On my first day back in Victoria Harbor City, Viola hired an etiquette tutor for me.
Her name was Margaret, a middle-aged woman who always dressed impeccably and arrived at the Romanov estate at the exact same time every day.
She taught me how to hold a knife and fork.
How to walk.
How to smile gracefully at a formal banquet.
I was a terrible student.
I always mixed up the silverware, walked stiffly, and smiled like I was afraid of my own shadow.
Margaret would sigh every time.
And Viola would stand nearby, offering her sweet little encouragement.
"It's okay, Ivy. Take your time."
Whenever Mom saw how clumsy I looked, her eyes would turn red.
She'd hold my hand and say softly, "Sweetheart, don't rush yourself. You're already doing great."
Every time Dad passed the study and saw
