Crystal chandeliers dripped golden light across polished mahogany. Silver gleamed. Servants moved like ghosts in black and gold livery.

  Every inch of it screamed family reunion—the kind that looked perfect from the outside and felt like walking barefoot over broken glass from the inside.

  Estelle sat at the far end of the long table, as far from the King's throne-like chair as protocol would allow without actually being banished from the room. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her expression was blank.

  The double doors opened.

  Elizabeth swept in like spring after a long winter.

  Golden curls bounced. Rose-petal cheeks glowed. She wore pale lavender silk that made half the courtiers sigh audibly. She curtsied to the King with effortless grace, welcomed the room with that warm smile, then turned bright, shining eyes toward the very end of the table.

  Toward Estelle.

  Estelle smiled back.

  "Welcome home, Elizabeth," the King said, his voice warm in a way it rarely was.

  Elizabeth took her seat near the middle of the table—not at the King's right hand where Francesca sat, but close enough to matter.

  Across the table, Francesca's gaze found Estelle and stayed there.

  Can't believe the rumors weren't enough.

  Three days ago. The Duke's private study.

  The butler appeared in the doorway. "Excuse me, Your Grace. You have a guest."

  The door swung open and Francesca stepped inside, all smiles and silk.

  The Duke rose from his chair. "What are you doing here, Francesca?"

  "Your Grace, I probably shouldn't be telling you this..." She leaned in, voice sweet as honey. "But my dear sister Estelle has developed quite the infatuation with you."

  The Duke blinked. "The Third Princess? Are you certain?"

  "Oh, absolutely. She talks about you constantly. But she's terribly shy—too proud to ever admit her feelings." Francesca placed a delicate hand on his arm. "You'd need to be forward with her. Take the initiative. Otherwise she'll never confess."

  He smiled, flattered. "I see. How thoughtful of you, Princess Francesca."

  "Of course." Her lips curved sweetly. "I only want my sister to be happy."

  Francesca's jaw tightened.

  But it hadn't worked. Because he was an idiot.

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  Too rough. Too obvious. And somehow that damned knight had appeared at exactly the wrong moment.

  Her gaze slid to the maid standing along the wall. Clara—the one Estelle had humiliated. Clara looked tense, her eyes fixed carefully on nothing.

  Good.

  Francesca's lips curved slightly.

  Just one teaspoon. That's all it takes.

  Dinner began.

  Conversation flowed around Estelle like water around a stone. Elizabeth told charming stories about the southern provinces—orchards in bloom, festivals, handsome merchants who tried and failed to flirt with her. The King turned to her with a rare softening in his stern features.

  "How was your journey, my daughter?"

  Elizabeth's smile bloomed, bright and unshadowed. "Wonderful, Father. The southern glaciers were breathtaking—mountains of ice so blue they looked as though the sky had frozen solid. I've never seen anything like it." She glanced toward Estelle, eyes warm. "I kept wishing you all could have seen it too."

  "I'm glad you had such a beautiful time," Estelle said quietly.

  Francesca lifted her wineglass. "Too bad I couldn't join you, sister. I'm sure Estelle would have found some mischief to get into without proper supervision."

  Elizabeth laughed lightly, brushing the barb aside as though it were nothing more than teasing. Francesca's gaze slid to Estelle, sharpening.

  "Speaking of supervision—is that new knight of yours treating you well? There are already whispers in the corridors. Something about Duke Verne and Sir Alec fighting over you?"

  The Queen's head snapped up, hands tightening around the stem of her goblet. "Whispers? What whispers?"

  Francesca took a delicate sip of wine, expression almost amused. "Nothing serious, Mother. Just the usual nonsense that happens when a young woman involves herself with multiple men."

  The Queen's eyes darted to Estelle, wide with horror.

  "They're not true," Estelle said steadily. "I—"

  The King's hand came down on the table—not hard, but firm enough to silence the room.

  "Enough." His voice carried the quiet weight of command. "Rumors are as common as rain around a royal family. People will always talk. As long as they remain untrue, they are nothing more than noise." He looked directly at Estelle. "Isn't that right?"

  She met his gaze. "Of course, Father."

  He nodded once. "Then let us enjoy our family reunited. No more talk of gossip."

  The servants cleared the consommé and brought the next course—a rich cream soup garnished with herbs and a swirl of truffle oil. A single silver spoon was placed before each guest.

  One maid moved along the table with the others, her movements perfectly synchronized with the rest of the staff. Young, auburn-haired, with a distinctive streak of emerald green running through her hair.

  Estelle picked up her spoon absently, then paused.

  The engraving on the handle. The faint tarnish at the bowl's edge.

  Her eyes swept the room and snagged on Clara, standing rigid against the wall. The maid's gaze was fixed on the King's spoon—then it flicked to Estelle's.

  Across the table, Francesca was watching Estelle's bowl with barely concealed eagerness.

  Something cold slid down Estelle's spine.

  Wait—

  But the spoon was already at her lips. The soup touched her tongue.

  And everything went wrong.

  It started there—sharp, tingling, then nothing. Numbness spread like ice water through her mouth. Her throat closed as though invisible fingers had wrapped around it and squeezed.

  The spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the porcelain.

  Her vision blurred at the edges.

  "I—I think—" Her voice came out weak. Slurred.

  She tried to stand. Her legs refused.

  The room tilted.

  "Estelle?!"

  Elizabeth's voice—muffled now, distant, as though filtered through rushing water. Estelle's body folded. She collapsed forward, her cheek striking the tablecloth with a soft, terrible thud.

  Gasps erupted around the table.

  "Estelle!" Elizabeth shot to her feet.

  The Queen went pale. The King stood, eyes wide.

  And Francesca—

  Francesca's smile faltered. Just for a moment.

  That wasn't supposed to happen—

  Her gaze snapped to Clara, who stood frozen against the wall, face white as death.

  The last thing Estelle saw before the darkness swallowed her was Clara's expression—pale, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between panic and something that looked almost like regret.

  Then the world went black.

  End of Chapter 10