Part 1
The early June sun cast aureate threads across Redwood Estate's gardens, where an army of workers had transformed the grounds into something that would have made a common palace weep with envy. White silk pavilions dotted the lawns like ethereal mushrooms after celestial rain, their peaks adorned with the Redwood crest, embroidered in roses still dewy with morning. Crystal chandeliers, suspended from invisible wires, fractured the light into prismatic cascades that danced across arriving guests' faces like nature's own jewelry. The air itself shimmered with anticipation, and the faint metallic tang of enhancement spells calibrated to maintain a perfect temperature while banishing any insect audacious enough to consider attending.
Duke Gerald Redwood stood at the terrace's edge, surveying his creation with the satisfaction of a chess grandmaster who had achieved checkmate in three moves while his opponent was pondering what just happened. The entire production had cost him one hundred thousand Continental dollars—sufficient to fund the estate's operations for five years—but the investment would yield dividends for decades.
"Your Grace," Mr. Thornbridge, his personal steward, approached bearing correspondence on a silver salver that caught the light like liquid mercury. "The final tally stands at nine hundred and seventy-three confirmed attendances."
"Splendid," the Duke murmured, his public persona settling over him like well-worn armor. "And our security arrangements?"
"Triple-layered as specified, Your Grace. The Orichalcum Security Inc. commands the perimeter, your personal guard ensures your security from all angles, and Master Henderno's agency provides discrete sonar surveillance and aerial security against potential attacks. Additionally, the provincial governor has graciously stationed his men at all approach roads—ostensibly as a courtesy, though I suspect he is secretly keeping an eye on the guest list for his own purposes."
The Duke's smile was razor-thin. "Let him watch. Today, we give them all exactly what they expect to see—the Duke of Redwood and a glimpse of the extent of his connections that will make potential enemies think twice. The attendees will recount this party for years, filling in the gaps with their own imaginations. 'If only His Grace weren't so preoccupied,' they'll sigh. 'Imagine the splendors we'd see if he hosted every season!' With each retelling, my reputation grows, and so too does their estimation of my resources."
His steward, seasoned by two decades of loyal service, allowed himself a knowing smile. "The art of strategic absence, Your Grace?"
"Precisely. A single spectacular gathering, followed by years of absence—always citing pressing obligations. Their fantasies will work harder than I ever could; it is far more economical than frequent hospitality, and infinitely more effective. After all, no reality could ever satisfy the contradictory expectations of the crowd, but their own imaginations will always flatter me. This is how I keep opportunities and potential allies continuously knocking at my door. Nothing draws people like the scent of inexhaustible resources."
Inside the manor, Philip stood before his mirror, fighting the urge to adjust his cravat for the dozenth time. He wore midnight blue—dark enough to be properly formal, rich enough to show quality, but not so elaborate as to overshadow anyone. The System materialized beside him in the reflection, this time appearing as a 1920s socialite complete with beaded headdress and scandalously short dress.
"Nervous, darling?" she purred. "You're about to parade your illegal Familiar before the entire provincial elite. No pressure."
"She's my companion for the evening," Philip corrected firmly. "Lydia has prepared her extensively."
"Oh yes, I'm sure a week of etiquette lessons has fully prepared her for navigating the shark-infested waters of aristocratic society. What could possibly go wrong?"
Before Philip could respond, a knock came at his door.
"Come in."
The door opened, and Philip's breath caught in his throat.
Natalia stood in the doorway, and for a moment, time seemed to crystallize around her. She wore a gown of deep sapphire silk that managed to be both utterly proper and devastatingly alluring. The dress followed the new fashion from the Continental Republic—shorter than traditional ball gowns, ending just below the knee to show shapely calves encased in silk stockings. The neckline was modest by Natalia's usual standards, but designed with geometric precision to draw the eye, while crystalline beadwork traced art deco patterns that caught the light with her every breath.
Her golden hair had been arranged in finger waves that framed her face perfectly, with a single strand of diamonds woven through like captured starlight. Sapphire drops hung from her ears, and her lips had been painted a deep red that made her porcelain skin seem to glow from within.
But it was her expression that truly caught Philip—a mixture of excitement and something else, something that made his chest tighten.
