The banquet hall was a sea of light and color.
Sheila stood at the threshold, the King on one side of her, Prince Lumian on the other. The crowd had parted when they entered, the nobles stepping back, their conversations dying, their eyes turning toward the royal party. She felt the weight of those eyes like a physical thing—pressing against her, measuring her, judging her.
Breathe, she told herself. Stand straight. Don't fidget. Don't look down.
The King mounted the steps to his throne. Prince Lumian took his place beside him. And Sheila stood alone at the bottom of the steps, the red of her dress bright against the white marble, the gold embroidery catching the gaslight.
"The Lady Sheila Karmis," a herald announced. His voice carried across the hall, echoing off the walls. "Daughter of the late Sarah Karmis and Paul Cross. Ward of Duke Charles Karmis."
The crowd applauded. Polite, measured, the applause of people who had been taught to clap at the right times.
Sheila curtsied.
The next hour was a blur of faces and names.
Lady Veridian was the first to approach. She was old, older than Duke Karmis, her face a mask of wrinkles, her eyes sharp. She wore black lace, a widow's dress, and she moved with the help of a silver cane that tapped against the marble floor with each step.
"Karmis's granddaughter," she said. Her voice was dry, crackling, like paper burning. "You look like your mother."
"Thank you, my lady."
"It wasn't a compliment." Lady Veridian's eyes swept over her, taking in the dress, the necklace, the way she held herself. "Your mother was a fool. She threw away everything for a man who couldn't protect her."
Sheila felt her face grow warm. She wanted to say something—to defend her mother, to tell this old woman that she didn't know what she was talking about. But she remembered Duke Karmis's words. You are not here to make friends. You are here to be seen.
"I will strive to honor her memory," she said.
Lady Veridian's eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"Well spoken. Perhaps there's hope for you after all."
She tapped her cane and moved on.
House Claude came next.
Lord Alistair Claude was warm, charming, his smile reaching his eyes. His daughter, Eleanor, stood beside him, her red hair bright, her freckles standing out against her pale skin. She was shorter than Sheila, rounder, with a gap-toothed smile that seemed to light up her face.
"You're Sheila," Eleanor said. "I've heard about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Mostly." Eleanor leaned closer, lowering her voice. "The adults talk about your family like you're ghosts. But I think you're brave."
"Brave?"
"For coming here. For facing them." Eleanor gestured at the crowd. "They're not as scary as they look. Most of them are just pretending."
Sheila felt something loosen in her chest. "Thank you."
"Come find me later. We can hide in the garden together." Eleanor grinned. "I know a spot where the guards can't see."
She disappeared into the crowd.
House Velle came next.
Lady Seraphina Velle was tall, severe, dressed in a dark gown that matched her son's serious expression. Marcus Velle stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning the room.
"Lady Karmis," Lady Seraphina said. "My condolences on your loss."
"Thank you, my lady."
"Your mother was a good woman. She deserved better than what she got."
Sheila didn't know what to say to that. She curtsied again, and Lady Seraphina nodded, and then she and Marcus moved on.
But Marcus looked back. Just once. His eyes met hers, and something passed between them—not recognition, not understanding, but acknowledgment. I see you, his eyes said. You're not alone.
Then he was gone.
House Jeville came last of the Great Houses.
Lord Percival Jeville was thin, narrow-eyed, his spectacles catching the gaslight. He moved like a man who was used to being overlooked, his steps soft, his voice quiet.
"Lady Karmis," he said.
"My mother spoke highly of you, my lord."
"Did she?" He smiled—a thin expression, barely there. "She was kind to say so."
His daughter, Lydia, stood behind him, her brown hair tucked behind her ears, her hands clasped in front of her. She looked nervous, her eyes darting from face to face, her shoulders hunched.
"Lydia," Lord Jeville said. "Say hello."
"Hello," Lydia said. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Hello," Sheila said.
They looked at each other. Neither spoke.
Then Lord Jeville guided his daughter away, and the moment was gone.
The lesser houses followed.
House Ashworth. House Mercer. House Blackwood. House Sterling. The faces blurred together, the names tangled in her memory. Some were kind. Some were cold. Some looked at her like she was a curiosity, a specimen to be examined and dismissed.
She smiled at all of them. She curtsied at all of them. She said the right words—polite, careful, revealing nothing.
And through it all, she felt their eyes on her. Measuring. Calculating. Judging.
This is what Mother endured, she thought. This is what she ran from.
The music swelled. The crowd parted.