Spring was drawing to a close, and the air had begun to warm with the gentleness of early summer. The breeze was softer, the skies clearer—and across the Empire, noble households had begun their subtle shift from hibernation to high society.

  The Social Season was almost upon us.

  Carriages were being dusted off, invitations inked, rumors sharpened like daggers. Every noble worth their title was preparing. And that included my mother and her sisters—who were currently hosting what could only be described as a private tea party reconnaissance mission.

  I sat inside our carriage, riding alongside my mother and several attendants as we made our way to Hertel County. Aunt Elle was hosting this afternoon’s gathering—an unofficial tea, strictly between her, Mother, and Aunt Regine. No fanfare, no gowns, no press. Just three women of terrifying influence exchanging information in a “casual” setting. Think: battle council with pastries.

  We were approaching the transport portal that would take us to the outskirts of Hertel County. From there, it would still take another hour by road to reach the manor. I had long since finished staring out the window and had decided—against better judgment—to spend the time practicing embroidery.

  And by practicing, I meant struggling.

  I stared at the fabric stretched across the hoop in my p. The threads were tangled, my stitches uneven, and the design was… interpretive at best.

  I wasn’t entirely convinced embroidery was worth the effort. But Aunt Regine—correction: Duchess Bourdelle—would surely have a heart attack if she heard me say that. According to her, “Embroidery cultivates grace, patience, discipline, attention to detail, and is the very essence of refined femininity.”

  Yes. I remembered it word for word. She repeated it every time I so much as looked like I wanted to give up.

  Still, I couldn’t deny the sense of peace that embroidery should bring. I just wished my stitches didn’t look like they’d been attacked by a caffeinated squirrel.

  Sighing, I turned to my mother, who was quietly reviewing documents across from me.

  “Mother,” I said, lifting the hoop, “can you guess what pattern I’m trying to make?”

  She blinked, set aside her papers, and leaned in with sincere effort. Her gaze moved across the mess of thread. A beat passed.

  “Hmm… is it… a bat?”

  A beat of silence. I stared at her, unblinking.

  My shoulders slumped. “It’s a magnolia.”

  “Oh—oh! Of course! Yes, I see it now!” she said quickly, patting my hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You know your mother never had much of an eye for… abstract embroidery.”

  I flopped back against the cushion with a dramatic sigh.

  A bat. It was supposed to be a delicate, blooming magnolia.This was going to be a long ride.

  “How about trying a different pattern?” my mother suggested, her voice as sweet as ever, though I could see the way her brows furrowed slightly—she was clearly scrambling for an idea that wouldn’t crush my spirits entirely. “Something simpler, perhaps... oh, I know!”

  She lit up like she’d just solved an ancient puzzle. “An apple! Or maybe a cherry. Yes—fruits! Much easier than flowers. Start with an apple, sweetie.”

  She reached out to gently cup my cheeks, her thumbs brushing comfortingly along my jaw. I knew she was trying her best not to make me feel like a complete failure, even though the mess I’d made on that fabric said otherwise.

  I smiled faintly, warmed by her effort. “Alright. I’ll try that.”

  With a pleased little hum, she gave my head a soft pat and returned to her stack of documents, looking quite satisfied with her motherly intervention.

  Jane, efficient as always, immediately removed the tragic magnolia attempt from the embroidery hoop and repced it with a clean, crisp stretch of fabric. Without being asked, she handed it over to Cecil, who took it with a quiet nod and a small smile.

  Cecil was no expert at embroidery either, but she was an excellent sketch artist. She pulled out a pencil and began outlining the shape of a perfect apple—round, symmetrical, and far less threatening than a delicate flower bloom. Her strokes were quick and practiced, and within seconds, the new design took form.

  This was their way of helping me.They couldn’t fix the stitches or change the fact that I was all thumbs when it came to a needle—but they could reset the stage, sketch the outline, and make it a little easier for me to try again.

  And honestly? That meant more than perfectly stitched petals ever could.

  ? 2025 baobaochong – All rights reserved.