All That Glitters Is Not Acceptance
772 Words
It was an unusually quiet morning at Avenheart Manor. The sun strained through gauzy drapes, spilling pale gold across the parlor, illuminating the polished mahogany floors and the ornate rug beneath our feet. A hush had settled, heavy and watchful, as though even the walls themselves leaned in to listen.
We had only just returned from the capital, our carriage wheels still muddy from the road, our spirits weary from the ordeal of the Tribute Ball. But news never waited. And neither did the capital’s sharpest tongue.
Genevieve had been the first to notice it. She stood near the sideboard, her fingers clutching a folded parchment with a wax seal in the shape of a thorned rose. I knew that seal. Everyone did. Madame Thistle—Viremond’s infamous chronicler of court scandals, her pen sharper than a rapier and dipped in venom. Her broadsheets found their way into the halls of every noble house, and even those who scoffed at her writings could be seen peeking at her columns when no one watched.
“Should I read it aloud?” Genevieve asked, her voice deceptively sweet.
Mother glanced up from her embroidery. Father, seated beside the hearth, gave only the faintest nod. Henry leaned forward with boyish eagerness.
Genevieve smirked and began:
“In a ball designed to honor sacrifice, it seems one particular tribute has done the unthinkable: overshadowed the very nobles who offered her. Lady Celeste Avenheart—yes, the dusky darling of our northern province—arrived in lavender silk and left in whispers. One could almost forget she was merely a token of tribute and not a duchess draped in imperial jewels.”
She paused, her eyes flickering to me. I sat rigid, jaw tight. Genevieve continued, feigning indifference:
“Sources report that she—brace yourselves, dear readers—dared speak in defense of her mother after an esteemed Southern noble, commented unfavorably upon her lineage. Rather than retreat in meek silence, the young Miss Avenheart responded with a tongue honed in fire, silencing the room. Gasps. Then laughter. From the royal box, no less.”
Genevieve looked up with a tilt of her head. “Enjoying this?” she murmured, clearly not.
Henry, however, was wide-eyed.
I offered a slight shrug. “Apparently.”
Genevieve scoffed and went on:
“We have seen many young tributes. We have seen prettier, paler, quieter. But none have managed to be so… memorable. And it begs the question: will the prince request her as a companion? Or is she merely the newest shine in a sea of courtly glitter—soon to dull, soon to fade?”
She folded the letter theatrically. The room remained silent, until Father cleared his throat and returned to his papers.
It was Mother who broke the silence. “Well,” she said softly, “people will speak. But what they speak is not always the truth.”
Genevieve turned on her heel with a dramatic sigh. “Of course. She’s simply radiant in your eyes.”
“And venomous in yours,” I muttered.
“What did you say?”
I met her gaze. “You heard me, Genevieve. Madame Thistle's pen might cut deep, but not half as deep as your envy.”
Her nostrils flared, but she said nothing more, choosing instead to glide from the room like an injured peacock.
Henry came to sit beside me. “They talk like you're famous now.”
I smiled faintly. “Fame is a fickle crown, Henry.”
Just then, the butler entered. "A royal letter has arrived for Lady Celeste. From the palace."
My mother rose. My father looked up, finally attentive. I stepped forward and took it, the weight of the thick parchment like lead in my fingers.
With everyone gathered, I broke the seal and read:
Lady Celeste Avenheart,
You are formally requested to remain in the capital beyond the tribute season, as a guest of His Royal Highness Prince Kael of Viremond. Details shall follow. Your cooperation is expected. Your grace is anticipated.
—Lord Chancellor Vallentine of the Crimson Court
The room was hushed. Then my mother gently touched my arm. "Celeste…"
My heart was calm, too calm. The tide before the storm.
“It seems,” I said, folding the letter, “that I am no longer just a tribute.”
Mother’s eyes filled with quiet worry. Father leaned back in his chair, unreadable.
And Genevieve—though long gone from the room—would hear of this soon enough.
But her voice mattered little. For the capital’s eyes had found me.
And so had the crown.
- Writer
