We spent the next hour discussing trivial high-society matters, the bizarre cut of the southern imperial lace, the upcoming equestrian showcase, and the changing colors of the autumn trees.
Beside me, Neisa sat with her posture flawlessly upright, her initial panic completely fading as the Marchioness occasionally threw a respectful, inquisitive question her way regarding the general philosophies of herbal balance.
Neisa answered with a quiet, sharp gravity that only solidified the 'mysterious high-scholar' aura I had manufactured for her.
As the late afternoon sun began to dip low, casting long, golden-amber slants of light across the marble pavilion, the Marchioness of Thorne finally set her teacup down with a definitive, ringing clink that instantly caught everyone's attention.
The veteran social commander rose gracefully from her gold-trimmed armchair, her heavy burgundy skirts pooling beautifully around her feet as she looked toward the center of the pavilion.
