Invitations were weapons. People often forgot that because the weapons were written on fine paper, sealed with wax, and delivered by servants wearing gloves. A sword declared its intention too honestly. A dagger lacked social grace. Poison required timing, and timing had become increasingly unreliable since the world decided to interfere with my career.
An invitation, however, was elegant. It flattered the recipient first. Then it trapped them.
By noon, my study had become a battlefield of paper. Bernard stood near the side table with three ledgers open before him. William sorted sealed responses. My father reviewed a map of the palace ceremonial hall, while my mother sat by the window with a cup of tea and a list of names that had already made two palace messengers sweat. Abi had taken the largest armchair, as though he owned it. He didn't. He'd simply become shameless enough to occupy territory without formal conquest.
I respected the instinct. I resented the furniture theft.
