wavered, but her eyes held mine a fraction too long. “Not at all. I feel we shall be great friends, you and I.” She gave my arm a final, gentle squeeze before releasing me. “Now, I must rescue that poor flautist from Lord Moncrieff’s opinions on modern music. Do remember my offer.”

Away she moved, quiet, carrying the smell of roses, stirring something raw inside. My gaze dropped to my skin, marked by her fingers - almost thought ice would form there.

Over by the door, I stood still and looked. Beatrice Sandoval reached for Paige’s arm, drawing close with a practiced tilt of her head - like she cared. That expression wasn’t new to me. Same one she wore while murmuring kind words at hearings or smiling beside opponents in ballrooms. Perfect shape, hollow center.

Stiff as stone, Paige froze - like prey catching wind of danger dressed up as safety. Fear suits her well. Beatrice plays games, sliding each piece forward with soft touches but sharp thoughts behind them. That sudden bond blooming between her and my made-up partner? Never accidental. Just another calculated step across the squares.

A figure appeared beside me - Alex. His voice dropped low as he watched her too, saying only, She handles things well.

“Too good,” I replied, my voice low. “She’s isolating her. Offering the companionship I’m not. Creating a dependency.”

“Do you want me to intervene?”

No. That came faster than thought. Beatrice walked away, leaving Paige beside the plant. Her eyes dropped to her arm. A quiet confusion crossed her forehead. Doubt lived in her gaze. Cleverness too. This odd girl who saw what could not be seen - she sensed things. Let it unfold. Yet keep an eye on Beatrice. Find out who shows up, what words she puts down

Breaking away from the group of sellers, I moved in Paige’s direction. Her eyes caught sight of me, then her back went stiff, a calm expression settling on her face like a practiced habit. Still, I noticed the brief flash of worry before she hid it.

Stopping in front of her, I mentioned that Miss Sandoval seemed quite warm. She greeted people easily.

Paige nodded, those pale eyes locking onto me. Worry swam in them - thick, quiet, spreading like a stain. Not just kindness. Something closer. A bond she held out, shaky but real

“You interested?” I said, watching her eyes.

For a moment, she paused. Within that pause, loneliness showed - how much she longed for warmth inside this golden cage I built. Yet I noticed how she resisted. "It was cold," she murmured, barely audible, "the way her hand reached out." A quiet breath followed.

A sharp kind of pride flared inside me. Her eyes caught it. Maybe even recognized it. The fairy tale act didn’t fool her all the way through.

That hunch? Believe it, I told her, softer than meant. A hand moved - not grabbing, like Beatrice did - but fiddling near a wrinkle that wasn’t there, smoothing air above wool. Skin met knuckle at the shoulder line, just for an instant, bright and sudden. She froze mid-breath. Behind every radiant grin, danger waits, quiet and ready

I let my hand fall, the ghost of her warmth lingering on my skin. “Come. It’s time to be seen leaving together. Look at me as if I’ve hung the moon, remember?”

Her eyes flicked open, softness folding away beneath practiced calm. The moment I extended my elbow, she accepted it, contact careful, almost distant. Yet down the aisle, with people drawing back on either side, a quiet shake ran through her hand.

Cold was how Beatrice made me feel. Not her skin - mine did that. It lit a reaction instead. Heat rose where none had been before. Unexpected warmth. The sort I didn’t see coming, couldn’t name, and couldn’t quite hold back.