"Do I look acceptable?" Natalia asked, executing a small turn that made the beads on her dress chime softly. "Lydia said this style would be appropriate for my first formal event as your companion."
"You look…" Philip swallowed, searching for words that wouldn't betray the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat. "You look perfect."
A delicate blush colored her cheeks. "Thank you. Though I confess to experiencing unusual sensations. My heart rate has elevated by approximately twenty percent, and there's a peculiar fluttering in my stomach. Lydia assured me this was normal for formal events."
"That's called nervousness," Philip said gently, moving to offer her his arm. "It's perfectly natural."
"Nervousness," she repeated thoughtfully, placing her hand on his arm with practiced grace. "How curious. I've faced assassination attempts with less physiological response. Yet the prospect of conversation with strangers creates this… agitation."
"That's because violence has simple parameters," Philip explained as they moved toward the door. "Social interaction, especially at this level, is far more complex. Every word, every gesture, every glance carries meaning."
"Lydia explained the basics," Natalia said. "Smile but not too much. Speak when spoken to but don't monopolize conversation. Maintain appropriate distance. Defer to those of higher rank. Express interest without seeming eager. Compliment without seeming false. The parameters seem contradictory."
"Welcome to aristocratic society," Philip said dryly. "Where sincerity is performed and performance must seem sincere."
They descended the main staircase, where Lydia and Albert waited. Philip nearly stumbled at the sight of his housekeeper. Lydia wore an elegant gown of burgundy silk that revealed a figure he'd never suspected existed beneath her usual austere attire. Her silver-mixed raven hair had been arranged in an elaborate style that framed features that seemed decades younger than usual. Beside her, Albert looked distinguished in formal evening wear, though he kept tugging at his collar as if it were trying to strangle him.
"You look magnificent," Lydia told Natalia warmly. "Remember what we practiced. You are Philip's treasured companion. You need explain yourself to no one. Let them come to you, and when they do, be gracious but distant. Mystery is your armor tonight."
"I understand," Natalia said, though her grip on Philip's arm tightened fractionally.
They moved through the manor's halls, the sound of music and conversation growing louder with each step. Through the windows, Philip could see the gardens transformed into a glittering fairyland. Hundreds of guests in evening wear moved between the pavilions like exotic birds, their jewels catching the light of floating mana-crystals.
Footmen in Redwood livery stood ready, their faces carefully neutral. As they approached, the doors swung open with theatrical precision.
The wave of sound that greeted them was almost physical—hundreds of conversations blending with music from three different orchestral arrangements. The scent of flowers mixed with expensive perfumes and the subtle ozone smell of magical enhancements. Everywhere Philip looked, he saw the elite of Yorgorian society: nobles in their finest attire, wealthy merchants who'd bought their way into respectability, guild masters whose power rivaled that of hereditary aristocrats, even senior government officials who technically shouldn't be accepting such invitations but always found ways to justify attendance.
Their entrance caused a ripple effect. Conversations faltered as heads turned, taking in the sight of Philip Redwood with the mysterious woman who'd become the talk of Yorgoria. Philip felt the weight of hundreds of eyes, assessing, calculating, judging.
"Steady," he murmured to Natalia, whose fingers had tightened on his arm.
"They're all staring," she whispered back. "Lydia didn't mention the staring would be so… intense."
"You're beautiful, mysterious, and on the arm of a duke's grandson. Of course they're staring. Just remember what Lydia taught you—pleasant but distant, engaged but not eager."
They descended into the garden, and the social dynamics immediately crystallized. The older aristocrats maintained careful distance, eyeing Natalia with expressions that ranged from disapproval to carefully masked fascination. Their wives were less subtle—Philip caught numerous glares that could have curdled milk, along with whispered conversations behind fans:
"So this is the creature he's been hiding away…"
"Alluring as expected, but likely lack substance…"
"The dress is Continental—you can tell by the hemline. Trying to appear fashionable…"
"Look at that skin—absolutely hairless. I bet she spends hours waxing," one matron whispered to her companion.
"I bet twenty Continental dollars that she has been grooming since dawn."
"That's what mistresses do, after all—their livelihood depends on keeping the patron happy."
