The music had softened into something slower and more measured. Lamps burned lower along the walls of Lady Belin's great hall, casting longer shadows across the polished floor.
The larger groups had broken apart. Smaller circles now formed in the spaces between the long tables. Some ladies sat with glasses of wine or cups of cooled tea. Others stood near the tall windows, their voices lowered as they spoke behind fans or gloved hands.
The air felt heavier than it had earlier in the evening, thick with the warmth of many bodies and the weight of conversations that only happened when people believed they were not being overheard.
Metheea remained composed, though the evening pressed upon her like the weight of her own gown. This reception drained in a quieter way than the arena. Every smile demanded a fitting reply. Every glance required some form of notice.
She could feel the faint pull of tension across her shoulders and the steady throb beginning behind her eyes.
