The Reverie of a Mother

The ballroom was heavy with perfumes and lace, each corner echoing with quiet laughter, clinking glasses, and murmurs too polite to be called whispers. Liora stood near a window, hands folded, posture composed, just as Lady Amalia had taught her.

Still, the words came. They always came.

"Is that the girl Lady Edelhardt adopted? The one from the village?"

"A charity case, no doubt. Look at her, trying to play noble."

"She's dressed finely, but you can't hide roots like that. The way she holds herself... it's practiced."

"She lives at Edelhardt, doesn't she? Think she can get us invited to the summer estate?"

Liora said nothing. She had learned silence could be more cutting than any reply. She tilted her head as if pretending not to hear, sipping from her cup with the same grace she had watched Amalia display at a dozen such events. Her eyes, however, were open, watching. Cataloguing.

They watched her too. Some with curiosity, others with disdain. A few with veiled calculation. She was no longer just a child trailing behind Lady Amalia. She was a presence now. A potential piece in a larger game.

And she hated it.

Later that week, during a tea gathering hosted by a minor noblewoman, the muttering became too bold.

A cluster of girls in pale dresses had cornered Liora during the midday stroll through the hedged gardens, where rose petals littered the gravel like confetti from a celebration she had never been invited to.

"You must have been so grateful when Lady Edelhardt found you," said one girl sweetly. "Do you still use a knife at the table?"

Another giggled. "Don't be cruel. She's trying her best to act like one of us. It's rather inspiring, really."

Liora's jaw tightened. Before she could reply, a firm voice cut through the barbed laughter like a blade.

"She's not your toy."

Annalise strode forward, red-faced and furious. "She's our sister. Keep your snide little jokes for your mirror, if you like the way it answers."

The girls shrank back, blinking. One tried to laugh it off, but Annalise's expression was unmoving.

"I said, leave her alone."

The garden went quiet. Then, slowly, the girls turned and drifted away, giggling nervously and whispering behind gloved hands.

Liora looked at Annalise, stunned.

The younger girl gave a sharp huff and crossed her arms. "They're stupid."

Liora smiled faintly. "That was reckless."

"It was worth it."

"Thank you."

Annalise rolled her eyes but linked her arm with Liora's. "Don't let them get to you. You're more of an Edelhardt than half those perfume-soaked featherbrains."

Liora laughed quietly, brushing a fallen rose petal from Annalise's shoulder.

That evening, the estate grounds were bathed in golden light, the sun casting long shadows across the garden paths. Liora walked alone beneath the blossom tree, the one Lady Amalia had planted in memory of her daughter.

The tree was in full bloom, soft white petals drifting down like snow. The branches moved gently in the wind, murmuring stories only children and ghosts could hear.

A crunch of gravel behind her made her turn. Michael approached, still wearing his fencing vest, hair tousled from training.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said.

Liora offered a small smile. "Did Mathilde send you?"

"She tried." He sat beside her beneath the tree, stretching his long legs in front of him. "But I came for my own reasons."

They sat in silence for a while, watching petals fall.

"I saw what happened with the girls in the garden," Michael finally said.

Liora didn't answer. Her fingers brushed the grass beside her.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You don't have to be."

He looked at her. "I do. Because you're bearing the weight of something you didn't ask for."

She turned to him. "Do you think they're right?"

He frowned. "Who?"

"The nobles. That I don't belong."

He didn't answer immediately. The wind rustled again.

"I think they're afraid," he said finally. "Afraid that someone who wasn't born into this world might still rise in it. Afraid of what that says about them."

Liora looked down. "It's easier to fight," she whispered, "if I remember who I'm fighting for."

Michael tilted his head. "And who's that?"

"For her," Liora said, meaning Amalia. "For the children. For… the girl I used to be. The one who thought knights only lived in stories."

He smiled faintly. "You've grown."

"Not enough."

"No," he said softly. "But more than most."

They sat like that for a while, not speaking, as the petals rained down around them.

Over the next few weeks, Liora's place in society became clearer and more complicated. Invitations came more frequently now, but with strings attached. A minor countess asked her for a private meeting, only to suggest a "mutually beneficial marriage" between her grandson and Liora—"for stability, of course." Another baroness tried to extract details about Edelhardt's finances, pretending interest in "the way Lady Amalia runs her house."

She smiled politely. She said little. She reported everything to Amalia.

And yet, beneath her calm exterior, Liora felt the tight pull of unease. She had been lifted up, but not embraced. Admired, but not accepted. Even the nobility's smiles were sharp-edged.

The garden girls never apologized.

But more and more, the Edelhardt children did small things, quiet loyalty, fierce glances, subtle nods of support. Leopold offered her the last honeyed fig at dinner. Mathilde squeezed her hand when courtiers asked too many questions. Elias fell asleep beside her during a public reading and muttered, half-dreaming, "You're the nicest lady in the whole world."

Those little things, Liora thought, were enough to fight for.

That night, she sat again beneath the blossom tree, alone this time. Her fingers reached into her bodice and pulled out the chain with Amalia's signet ring.

She pressed it to her lips.

"I'll protect them," she whispered. "As you protect me."

From the distance, the manor windows glowed gold, and a soft voice called her name, Mathilde's, perhaps.

Liora stood slowly, brushing off her skirt. She looked back at the tree one last time before turning toward the path, her steps quiet but certain.

The thorn among petals had learned to grow.