Rosalind stood before the Emperor's private council chamber, hands csped tightly behind her back. The summons had arrived just hours before the Midsummer Ball was to begin—a royal messenger interrupting her preparations with an imperial seal that could not be ignored. Now, as she waited for permission to enter, she touched the wooden pendant at her throat, drawing strength from it.

  "You may enter, Lady Rosalind," announced the imperial guard, swinging open the heavy oak doors.

  The chamber before her was not the grand throne room where she had received Prince Adrian's proposal, but a smaller, more intimate space where the real governance of the Empire took pce. A long table dominated the room, with the Emperor seated at its head. Prince Adrian stood rigidly by a window, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes conveying a silent apology. Around the table sat eight men and two women—the Emperor's Privy Council.

  Rosalind recognized several faces: Lord Merriweather, Imperial Treasurer, whose pinched expression suggested perpetual disapproval; Lady Winters, Minister of Foreign Affairs, whose shrewd eyes missed nothing; and Duke Bckwood, Lord Chancellor, whose daughter Sophia had once been the unwitting catalyst for Rosalind's exile.

  "Lady Rosalind Harrington," the Emperor announced, his tone formal. "Thank you for responding so promptly to our summons."

  Rosalind curtseyed deeply. "I am at Your Imperial Majesty's service."

  The Emperor gestured to an empty chair. "Please, be seated."

  As she took her pce, Lord Eastwyck, the Minister of Agriculture, cleared his throat. A portly man with small, calcuting eyes, he had remained in the capital throughout the war, managing imperial food stores while farmers like Thomas had been conscripted to fight.

  "Lady Rosalind," he began, his voice carrying a practiced unctuous quality, "we understand Prince Adrian has expressed his desire to make you his consort."

  "His Highness has honored me with such a proposal," Rosalind replied carefully.

  "Indeed." Lord Eastwyck exchanged gnces with several other council members. "A most... unexpected choice."

  The Emperor raised a hand slightly. "Let us speak pinly, Lady Rosalind. My son believes your experiences at Thornfield have given you insights that would benefit the Empire. Some members of my council, however, have expressed... concerns."

  "I imagine they have," Rosalind said, surprising herself with her candor. Three years ago, she would have demurred, deflected, pyed the expected political games. Now, she found little patience for them. "May I ask what specific concerns trouble the council?"

  Lady Winters' lips quirked in what might have been approval before her expression smoothed back to diplomatic neutrality.

  Lord Merriweather leaned forward. "To put it bluntly, Lady Rosalind, the position of Imperial Consort requires more than agricultural expertise. It demands a thorough understanding of court protocols, diplomatic retions, and imperial legacy—areas where your... rural sojourn... has left significant gaps in your education."

  "I was born and raised at court," Rosalind reminded him, keeping her voice level. "My 'rural sojourn,' as you call it, has added to my knowledge, not diminished it."

  "Perhaps," said Duke Bckwood, "but managing a remote northern estate hardly prepares one for the responsibilities of potentially becoming Empress someday."

  Prince Adrian stepped forward. "Lady Rosalind managed more than an estate. During the field fever outbreak, she coordinated region-wide medical responses. During food shortages, she developed distribution systems that prevented starvation across three counties."

  "Commendable community service," Lord Eastwyck conceded with a dismissive wave, "but hardly imperial administration."

  Rosalind studied the faces around the table, recognizing the familiar dynamics of court politics at work. Several council members clearly supported Lord Eastwyck's position, while others seemed more neutral. Only Lady Winters and an elderly gentleman Rosalind didn't recognize appeared to be studying her with genuine interest rather than predetermined judgment.

  The Emperor tapped his fingers on the table once, silencing the room. "My son has made his preference clear. However, tradition dictates that such an important position should not be filled without due consideration. The council has proposed a solution I find... acceptable."

  A chill ran through Rosalind at his tone. The Emperor might support his son's choice personally, but he would not override established powers without good reason.

  "What solution does the council propose?" she asked.

  Lord Eastwyck smiled thinly. "A traditional Imperial Selection."

  Prince Adrian stiffened visibly. "Father—"

  The Emperor held up his hand again. "The Selection was a tradition for centuries before your grandfather chose to abandon it. Perhaps it's time to revisit the wisdom of our ancestors."

