The second invitation arrived five days later, tucked inside a small bouquet of pale lavender roses wrapped in silver ribbon. No wax seal this time — just a simple card in flowing handwriting that Gerffron had already begun to recognize.
The Lavender Terrace at Rozana Hall. Eleven o'clock. Bring only yourself and whatever secrets you can carry quietly. — Rozana
Gerffron turned the card over in his hands, standing by the tall window of his room while morning light spilled across the floor like spilled tea. Five days. Five long days of silence from the hidden gate, of Selfi's footsteps outside his door at night, of the blood-red rose on his nightstand slowly wilting until Selfi replaced it with a fresh one every morning without comment. He had not risked another visit to the old fountain. The memory of that empty cell still sat heavy in his chest like a stone he could not swallow.
A few days ago, right after coming back from the tea party, he had visited the usual cell where Styrmir was being held, but he was nowhere to be seen or heard. The cell was empty. It was wiped clean, and streaks of blood and remnants of torture were left. The chains hung around like orphaned pets. But Styrmir, the boy who dreamed of freedom, was nowhere, no matter how loudly Gerffron screamed his name. It was a matter of a few days, and within few days Gerffron couldn't really slip away from the noticeable, hawk-like gazes of servants, making it impossible for him to visit Styrmir. Maybe purposefully, the Wadee family didn't want him to know much about the boy in the cell. Perhaps their skeletons are way too many to be exposed even to a spouse like him and maybe that is the reason they have purposefully kept him busy and under watch to prevent him from going there.
In the quiet loneliness of Wadee mansion, Styrmir had become a sort of friend to Gerffron and brought a thrill to his heart whenever he had to sneak out for the former.
But the real question is, who exactly is this Styrmir that the Wadees are so desperate to hide?
He touched the two pebbles in his hidden pocket — S and G — and felt the familiar ache. Styrmir had written them on two stones as an act of gratitude towards him. He was still out there somewhere. Waiting. Or worse. The thought never left him, but he had learned in two lifetimes that rushing into darkness only got people killed.
Selfi entered with the emerald silk already prepared. Her movements were precise, her light-yellow dress spotless, her expression the same polite wall it had become. "Lady Elowen has approved the carriage," she said quietly. "She will not be attending this one. She says… you are ready to stand on your own for an afternoon."
Gerffron looked up sharply. No Lady Elowen. That was new. A test, perhaps. Or a trap with softer edges.
"Thank you, Selfi," he said.
She bowed and left without another word.
He dressed slowly, letting each layer settle like armor. The emerald silk felt lighter today, the chiffon shoulders moving with him as though they had begun to understand the body beneath them. He pinned the fresh blood-red rose to his lapel — its thorns pricked his fingertip on purpose. A small, private ritual now. Proof that he was still bleeding, still feeling, still here.
The carriage ride was quiet. No fan snapping. No cutting remarks. Just the steady rhythm of hooves and the distant scent of roses drifting through the open window. Gerffron watched the countryside roll past and let his mind wander back to the first tea party. The small smiles. The careful words. The way Count Remal's laugh had felt real. The way Lord Rasfi's eyes had flashed with something sharper than boredom. Tiny threads. Nothing more. He would not pull them yet.
Rozana Hall was smaller than Remal Manor, almost intimate. Pale stone walls covered in climbing lavender roses, a wide terrace overlooking a gentle slope of gardens. The air smelled sweeter here, less calculated. When the carriage stopped, a footman helped him down, and Lady Rozana herself waited at the top of the shallow steps.
She wore soft lavender silk today, silver threading through her auburn hair catching the light. Her smile was gentle, the kind that did not demand anything in return.
"Consort Gerffron," she said, offering a shallow bow of respect between equals. "I am glad you could come. Lord Jazaan is inside preparing the tea. It is only a small gathering today. No pressure."
Gerffron returned the bow. "Thank you for the invitation, my lady. The lavender roses are beautiful."
"They were my wife's favorite," she said simply, and there was no performance in the words. Just quiet truth.
