The carriage ride passed in a leaden silence.
The woman in gray livery, seated opposite Catherine, did not say a word, her white-gloved hands resting on her knees.
Her face was a study in professional discipline, her eyes never leaving Catherine, not with curiosity, but with the cold assessment of an expert examining an antique.
It was a test, Catherine knew. A test of composure.
Any nervousness, any question, any display of ordinary emotion would have disqualified her.
So, Catherine offered her what she wanted to see: the void.
She remained perfectly still, her gaze fixed on an invisible point beyond the woman's shoulder, her breathing slow and even, her body a statue of ethereal calm.
She played the role of the Oracle, a creature so detached from mortal concerns that the silence and luxury of a private carriage affected her no more than the noise of a marketplace.
The carriage stopped in the courtyard of a secluded private mansion, hidden behind high stone walls in an opulent city quarter.
There was no sign, no indication of the house's name. Secrecy was its first defense. Silent servants, dressed in the same gray livery, opened the doors.
Catherine was led inside. If her former sanctuary was a place of silence and dust, this was a place of silence and suffocating wealth.
Thick carpets absorbed the sound of their steps, ancient tapestries covered the walls, and the very air seemed heavy, scented with incense and power.
She was shown into a small salon. Every object within it was a work of art, from the lacquered screen to the jade incense burner.
The woman in gray gestured for her to sit in a velvet armchair, then sat opposite her, a precious wooden coffee table between them.
"My name is Dolores," the woman said, her voice still neutral. "I am the first steward of this house. My duty is to protect my masters from fraud and wasted time. You claim to see things. I do not believe in fortune-tellers. Impress me."
The challenge was thrown. Catherine didn't even bother to take out her cards. That tool was for the common folk, for the public stage. Here, in the heart of power, the performance had to be purer, more direct.
She fixed her gaze on Dolores, but her inner sight pierced the steward's facade of discipline. She saw the steel-gray threads of loyalty and duty, thick cables that bound her to an unseen mistress. But beneath those cables were other, finer, more secret threads.
A black thread, tinged with the color of ancient grief, a sorrow for a personal loss, a sacrifice made long ago to obtain her position.
And right next to it, a thread of hard bronze, vibrating with a hidden ambition: Dolores was not just a servant; she aspired to be the power behind the throne, the most trusted advisor, the true mistress of the house in fact, if not in title.
Catherine bowed her head, as if listening to a distant whisper.
"You have built high walls to protect a magnificent garden," Catherine began, her voice a breath in the room's silence. "Every day, you ensure that no weed grows there, that no flower wilts. It is your honor, your life."
Dolores did not react, but Catherine saw her thread of loyalty vibrate, acknowledging the truth of the image.
"But within your own walls," Catherine continued, "you carry the shadow of a secret garden. The ghost of a flower that never had the chance to bloom. Its scent haunts you on the quietest nights."
Dolores's mask cracked. Just for a second. An imperceptible twitch of her eyelid, a minute tightening of her lip. The black thread of grief pulsed violently, a sharp and sudden pain. Catherine had struck a raw nerve.
Before Dolores could recover, Catherine delivered the finishing blow, targeting her other secret.
"You stand with great pride beside the throne," she said, raising her eyes to stare at the steward. "But your heart does not desire the monarch's crown. It covets the smaller, but heavier, crown of the éminence grise. The crown of the one who whispers in the ear of power."
It was too much. Dolores's discipline, forged by decades of service, shattered. She could not hide the shock in her eyes, the way her breath hitched.
Catherine had not revealed a simple secret; she had laid bare the two pillars of her soul: her greatest sorrow and her greatest ambition.
Dolores rose to her feet, her face pale but her posture regaining its rigidity by sheer force of will. She looked at Catherine, no longer as a curiosity, but as a force of nature.
"You are... genuine," she admitted, each word costing her an effort. "My mistress will be pleased."
She nodded to a servant who was waiting in the shadows.
"However, The Gilded Cage accepts only the most flawless of pieces. You will stay here for now. You will be fed, clothed, and prepared. You will speak to no one. When you are deemed ready, you will be presented."
Catherine rose, her face still a canvas of serenity. She had succeeded.
The servants guided her out of the salon and down a silent corridor. They opened a door at the far end, revealing a luxuriously appointed bedroom, with a canopy bed, silk furnishings, and a view of a private garden. A paradise. A prison.
The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.
Catherine crossed the room and touched the silk of the sheets. She was a prisoner, an acquisition waiting to be cataloged. But as she looked at her own reflection in a large wall mirror, a slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips.
They thought they had caged her. They didn't realize they had just let the wolf into the sheepfold.