  Rosalind's mind raced. The Imperial Selection was an archaic tradition she had studied in her history lessons, but it hadn't been implemented for three generations. A series of tests designed to evaluate potential royal consorts, originally created to ensure that foreign princesses brought more than just political alliances to the imperial family.

  "If I may," the elderly councilor Rosalind didn't recognize spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly strong despite his apparent age. "Lady Rosalind should understand that this is not merely political maneuvering. The role of Imperial Consort shapes the future of the Empire through influence, through example, and through the next generation. The Selection ensures that the best candidate is chosen—not merely the most politically convenient."

  "Lord Whitebrook speaks truly," said Lady Winters. "And I would add that the Selection also provides the chosen consort with legitimacy that silences even the most determined critics."

  Prince Adrian moved to stand behind Rosalind's chair, a silent gesture of support that did not go unnoticed by the council. "And if I object to this... revival of tradition?"

  The Emperor met his son's gaze steadily. "Then you pce Lady Rosalind in an untenable position from the start, with powerful enemies and no opportunity to prove her worth beyond your word alone."

  Rosalind recognized the political trap. If Adrian insisted on choosing her without the Selection, he would alienate his council and paint her as an interloper who circumvented tradition. Every mistake she made thereafter would be scrutinized and used as evidence that the Selection should have been implemented.

  "I accept," she said, before Adrian could respond.

  All eyes turned to her, several councilors unable to hide their surprise.

  "You accept without even knowing what the Selection entails?" Lord Merriweather asked incredulously.

  Rosalind straightened in her chair. "I assume the council will provide full details. But I've never feared fair evaluation of my capabilities. At Thornfield, results mattered more than birthright or tradition. If the council wishes to evaluate my fitness to serve the Empire, I welcome the opportunity to demonstrate it."

  The elderly Lord Whitebrook's eyes crinkled slightly. "Well said, Lady Rosalind."

  "Very well," the Emperor said. "The Selection will proceed according to tradition. Three candidates, including Lady Rosalind, will undergo four tests over the course of four weeks."

  "Three candidates?" Rosalind asked.

  Lord Eastwyck smiled, and Rosalind immediately understood that this had been the pn all along. "Yes. The council has already identified two suitable noblewomen whose families have served the Empire with distinction for generations."

  "Lady Emmeline Crawford," Duke Bckwood read from a document before him, "daughter of the Earl of Westmere, educated at the Imperial Academy of Arts and Governance. And Lady Cassandra Montcir, niece of the Duchess of Halford, recently returned from a diplomatic mission to the Southern Isles."

  Rosalind recognized both names immediately. Emmeline had been several years ahead of her at court, known for her impeccable bloodline and rigorous traditional education. Cassandra was famed for her beauty and social graces, from a family with deep ties to the imperial treasury. Both were, by traditional standards, perfect candidates for Imperial Consort.

  "And the four tests?" Prince Adrian asked, his voice tight with controlled anger.

  Lady Winters answered. "Traditional domains of imperial consort responsibility: Court Protocol and Diplomacy, Imperial Governance, Cultural Heritage and Arts, and—" her eyes met Rosalind's with a hint of irony "—Practical Knowledge."

  "How fitting that you've included the st category," Adrian said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

  "The Selection begins in three days," the Emperor decred. "Each candidate will be provided with appropriate resources to prepare. The results will be announced at the Summer Solstice Festival."

  "And the Midsummer Ball tonight?" Rosalind asked.

  "Proceeds as pnned," the Emperor replied. "Though perhaps with a different announcement than my son had anticipated."

  As the council members began gathering their papers, Prince Adrian leaned down to speak quietly near Rosalind's ear. "I apologize for this. I should have anticipated resistance."

  "Don't apologize," she replied, equally quietly. "Three years ago, I would have schemed and maniputed to avoid such tests. Now, I welcome the chance to prove what I've learned."

  Adrian's eyes searched hers. "You've changed indeed, Lady Rosalind."

  "Not entirely," she said with a small smile. "I still intend to win."

  The Midsummer Ball was everything Rosalind remembered from her previous court life—glittering, excessive, exhausting. Yet she moved through it with a detachment that would have been impossible for her younger self. The silks and jewels, the eborate hairstyles and gossiping courtiers—all seemed like eborate costumes now, a performance of importance rather than its substance.

  Her parents had been shocked when she informed them of the Selection. Her mother had immediately begun listing potential tutors who might refresh Rosalind's court knowledge, while her father had grown quiet, studying her with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness.

