Cordelia, Camlann, Aurora.

  Early morning, Saturday 13th May (Gal. Rel.) 2875 CE. QW-Day -20

  Artemisia woke up and instinctively sat up halfway in her large queen-size canopy bed. She smacked her lips without really thinking about it, and found them quite parched. She reached out a hand to grab her handcom on the nightstand, and thumbed it to life. It was a pretty thing, Grade-A titanium frame around smartglass made on Angevin, with rose gold vines snaking up along the frame. Thumbing it to life, she noted it was just before half past eight in the morning, and her lady’s maid Hectoria should be knocking on her bedroom door in three… two… one. Nothing. Artemisia frowned and started to navigate out of the impractically large bed and its several layers of linen sheets and silk covers, dressed in a cream-white satin chemise with lace details on the hems and sides and nothing else. Her bedroom was a modest affair, at least as bedrooms in noble mansions went; it had the aforementioned large canopy bed with its carved Leukosyrian mystwood columns and tester, her dressing table in argentwood with a white finish, a small tea table in that same white finish with an adjoining seating group featuring short-legged but deep cushioned chairs. A large walk-in closet was hidden behind a set of embroidered curtains and a sliding door, matching the long, complicated off-white linen weave curtains that framed the large windows with an overlook out into Jocelyn Street. Artemisia’s bedroom was purely for sleeping, getting ready and dressed, and for changing into whatever outfit the upcoming social setting required; it was a mono-purpose room among many other mono-purpose rooms in the large manor of Verius House, the Cordelia home of the de Vere family going back three centuries.

  Artemisia walked briskly to the nearest window, trying to make as much sound as possible despite her bare feet walking on a room-spanning salmon coloured carpet, and she threw the curtains aside. Jocelyn Street three stories below was dreary, the cobblestones slick with rain, and the few pedestrians on the pavement huddled under large umbrellas. Jocelyn Street was part of the posh housing ward of Buckingham, part of North Cordelia. The aristocratic “apartments” were common here, and lay in small clusters among “normal” terraced houses belonging to “merely” the upper middle classes and to some of the gentry. Buckingham was the most expensive residential borough in Cordelia, though it was not all personal residences; there was a massive park creating a large green lung in the centre of the district, and like any borough it had shopping streets and offices, workshops and stores. In addition Buckingham featured major cultural institutions like the Cathedral of St. Thomas, the Museum of Classical Art, the Tower of Settlement, and the grand Akalsharan Koradelia Sahib Gurdwara. But today the rain was casting a dreary veil over the splendour of Buckingham and Cordelia as a whole, and Artemisia sighed deeply.

  She turned away from the window and stomped over her nightstand, and pressed a button camouflaged as part of the rococo-inspired bedside lamp’s stand, and sat down on her bed to await her lady’s maid; she was in a petulant mood today, and she was not sure why. It took all of three minutes before there was a polite knock on her bedroom door.

  “My apologies, My Lady,” Hectoria Prei?ner said with an accompanying curtsy as she entered Artemisia’s bedroom, “there was a minor miscommunication among the staff who had the morning duties, My Lady.”

  Artemisia crossed her thin legs over one another, as well as her arms across her chest, and gave her lady’s maid a severe look.

  “It is a Saturday, is it not?” Her tone was irascible and Hectoria curtsied again in apology. “No matter, you might as well get on with it.”

  “Of course, My Lady, what is on the agenda for today?” Hectoria asked politely as she moved with accustomed steps to the walk-in closet to gather the outfits Artemisia would need for the day; most days it was the QMMU uniform for the morning and early afternoon, before switching to a sitting dress for the evening, with perhaps a household dinner dress if the Duke insisted on dining a formal. But the weekends would vary tremendously, and since Hectoria had not been issued with a schedule for the young lady’s weekend, she had to ask and come up with a set of appropriate outfits on the fly.

  “I don’t have any set plans for today, Hectoria,” Artemisia declared from her seat on the oversized bed, and Hectoria stifled a sigh. It was bad enough being a servant in the employ of a master as mercurial as the Duke of Trewellynshire, but his clo- daughter could be a handful at times as well. She picked out a grey silken tea gown with artfully cascading frills and lace of cloth-of-gold along the upper bodice and the hems of the skirt, complete with an East Asian-style, long-sleeved outer tunic of black silk with motifs of birds of prey in hues of reds and copper. The outer tunic was one of Artemisia’s favourites, and could be worn outside as well as when sitting a table, and Hectoria hoped the presence of the motif-heavy article of clothing would placate the young mistress from whatever ill mood she was in. Hopefully this was suitable for a Saturday morning and before breakfast was over, the young lady had a more tangible idea of where to go and what to do next, so that Hectoria could have a fighting chance putting together a suitable outfit. Hectoria had not done three years as an apprentice at New Angers National Trade Academy as a servant-student and five years as a housemaid for nothing, there was personal pride at stake, as well as affection and care for her young charge.

