Fifty Four
A servant appeared at Zaria’s shoulder as she sat in the garden with Mercy and the handful of women who had arrived early for book club. “You have a guest,” the maid whispered. Zaria’s fingers paused around the warm porcelain of her teacup. The maid’s eyes remained fixed on the ground, like everyone’s did, like Mercy preferred. It always made Zaria feel as if she were standing on a stage in someone else’s play, and the staff were trained not to look at the actors. “Of course. Thank you,” Zaria murmured, setting her cup carefully onto its matching plate. She rose with a practiced smile and a composed spine, polite enough to avoid offense, warm enough to sound sincere, but not so warm it could be twisted into familiarity. Every gathering on the Isles required that kind of balancing
- Writer