  "Do you wish to withdraw?" he had asked finally, when her mother paused for breath. "No one would bme you for declining such a public contest."

  The question had surprised her. "Do you think I should, Father?"

  "I think," he had said carefully, "that the girl who left court three years ago would have viewed this as an opportunity for social triumph. I wonder what the woman who returned sees in it."

  His insight had struck her deeply. "I see a chance to bring Thornfield's lessons to those who need them most," she had answered honestly. "And if I must prove myself worthy of that opportunity, so be it."

  Now, as she stood at the edge of the ballroom, Rosalind watched the dance unfold before her. Prince Adrian was obligated to dance with both Lady Emmeline and Lady Cassandra before he could approach her. The orchestra pyed a stately pavane as he guided Lady Emmeline through the formal steps, her posture perfect, her responses to his conversation precisely calibrated to dispy both intelligence and deference.

  "Quite the development," came a familiar voice from beside her. "The disgraced Lady Rosalind, now competing to become Imperial Consort. Court has certainly grown more interesting in your absence."

  Rosalind turned to find Lady Beatrice observing her with the same calcuting smile she remembered from years ago. Once her closest friend and accomplice in schemes against Lady Sophia, Beatrice had clearly prospered in court during Rosalind's exile, her gown and jewels speaking of considerable wealth and status.

  "Lady Beatrice," Rosalind acknowledged with a polite nod. "I trust you've been well."

  "Exceedingly," Beatrice replied, her eyes gleaming. "I married Lord Pembroke st autumn. You remember him—managed your father's eastern estates? Quite an advantageous match."

  The old Rosalind would have felt jealousy, would have immediately calcuted how to demonstrate her own superior prospects. Instead, she found herself genuinely curious. "Are you happy, Beatrice?"

  The question seemed to catch the other woman off guard. "Happy? What an odd question. I'm the Countess of Pembroke now. My position at court is secure."

  "That wasn't what I asked," Rosalind said gently.

  Beatrice studied her, confusion flickering briefly across her features before her court mask reasserted itself. "They say you've become quite the farmer in your exile. Learning to milk cows and mend fences. How... novel."

  "Among other things," Rosalind agreed pleasantly. "I found there's much to learn beyond court walls."

  "Clearly," Beatrice's gaze flicked to the wooden pendant at Rosalind's throat. "Though some lessons seem to have left more permanent marks than others. There are rumors about a common farmer's son. Surely those can't be true?"

  Rosalind touched the pendant, feeling its familiar contours beneath her fingers. "Lieutenant Thomas Brookfield was many things. 'Common' was not among them."

  Before Beatrice could respond, the music ended. Prince Adrian escorted Lady Emmeline back to her family, bowed correctly, and immediately moved to where Lady Cassandra waited with barely concealed eagerness.

  "Well," Beatrice said with a knowing smile, "the competition begins already. Lady Cassandra is said to be the most accomplished dancer at court. Her family has ensured she received instruction from the finest masters across the Empire."

  Rosalind watched as Cassandra and Adrian began a more intricate dance, her movements graceful and precise. "She dances beautifully," she agreed.

  "And Lady Emmeline speaks seven nguages fluently, has memorized the complete lineage of every noble family in the Empire, and has been trained in imperial governance since childhood," Beatrice continued, clearly enjoying what she perceived as Rosalind's inevitable discomfort. "What exactly do you bring to this competition, Rose? Superior skill in butter churning?"

  The nickname—once spoken in conspiratorial friendship, now wielded as a diminutive—should have stung. Instead, Rosalind found herself smiling genuinely.

  "Among other things," she repeated. "I spent three years learning the difference between governance in theory and governance in practice. I suspect that might prove useful."

  Beatrice's smile faltered slightly. "You've changed."

  "Yes," Rosalind agreed simply. "I have."

  The music ended again. As Prince Adrian led Lady Cassandra back to her family, his eyes found Rosalind's across the ballroom. He said something to an attendant, who quickly approached Rosalind.

  "His Highness requests your presence for the next dance, Lady Rosalind," the young man announced with a bow.

  Beatrice's eyebrows rose. "It seems you retained some court skills after all. The Prince appears quite determined, despite the council's intervention."

  "Perhaps," Rosalind said, "he values substance over appearance."