"Such dedication to… maintenance," a third added with a sniff. "Though I suppose when one's only assets are physical…"
The younger set showed no such restraint. A cluster of young noblemen materialized in their path like iron filings drawn to a magnet, led by Viscount Pemberly's heir—a handsome youth with more money than sense and a reputation for collecting beautiful women like trophies.
"Redwood!" he exclaimed with theatrical delight. "Finally emerging from your hermitage! And this must be the famous Miss Natalia we've all heard so much about."
"Lord Pemberly," Philip acknowledged with minimal courtesy. "May I present Miss Natalia, my companion for the evening. Darling, this is Lord Marcus Pemberly."
Natalia executed a perfect curtsey—precisely calibrated to acknowledge social introduction without implying inferior status. "Lord Pemberly, a pleasure."
Marcus's eyes had glazed over at the sound of her melodious voice. His companions were no better—they stared at Natalia like men dying of thirst who'd suddenly encountered an oasis.
"The pleasure is entirely mine," Marcus managed. "I must say, the reports of your beauty hardly did you justice. You're like… like…"
"A moonbeam given form?" one of his companions suggested.
"A goddess descended from the heavens?" another added.
"Aurora, the angel of the morning?" a third attempted.
Natalia's expression remained pleasantly neutral, though Philip caught the slight furrow between her brows that meant she was analyzing these statements for logical consistency.
"You're very kind," she said simply. "Though I believe attributing divine or celestial qualities to a mortal woman might be considered theologically suspect."
"Welcome to aristocratic society," Philip said dryly. "Where sincerity is performed and performance must seem sincere."
They circulated through the crowd, and patterns quickly emerged. The men approached with barely concealed interest, offering increasingly ridiculous compliments that Natalia received with polite confusion. The women were more subtle in their assessment, smiling sweetly while their eyes dissected every detail of her appearance, searching for flaws to discuss later.
"She's quite lovely," Philip overheard one matron say. "Though of course, beauty fades. What matters is breeding."
"Indeed," her friend agreed. "Though I suppose young men need their little amusements. Better a beautiful mistress than gambling or opioids."
"Still, parading her about like this? Rather bold."
"Or foolish. The Duke can't be pleased."
Philip's jaw tightened, but Natalia seemed oblivious to the undertones. She was too busy marveling at the sensory feast around them—the music, the flow of conversation, the swirl of colors as dancers moved through the pavilions.
"There are so many behavioral patterns to observe," she murmured. "Look how that woman touches her necklace whenever she lies. And that man keeps checking his mirror-phone while pretending to admire the flowers. Oh! And those two are clearly conducting an affair despite standing on opposite sides of the garden—their micro-expressions synchronize whenever they think no one is watching."
"Perhaps keep those observations to yourself," Philip suggested gently. "Part of social success is pretending not to notice things you're not supposed to notice."
"But if everyone knows and everyone pretends not to know, what's the purpose of the pretense?"
"Welcome to the great aristocratic paradox," Philip said. "We maintain elaborate fictions because acknowledging reality would be… socially inconvenient."
They had completed perhaps half a circuit of the garden, Philip carefully navigating between social obligations and protecting Natalia from the worst of the sharks, when a shift in the crowd's energy made him look toward the main entrance. The footmen had snapped to attention with military precision, and conversations were dying like waves pulling back before a tsunami.
The Duke himself appeared at the top of the terrace, resplendent in evening wear that probably cost more than most people's houses. He raised a crystal glass that caught the light like captured fire.
"My friends," his voice carried without artificial amplification—a trick of aristocratic projection perfected over decades. "Welcome to Redwood Yortinto Estate. I apologize for my frequent absences, but business in the capital demands attention. However, when I am in Yorgoria, I want nothing more than to gather those I hold dear." His smile encompassed the crowd with practiced warmth. "Tonight, we celebrate not just the beauty of spring, but the bonds of friendship that endure despite distance. And most importantly, we honor those who maintain this estate in my absence—the staff who are the true heart of Redwood."
Applause rippled through the crowd. Philip noticed how carefully his grandfather had avoided any mention of him—no acknowledgment of the heir, no reference to family. To a casual observer, it might seem like oversight. To those who understood aristocratic language, it was a clear signal: Philip remained in uncertain standing.