Inside, the Lavender Terrace was open to the breeze. Only six guests today — far fewer than the first salon. Round tables arranged in a loose half-circle so conversation could flow naturally. Count Remal was already seated, sapphire tunic bright against the pale stone. Lord Jazaan fussed over a silver teapot, round cheeks flushed with good humor. Baron Acquikth sat quietly in the corner, gray tunic neatly mended as always. Lady Ashbeth had sent her regrets, and Lord Rasfi was absent — perhaps her brother had forbidden it.
Lady Rozana guided Gerffron to a seat between herself and Count Remal. No one rushed to fill the silence. The tea arrived in gentle waves — first the bergamot, then delicate lavender-infused biscuits, then small sandwiches with herbs Gerffron could not name.
Conversation began softly.
Count Remal spoke first, voice warm and unhurried. "The first tea party is always the loudest, isn't it? So many eyes, so many fans hiding mouths. This one is quieter. Better for listening."
Gerffron took a careful sip. "Listening seems safer than speaking sometimes."
Count Remal chuckled — that same rolling, genuine sound from the first party. "Wise words for someone so new to our little world. I've been attending these for twenty-three years. Learned more from what people don't say than what they do."
Lord Jazaan leaned over with a fresh pot of tea, smiling. "He's right, you know. My first season I spilled an entire cup on the Dowager Duchess of Scougall. Everyone laughed. But the real lesson came later — when no one mentioned it again. Silence can be its own kind of power."
Gerffron listened. He did not offer stories of his own. He did not ask questions that might reveal too much. He simply nodded and let the conversation drift around him like the breeze through the lavender.
Baron Acquikth spoke only once, voice low and measured. "The southern roads have been quiet lately. Unusual for this time of year. Sometimes quiet is a warning in itself."
Their eyes met for half a second across the table. No offer. No key pressed into a palm. Just a quiet statement that lingered like the scent of lavender.
Gerffron answered carefully. "I'll remember that, Baron."
The tea party moved at the pace of slow honey. No one pressed him. No one tested him. Lady Rozana asked about the Wadee gardens — simple, safe questions. Count Remal shared a gentle anecdote about his late wife's love of sapphire roses. Lord Jazaan teased him lightly about the proper way to hold a teacup when the conversation turns to politics. Baron Acquikth remained mostly silent, but his presence felt… steady. Like a quiet rock in a river.
Gerffron let himself breathe between the words.
He did not mention Styrmir. He did not speak of the dungeon. He did not ask for help.
But when the third course arrived — tiny lavender cakes dusted with sugar — Count Remal leaned slightly closer and said, almost offhandedly, "If you ever find yourself needing a quiet place to practice etiquette away from the north wing… my salon is always open. No questions asked."
It was not an offer of escape. Not yet. Just a door cracked open half an inch.
Gerffron met his eyes and gave the smallest nod. "Thank you, Count. I may take you up on that one day."
Nothing more.
The party ended exactly as it had begun — gently. Guests rose one by one, exchanging polite farewells. Lady Rozana walked Gerffron to the carriage herself.
"You did well today," she said softly, so no one else could hear. "Some of us take years to learn how to sit in these rooms without screaming inside. You sat like you belonged. That is its own kind of strength."
Gerffron paused at the carriage step. "It's… tiring," he admitted, the first honest sentence he had spoken all afternoon.
Lady Rozana's smile was small and understanding. "It is. But you are not alone in the tiredness. Not entirely."
The carriage door closed. The ride home was quiet again.
Back in his solar, Gerffron removed the emerald silk and hung it carefully. The blood-red rose he placed in a fresh vase beside the two pebbles on his desk. He sat for a long time, turning everything over in his mind.
Six people at two tea parties.
Count Remal — warm, experienced, offering the first quiet door.
Lady Rozana — gentle, understanding, survivor of her own cage.
Lord Jazaan — light-hearted but watchful.
Baron Acquikth — quiet, careful, speaking in warnings.
And the others still watching from a distance.
No alliances yet. No secrets traded. No plans whispered in rose mazes.
Just… people. Small impressions. Tiny threads.
Gerffron closed his fingers around the pebbles and looked out at the moon rising over the rose gardens.
He could wait.
He had already waited through one death and one marriage.
He could wait a little longer.
The second cup had been tasted.
It was still warm.