Chapter 112: A Chorus Of Fake Tears.

Chapter 111

The golden rays of the morning sun filtered softly through the tall arched windows of the Northern Fortress, casting a warm glow over Sigrid’s bedchamber. Sitting at her polished mahogany vanity, Sigrid smoothed the delicate silk of her morning gown, her eyes fixed on the cream-colored parchment spread before her.

The crest of House Windermere was stamped neatly at the top in dark blue wax. It was a formal invitation from Lady Beatrice Windermere, inviting the noble ladies of the surrounding fiefs to an exclusive morning gathering at her grand estate. The letter explained that the tea party was arranged to offer comfort and solace to those ladies whose husbands, fiancés, fathers, or brothers had recently marched off to the southern campaign against Engrosia. Beatrice noted that a specialized recreational activity was prepared to distract their minds, though the nature of the endeavor remained a closely guarded secret.

"Mistress, are you truly planning to attend?" Lilith asked, stepping closer with a tray of hot herbal tea, her eyes shimmering with faint hesitation as she glanced at the elegant stationery. "You know how those high-born ladies gossip when their men are away. It may prove to be more troublesome than enjoyable."

A subtle, knowing smile curved Sigrid’s lips as she set the letter down onto the polished wood. "Of course I am going, Lilith. Lady Beatrice has taken the trouble to organize such a thoughtful affair, and it would be remarkably rude of me to decline." She gestured toward the dressing room before adding, "Go down to the courtyard and instruct the stables to prepare the heavy winter carriage. We shall depart within the hour."

As Lilith bowed and scurried out of the bedchamber to fulfill the command, Sigrid rose gracefully from her vanity seat. Her expression settled into a thoughtful, calculating mask as her mind turned inward. She wondered precisely when the Queen would choose to make her next move in this delicate game of power. The northern border was quiet for the moment, but the political realm of the capital was a snake pit waiting to overflow. Yet, the figure she anticipated most was not the Queen herself, but Ragnar. The disgraced crown prince had always been fragile of temper and dangerously weak of resolve. With his reputation thoroughly shattered and his position at court crumbling by the day, his erratic rage would undoubtedly drive him to seek a target for his humiliation—and Sigrid knew she remained the prime object of his obsession. Shrugging off the lingering thought with practiced composure, she gathered her thick fur cloak and stepped out into the grand stone corridor, ready to face whatever political theater awaited her.

The journey to the Windermere estate was smooth, the heavy carriage wheels crunching rhythmically against the frost-dusted cobblestones of the road. When the carriage finally pulled up to the iron gates of the estate, a head maid was already waiting to greet them.

The head maid bowed low as Sigrid stepped down onto the carpeted pathway, extending a formal greeting before guiding the party through the grand double doors of the manor. Chester and Maude walked side by side directly behind Sigrid, their hands resting comfortably near their hilts, while Lilith followed closely at Sigrid’s left flank.

The maid led them down a grand hallway adorned with tapestries and marble busts, finally pushing open the heavy oak doors that led into the glass-domed conservatory garden where the tea party was in full swing. The moment Sigrid crossed the threshold, the ambient murmur of laughter and clinking porcelain instantly died away. A sudden, heavy silence descended upon the entire hall. Dozens of noblewomen turned their heads in unison, their eyes widening at the sight of Sigrid entering the room.

Within seconds, the initial shock melted into a flurry of dramatic whispers, and a large group of ladies broke away from their small circles, rushing toward Sigrid in a tight, suffocating swarm. Their faces were instantly plastered with exaggerated expressions of mournful pity and fake sympathy that made Sigrid’s skin crawl beneath her fine garments.

"Oh, my poor Duchess! I simply feel dreadful for you," chirped Lady Clara, pressing a lace handkerchief to her chest with a heavy, performative sigh. "To think you must endure such isolation while the Duke marches into the barren south! It is truly an unmerited tragedy."

"Indeed, you poor, unlucky girl," chimed in Viscountess Vane, her eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity masked as sorrow. "To be treated like trash by a mere commonborn girl who usurped your birthright and stole your family’s affection! How do you even manage to bear such public humiliation day after day?"

Sigrid’s dark eyes hardened into glacial ice as the barrage of condescending pity washed over her. The blatant hypocrisy was staggering; these were the very same women who had turned their backs on her in the capital, yet now they crowded around her like vultures, desperate to taste the drama of her assumed misery. Just as Sigrid opened her mouth to deliver a scathing, quiet rebuke that would shatter their fragile pretenses, two sharp, authoritative claps echoed across the high ceilings of the conservatory.