"Now," the Duke continued, "let us enjoy this perfect evening. Dance, laugh, renew old acquaintances and make new ones. And remember—life is too short for mediocre wine!"
Laughter and renewed applause followed him as he descended into the crowd. Philip watched his grandfather work the room with professional admiration. Every gesture calculated; every word chosen for maximum effect. This was power performed as art.
They had barely resumed their circulation when the atmosphere shifted again. The crowd's energy changed, conversations taking on a different tenor. Philip heard fragments:
"Is that...?"
"The Nernwick carriage..."
"They say Kendrick was personally selected by the Empress..."
"Such an honor for the family..."
"Did you hear? He's representing the entire Empire in trying to negotiate peace in Europe..."
"A true hero of humanity..."
The majordomo's voice rang out with formal precision: "Lady Elora Nernwick!"
She appeared at the top of the terrace stairs like dawn breaking over mountain peaks. Her gown was liquid gold that seemed to capture and reflect every light in the garden, creating the illusion that she herself was the source of illumination. The dress was daringly modern—sleeveless, with a neckline that plunged just to the edge of scandal before being rescued by strategic draping. The hem was shorter than traditional, revealing legs that seemed to go on forever, while the entire ensemble was adorned with crystals that created patterns reminiscent of stars against a golden sky.
Elora descended with grace that transformed walking into choreography. The crowd's reaction was markedly different from their response to Natalia. Where Natalia had inspired desire mixed with disapproval, Elora commanded something approaching worship. Men and women alike gazed at her with open admiration. The whispers carried a different tone:
"Stunning as always..."
"Such poise, such presence..."
"A true lady, she is..."
"The Nernwick twins are blessed by heaven itself..."
"I expected nothing less from Evelyne's daughter."
"That entire family redefines the boundary of beauty..."
Even the young lords who had been circling Natalia redirected their attention.
Philip felt Natalia shift beside him. "The crowd's emotional resonance differs significantly from our entrance," she observed. "The admiration appears more uniformly distributed across demographic categories."
"Elora is old nobility," Philip explained quietly. "Her bloodline is sufficiently old, her family wealth sufficiently established, and her family connections sufficiently deep. She represents everything they aspire to be or marry."
"So their response is based on pre-existing social frameworks rather than objective assessment of individual merit?"
Elora moved through the crowd like a queen greeting subjects, offering perfect words to each group she encountered. Philip watched her work the room with professional appreciation. Every gesture was calculated for maximum effect, every expression precisely calibrated. She was performing "aristocratic lady" with the same dedication a prima ballerina brought to Swan Lake.
It took her exactly fifteen minutes to make her way to them—not so quick as to seem eager, not so slow as to appear dismissive. When she finally stood before them, her smile was radiant.
"Philip," she said warmly, extending her hand for the requisite kiss. "How delightful. And Miss Natalia, you look absolutely enchanting this evening."
"Lady Elora," Natalia responded with her practiced curtsey. "Your gown employs fascinating photonic manipulation. The crystalline matrix appears to utilize Fibonacci sequencing in its arrangement. Most ingenious."
Elora's smile flickered microscopically—the typical response when Natalia's literal observations disrupted expected patterns. "How... observant. Yes, the designer studied at the Continental Institute of Magical Couture. Frightfully avant-garde."
"Speaking of the abroad," Philip interjected, "Congratulations are in order. Kendrick's appointment as Imperial Envoy—quite the honor. Though I confess ignorance until tonight."
Elora's expression shifted to perfectly calibrated pride tempered with concern. "Oh, Philip darling, you really must emerge from your estate more frequently. It's been society's primary discourse for weeks. Kendrick received personal selection from Her Majesty for these delicate negotiations. Though personally, I'm rather anxious. The Vakerian situation far exceeds media portrayals."
"When did he depart?"
"Weeks ago, honestly. Really, Philip, where have you been sequestered? There was a magnificent ceremony at the palace. Celestica herself bestowed the Imperial Medallion. The papers covered nothing else for days."
"Estate matters have been... consuming," Philip offered weakly.
