Metheea froze where she stood. The water slipped from her fingertips and fell back into the basin in quiet drops.
For a moment, she did not move. A cold anger rose through her, slow and clean. These women spoke of the royal family as though they were figures in a tale passed between cups of wine. In the courts she had known before, words such as these could unmake a family before morning.
Here, they hid behind painted fans and lowered voices, as if silk screens could protect them from consequence. Katarthan high society was not gentler. It simply smiled while it cut.
She dried her hands with deliberate care, folding the cloth once before setting it aside. Behind the screen, one of the young women laughed again, softer this time, as though pleased with her own boldness.
