The east parlor glittered under chandelier light.
Gold-trimmed mirrors. Velvet curtains. Polished marble floors that reflected every careful step.
And in the middle of it all sat Lydia, adjusting the delicate lace of her gown, the corners of her mouth lifting in a faint, proud smile. Her dark eyes flicked toward the balcony where the sun spilled onto the courtyard.
"She's unbearable," Helena said from the chaise lounge, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. "How does she have everyone's attention? Even the servants fawn over her now."
Lydia's smile didn't waver. "It's infuriating, isn't it? She's… lucky. And stupid enough not to notice it."
Helena scowled. "Lucky? She does nothing to deserve it. She's not polished, not subtle. Not like us."
"Exactly," Lydia said softly. She leaned forward, resting her fingers on the arm of her chair. "And that is why she's dangerous."
Helena frowned. "Dangerous? It's just a girl, Lydia."