"Naturally," Elora's tone held just a hint of incredulity. "Though one must maintain broader awareness. Speaking of which, have you heard about the proliferation of summoning centers globally? There's a fascinating debate in Parliament about relaxing entity restrictions before the Empire becomes technologically obsolete. Your grandfather and Lord Arthur are spearheading the progressive faction! No? Oh, Philip, we simply must reconnect you with civilization."
She continued in this vein, subtly establishing her superior knowledge and connections while maintaining perfect courtesy. Throughout it all, she managed to include Natalia in the conversation while somehow emphasizing her outsider status.
"Such a pity about your social isolation," Elora said to Natalia with apparent sympathy. "It must be terribly difficult, navigating these waters without the proper background. Like learning a language as an adult—one can become proficient, but native fluency..." She spread her hands in a gesture of helpless regret. "Still, you're doing admirably for someone of your... unique circumstances."
"I find the learning process fascinating," Natalia replied earnestly. "Each social interaction provides new data points for behavioral analysis. For instance, I've observed that verbal content often contradicts subdermal micro-expressions, suggesting that much aristocratic communication operates on multiple simultaneous levels. The inefficiency is remarkable—direct communication would accomplish the same goals with 73% less time investment."
Elora blinked. "I... yes. How perceptive. Though efficiency isn't always the primary goal in social interaction."
"No? Then what is the primary goal?"
"Well... connection, shared understanding, maintaining relationships..."
"But if everyone is performing prescribed roles while thinking different thoughts, how does that create genuine connection? It seems more likely to create elaborate mutual deceptions that prevent authentic understanding."
Elora's smile had become somewhat inquisitive. "What an... interesting perspective."
The orchestra in the main pavilion struck up a waltz, providing a welcome interruption. Couples began moving onto the dance floor—a platform of polished marble that had been laid over the lawn at what Philip estimated to be a shocking expense.
"Oh, how lovely," Elora exclaimed. "Philip, you must dance with Miss Natalia. I'm sure she's been looking forward to it."
It was a masterful maneuver. By suggesting it herself, Elora positioned herself as the gracious one while subtly implying that Natalia required permission or encouragement.
"I would be honored," Philip said, offering Natalia his arm. "Shall we?"
Natalia's face lit up with genuine pleasure that made Philip's chest tight. "Yes, please. I've studied the theoretical framework extensively and practiced with Lydia, but this will be my first practical application with a partner in a social setting."
As they moved onto the dance floor, Philip positioned them properly and waited for the appropriate measure. "Remember," he murmured, "dancing is about more than steps. It's about connection, flow, responding to your partner."
"I understand," Natalia said.
Then the music swelled, and she proved it.
Philip had expected competence—Natalia approached everything with meticulous preparation. What he hadn't expected was the way she moved with such natural grace that it took his breath away. She followed his lead perfectly, but more than that, she seemed to anticipate his movements, matching him so precisely they might have been dancing together for years.
"You're a natural," he said as they swept across the floor.
"I find it surprisingly enjoyable," Natalia admitted. "The physical proximity creates interesting physiological responses. My heart rate has increased, but not from exertion. And when you place your hand here—" she indicated where his palm rested on her waist "—there's a peculiar warmth that spreads through my entire torso. Also, I notice my visual focus has narrowed to primarily encompass your face, which seems inefficient for spatial navigation but somehow enhances the experience."
Philip nearly missed a step. "Natalia, perhaps save the physiological analysis for later?"
"Of course. Should I comment on the music instead? Or maintain silence? Lydia's instructions were unclear about appropriate dance floor conversation."
"Just... enjoy the moment," Philip suggested. "Not everything requires analysis."
She considered this as they turned through a particularly complex sequence. "Enjoying the moment," she repeated. "Yes, I believe I am. Is this what humans call 'happiness'?"
The genuine wonder in her voice made Philip's chest tight. "Something like that."
They completed their dance to polite applause, and Philip was about to suggest refreshments when a shift in the crowd's attention made him turn. Elora stood at the edge of the dance floor, and something in her posture suggested impending drama.
"Philip," she called out, her voice carrying with perfect clarity. "Might I have the next dance?"
The crowd's reaction was immediate. Shocked whispers rippled outward like waves from a stone dropped in still water. A lady of Elora's standing simply do not invite a gentleman to dance. It was beyond forward—it was a breach of protocol that bordered on scandalous.