  As she moved toward the center of the ballroom to meet Adrian, she felt the weight of hundreds of eyes following her. The court that had witnessed her disgrace years ago now watched her return with avid curiosity. The whispering had already begun—about her exile, about Thomas, about the unprecedented Selection. By tomorrow, the entire Imperial City would be buzzing with specution.

  Three years ago, she would have reveled in being the center of such attention. Now, she recognized it for what it was—a distraction from what truly mattered.

  Prince Adrian bowed as she approached. "Lady Rosalind."

  She curtseyed in return. "Your Highness."

  As the orchestra began a slower, more intimate waltz, he took her hand. "I must apologize again for the council's maneuvering. This was not what I intended."

  "There's no need," she said as they began to move together. "Though I admit I'm curious—did you truly not anticipate resistance to choosing someone with my... unconventional recent history?"

  A rueful smile touched his lips. "I anticipated resistance to my agricultural reforms. I underestimated how personally they would take my choice of partner in implementing them."

  They moved through the steps of the dance, finding an easy rhythm together that Rosalind hadn't expected. For a man who cimed to find court functions tedious, Adrian danced with natural grace.

  "Tell me honestly," he said after a moment, "are you reconsidering my proposal now that it comes with such complications?"

  Rosalind considered the question carefully. "I'm reconsidering everything, Your Highness. The nature of the position you're offering. What I might accomplish in it. Whether the price of court politics is worth paying for the opportunity to implement change on an imperial scale." She met his gaze directly. "But I haven't decided against it, if that's what you're asking."

  Relief flickered across his features. "I feared the council's interference might push you back to Thornfield immediately."

  "Thornfield taught me perseverance, Your Highness. I don't abandon worthy goals simply because the path becomes difficult."

  Adrian's hand tightened slightly on hers. "I believe you would make an exceptional Imperial Consort, Lady Rosalind. Not despite your time at Thornfield, but because of it."

  The music swelled around them as he guided her through a turn. Rosalind was acutely aware of the contrast between this dance and those she had shared with Thomas at the Harvest Festival—the rustic fiddles repced by a full orchestra, the simple country steps exchanged for formal patterns, the open joy of the vilgers transformed into the calcuted observation of courtiers.

  Yet something of Thornfield remained with her, in her straightened spine, in her calloused hands, in the wooden pendant against her skin. She was neither the spoiled girl who had left court in disgrace nor simply a returned exile. She was something new, shaped by both worlds.

  "The Emperor will announce the Selection publicly after this dance," Adrian told her quietly. "Are you prepared for what follows?"

  Rosalind thought of Thomas, of the agricultural school they had built together, of the floods and fever and famine they had faced. She thought of the strength she had discovered in herself during those challenges. And she thought of what might be possible if she could bring that knowledge to the Empire as a whole.

  "Yes," she said with quiet certainty. "I am."

  The music drew to a close. As they stood together in the center of the ballroom, the Emperor rose from his throne and stepped forward. The room fell silent, hundreds of courtiers turning their attention to their ruler.

  "Citizens of the Empire," the Emperor's voice carried clearly across the ballroom, "tonight we honor an ancient tradition. For the first time in three generations, we shall hold an Imperial Selection to determine the most worthy consort for the Crown Prince."

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Adrian released Rosalind's hand and stepped back, his expression once again carefully controlled. She stood alone, feeling the weight of expectation and judgment pressing in from all sides.

  "Three candidates have been chosen," the Emperor continued. "Over the coming four weeks, they will demonstrate their fitness to serve the Empire through a series of traditional tests. At the Summer Solstice Festival, we shall announce whose hand the Crown Prince will take in marriage."

  As the Emperor named the three candidates, formally presenting first Lady Emmeline and then Lady Cassandra to the assembly, Rosalind touched her wooden pendant once more. The path ahead would be challenging, filled with political traps and the machinations of those who viewed her as an outsider.

  Yet as her name was called and she stepped forward to be presented to the court, Rosalind felt a strange sense of purpose settling over her. This was not the future she had imagined when she first arrived at Thornfield in disgrace, nor the one she had begun to envision with Thomas before the war cimed him. But perhaps it was one where she could truly honor his memory—by bringing the lessons of Thornfield from the soil to the very heart of the Empire.

  "Let the Selection begin," the Emperor decred.

  And with those words, Rosalind's next trial began.