"Ladies! Show some proper decorum at once!" Lady Beatrice Windermere’s crisp, commanding voice cut through the clamor like a steel blade. She strode purposefully into the center of the crowd, her posture erect and her eyes burning with sharp reprimand as she looked around at the assembled noblewomen. "It is a Duchess of the realm whom you are surrounding in such an unseemly fashion. Her Grace is not a museum exhibit for your entertainment, nor does she require your noisy lamentations. Kindly return to your tables, enjoy your tea, and prepare yourselves for the afternoon’s activities."

The surrounding ladies flushed with embarrassment under Beatrice’s harsh scolding, offering brief, awkward curtsies before scattering back toward their respective tables like frightened sparrows. Beatrice turned toward Sigrid, her stern expression immediately softening into a warm, genuine smile. "Forgive me for that dreadful display, Your Grace. Please, allow me to escort you to a much quieter corner where we might speak in peace."

Beatrice guided Sigrid, along with her quiet guards, toward a secluded terrace alcove set slightly apart from the main hall, shaded by flowering winter jasmine. "Thank you for the warm reception, Lady Beatrice," Sigrid said softly, offering a genuine, relaxed smile as she smoothed her skirts and sat upon the cushioned wrought-iron chair. "And please, do not apologize for the swarm. It seems my presence rarely fails to draw an audience these days."

Beatrice offered a quiet chuckle, stepping over to a silver tea service set upon a side table. "I am simply relieved you came. I knew those women would be insufferable, but I had hoped they would possess enough self-control to restrain their worst impulses." She carefully poured a cup of steaming, dark amber tea and set it gently on the small table in front of Sigrid. "The news from the capital is simply not going to die down anytime soon, I fear. I am truly sorry that you have had to endure such persistent harassment regarding the unpleasant business with your stepsister and the former crown prince."

Sigrid took the fine porcelain teacup into her hands, letting the warm steam rise against her face as Chester and Maude took up watchful positions at the entrance of the alcove. "It is exceedingly tiring, Beatrice. Every room I enter becomes a stage for people to prod at my wounds under the guise of concern. Truthfully, I prefer it when they simply avoided me or glared at me openly from across the courtyard. At least then I knew their hostility was honest. This sudden wave of sweet, poisonous pity is far more exhausting."

Beatrice smiled gently, taking her own seat opposite the Duchess. "Ah, so you are actually longing for the days when you were properly hated?"

Sigrid offered no verbal reply, merely responding with a subtle, wry twitch of her lips as she raised the teacup to her mouth and took a slow, deliberate sip. The moment the liquid touched her tongue, her dark eyes widened in pleasant surprise. The rich, velvety flavor carried notes of roasted spiced bark and rare mountain orchids—a very specific, highly exclusive blend that was almost impossible to source outside the imperial reserves.

Noticing the subtle shift in Sigrid’s expression, Beatrice let out a smug, delighted laugh. "Mm-hmm! I knew you loved that particular blend whne I served you at the lasy gathering, so I went through the immense trouble of ordering another whole shipment straight from the Engrosia."

"You are far too indulgent, Beatrice," Sigrid said, her tone brimming with sincere gratitude as she set the cup down. "I am deeply in your debt for such a thoughtful gesture."

"Nonsense, Sigrid. A proper host must always cater to the refined tastes of her favorite guests," Beatrice replied warmly, leaning forward to brush a stray crumb from her tablecloth. "Now, regarding the special activity I have planned for later today, I believe you will find it quite—"

"Good day to you, Lady Beatrice Windermere... and to you, Duchess Sigrid Aethermor."

The voice that cut through the pleasant atmosphere was exceptionally calm, melodious, and dripping with an effortless, innate elegance. Yet, the moment the words echoed against the stone archway of the alcove, Sigrid’s entire body turned instantly rigid. The quiet warmth in her chest vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy tension that coiled tightly around her spine.

Sigrid slowly turned her head toward the entrance of the terrace. Standing just beyond the shadow of the archway was Lady Celestine Everhart, her posture immaculate, her grand silk gown cascading in flawless folds around her feet, and a remarkably gracious, serene smile resting upon her striking features.