"Did she just...?"
"How bold!"
"Well, they are old friends..."
"Still, with his companion right there..."
"The Nernwick confidence, I suppose..."
"Rather daring, even for her..."
Philip felt Natalia stiffen beside him. He was trapped—refusing would be an insult to Elora and her family, especially with Kendrick's new status. But accepting would require leaving Natalia alone in a crowd that had been evaluating her like wolves studying a lamb.
"Of course," he said, because there was no other answer. He turned to Natalia. "I'll return shortly."
Natalia smiled brightly—too brightly. "Of course. I'll observe the behavioral patterns of the crowd."
Philip reluctantly left her at the edge of the dance floor, where Albert and Lydia quickly materialized as promised. As he approached Elora, the orchestra began a new piece. He'd expected another waltz, something safe and traditional. Instead, the opening notes of a tango rang out—sensuous, complex, demanding.
"Tango?" Philip asked quietly. "Rather daring for a garden party."
Elora's smile was calculation wrapped in innocence. "I may have made a small request. I hope you remember the steps—we learned together, after all. Summer of our sixteenth year, if memory serves. You were quite accomplished then."
She moved into position, and Philip had no choice but to follow. The tango was passion and control choreographed, advance and retreat, barely restrained desire given physical form. The crowd retreated, creating space, sensing impending spectacle.
The opening notes rang out, and muscle memory from distant lessons engaged. Elora danced as she did everything—with absolute technical perfection while creating the illusion of Philip's lead. Every dip precisely calculated, every pause held for optimal drama. When the dance demanded closeness, she pressed against him with mathematical accuracy, her breath warm against his ear.
During a particularly intimate sequence where their bodies molded together, Elora whispered, "You know, Philip, the trouble with elaborate performances is that sometimes the actors forget they're acting."
"I don't follow," Philip said carefully, acutely uncomfortable with the sensual positioning even as his body remembered the choreography.
"Oh, I think you do." Her smile never wavered. "I know about Natalia's true nature. But I want you to know—I'm on your side. I'll always be on your side."
Philip nearly stumbled. She knew.
"The situation defies simple explanation," he managed.
"Doesn't it always?" Elora's laugh was crystalline. "But that's precisely why we must be careful about boundaries. About distinguishing reality from... performance."
The crowd had formed a circle, whispering behind fans and programs. Philip caught fragments:
"Such chemistry..."
"Look how perfectly they synchronize..."
"Like they were made for each other..."
"Poor Miss Natalia, having to watch..."
"Well, what does she expect? A mistress must accept her place..."
"During a dramatic dip where Elora's leg swept up, her golden gown parting to reveal sculptural thigh, she continued in an undertone only Philip could hear:
'I'm not being stern, Philip. I'm trying to protect all of us. You see, I've been researching emergent consciousness. And my experience suggests that any being sufficiently advanced to achieve sentience—even artificially created ones—can develop genuine emotional attachments through repeated affectionate interactions.'
Philip's arm tightened around her waist as they navigated another complex sequence. 'You think Natalia might—'
'I hypothesize,' Elora said carefully, her voice dropping to barely audible, 'that when intelligent beings perform a certain sets of emotions long enough, the performance becomes reality. Artificial neurons, classical conditioning, attachment theory—they all point to the same conclusion. A Familiar with human-level cognition wouldn't just mimic emotions. Given sufficient exposure and reinforcement, she would actually develop them. And Philip, she has the physical form of a woman—with all the physiological capacity for every feeling that entails.'
She pressed closer as the music demanded, but her next words carried unexpected vulnerability. 'I've waited years for you to see me as more than Kendrick's sister. But I don't want to win through social pressure, Philip. And I don't want to be the wife who has your name but never your heart. But most importantly, I also don't want any of us—not you, not me, and especially not that sweet girl—to suffer heartbreak because we let a necessary fiction become unnecessary truth.'
The music built toward climax, and Elora positioned them for the final sequence. 'You see, Philip, the trouble with a good performance is that the actors often lose the script. And when the curtain falls on this particular play, I'm terrified we'll all be nursing wounds that won't heal. Not hers. Not yours. Not mine.'
Then, she bent backward in the dramatic final dip, her spine creating an impossible arc, one leg extended skyward.
A flash went off—someone had captured the moment, Elora suspended in that impossible arc with Philip holding her, their bodies creating a tableau of passion that would dominate tomorrow's society pages. Philip felt certain the photo would be in every newspaper by morning.
The final notes resonated, and Elora straightened with liquid grace. To observers, she was the confident aristocrat claiming her territory. Only Philip was close enough to see the brief flicker of genuine concern—even fear—before her public mask reassembled.
The applause was thunderous. Well-wishers immediately surrounded them:
"Magnificent!"
"Such passion!"
"Perfect synchronization!"
"A match made in heaven!"
Elora accepted compliments with practiced grace, her hand possessively on Philip's arm. To the crowd, she was staking her claim. But Philip now understood—she wasn't claiming him from Natalia. She was desperately trying to prevent a tragedy she saw developing, one where everyone's hearts would shatter when the protective fiction could no longer be maintained.
"That should keep them at bay for now," she murmured, but her earlier confidence had transmuted into something more genuine. "Philip dear, remember that Natalia is acting as your mistress to protect you, so please don't make her unnecessarily suffer the heartbreaks of a real mistress."
Across the garden, Natalia watched with apparent delight, clapping enthusiastically even as the applause had died down. Her analytical mind catalogued every detail—the perfect synchronization, the technical mastery, the way Philip and Elora's bodies had moved as one. "Extraordinary execution," she murmured to herself. "Synchronization coefficient exceeding ninety-five percent. Very... compatible."
A young lord nearby laughed. "Can't rationalize away what everyone can see—they're perfect together. But don't worry," he added with what he probably thought was compassion, "Lord Philip will maintain appropriate arrangements. He's honorable that way."
"Arrangements?" Natalia's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
"When he marries Lady Elora—and he will, anyone can see that—discrete provisions will be made. It's how things are done."
"I see," Natalia said slowly. "So this dance was... communication? A declaration?"
"Precisely! You're taking it remarkably well. Most mistresses would be... upset." The young lord commented before being swept up by his girlfriend, eager to pull him away before any deeper interaction could occur.
"Upset?" Natalia repeated the word, testing it. Then she pressed a hand to her bosom, suddenly aware of an unusual sensation. A constriction. And her stomach felt... heavy? As if she'd consumed something indigestible.
She became increasingly focused on these unprecedented sensations. The crowd around Philip and Elora grew, toasting the golden couple. They looked right together. Natural. Inevitable.
"I should be pleased," Natalia whispered to herself. "This is optimal. Attention diverted; powerful alliance secured. Master is in a much safer position now. So why do I feel..."
She couldn't finish because she had no words for this hollowness, this sense of becoming insubstantial. Her careful studies hadn't prepared her for watching Philip in another woman's arms and feeling like she might disappear.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
Lydia stood at her elbow, Albert hovering protectively behind.
"I'm experiencing an unprecedented emotional response," Natalia reported, voice smaller than usual. "The symptoms suggest distress, but I don't understand why. Everything proceeded according to plan."
Lydia and Albert exchanged glances, something shifting in their expressions—surprise mixed with deeper recognition.
"My dear," Lydia said gently, "you're feeling—"
"I am feeling unwell for some reason," Natalia replied promptly. "Perhaps the strain of maintaining the mistress façade has created psychological confusion. I should recalibrate—"
She raised her hand to her cheek, freezing. Her fingers came away wet.
"I'm..." She stared at the moisture in bewilderment. "How did I not notice? I was... distracted?"
The word felt alien. She was never distracted. Yet tears had been streaming down her cheeks without her knowledge, as if her body had decided to communicate something her mind couldn't grasp.
"Oh, my dear girl," Lydia murmured.
Natalia touched her face again, feeling the continuous flow she couldn't stop, couldn't understand, couldn't control. Behind them, the party swirled on—Philip still surrounded by admirers, a whole world spinning while she stood frozen, crying without knowing why.
"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don't understand what's happening to me."
The tears kept falling, silent and steady, while her perfect face remained composed in confusion. She was breaking and didn't know why, feeling everything yet understanding nothing.