  Hectoria strode out of the walk-in closet with the clothes she had carefully chosen and laid them out on the chair next to her lady’s dressing table and beckoned for the diminutive Artemisia to step up. Without comment, Artemisia complied and shed her chemise right on the floor and Hectoria had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, knowing it was she who would have to pick it up, drop it off for cleaning and then iron it. Instead she handed her charge a set of modest underwear; there was a limit to what even lady’s maids had to do for their charges. Once Artemisia had put that on, Hectoria helped her with the white slip that acted as undergarment under the gown, before she helped Artemisia into the gown itself; clothing meant for the upper classes were horrifically designed in terms of practicality since they all buttoned or laced or zipped up from the lower back to at least the shoulder blades, which had gone away for the high street fashion industry for the female-presenting. But for the upper middle classes and upwards on the social ladder, it was simply assumed that any woman worth their salt had their own servant or maid to help them dress for formal occasions. Of course, this was not a formal occasion, just regular breakfast at the de Vere household, but this type of ritualistic dressing had become typical among the Auroran nobility. The last part of the morning ritual was combing and arranging Artemisia’s hair, which Hectoria did with attention to detail born from personal interest and dedication to the craft of hairdressing. After a short while Artemisia stood from her dressing table chair and spun in a lazy circle, letting the skirts of her gown trail around her and she smiled as the half-curls Hectoria had formed her long hair into maintained themselves.

  “Well done, Hectoria,” she said with almost a grin on her face, “thank you for this; I needed a pick-me-up this morning.”

  Artemisia stopped spinning and let the gown settle down, symbolically settling herself in the process.

  “I am ready for breakfast now. I you would be so kind as to call downstairs and let them know to lay the table…?”

  “Of course, My Lady,” Hectoria said, accompanied by a quick curtsy, and stepped outside in the hallway where she flicked a few quick automated commands on her ‘com which alerted the kitchen staff and the footmen that the lady was ready to go down to breakfast. Verius House had an extremely large staff to attend just two people. Granted, the Duke of Trewellynshire was an immensely affluent and important peer of the realm, but he actually disdained being waited upon beyond what his valet and butler provided, and merely tolerated the footmen who served his meals and answered his house calls.

  Artemisia was much more adroitly attentive to the large staff, taking care to thank individual servants, make note of their names and circumstances, and took an interest in training them to best fit into the culture of Verius House, and made sure that they received positions in accordance with their previous experience and education. In total, there were some twenty-six footmen, five groomsmen, nineteen housemaids, three lady’s maids, two valets, a butler (Mr Jaladhar Mukherjee), two chefs, eighteen assorted kitchen staff, a housekeeper (Mrs Sarah Whitmore), three chauffeurs, a secretary (Mr Jonah Gebrekristos) and a major-domo (Mr Alain Crenshaw, who continuously butted head with Mr Mukherjee, since their roles partly overlapped). Of course, not all of these worked at the estate at the same time, like any other employment they worked in shifts, apart from the most essential and closest to the Family, i.e. the butler or the major-domo, the valets, the housekeeper and the lady’s maids. Everyone else lived in their own lodgings and came to work according to their shifts.

  The scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted Artemisia as she descended the grand staircase of Verius House, her pale grey tea gown flowing softly with each step, wearing black synth-leather suede flats made by Yvonne St. Jean. The heavy fabric whispered against the polished argentwood banister, and she glanced briefly at the towering Arcturian brushed-crystal chandelier hanging above the entrance hall. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting muted patterns on the salmon-hued marble floor, but the rain outside dulled the effect, turning everything faintly melancholic.

  She stepped lightly into the breakfast room, a much smaller and more intimate space than the main dining hall, though still lavishly appointed. The walls were lined with delicate wallpaper in hues of muted greens, off-yellows and blues depicting pastoral scenes, and a set of French doors opened onto a private courtyard, though today they remained closed against the damp chill. The usual large breakfast table had been set for only her with fine china and an array of jams, pastries, and sliced fruit, breakfast meats and eggs, along with her usual pot of coffee; while set for one, it was an obscene amount of food for just one person, but Artemisia insisted on the staff having anything they wanted from the leftovers; if not, it would be composted and used for the Verius House gardens.

  Artemisia settled into the high-backed chair and waited for one of the omnipresent footmen to pour her a cup of coffee. She noted with satisfaction that it was the genuine Hong Kong porcelain that was set out this day, and she smiled as the footman finished pouring and mouthed a “thank you”. The warmth of the coffee against her palms as she picked up the cup retained that faint smile on her lips, a simple pleasure that contrasted sharply with the complexities of her life. She took a moment to savour the peace, hoping the day might offer her some reprieve.

  Her plans for the morning were modest but appealing: perhaps a stroll through Cordelia’s galleries, losing herself among the vibrant works of artists who lived far outside the rigid boundaries of the nobility. The idea of wandering the lively stalls of New Kensington Market also held some charm; she loved the smells of fresh spices, newly arrived fashions from off-world and the hum of life so different from the ordered, quiet existence of Verius House, and even the cloistered academic rigmarole of Queen Marie’s Metropolitan.

  She glanced at the rain streaking the glass panes of the French doors and sighed. The weather might be dreary, but she was determined to make the most of her day. After all, she rarely had opportunities to explore the city unencumbered.

  As she sipped her coffee, her thoughts drifted unbidden to her place within the grand machinery of the de Vere legacy. Her father’s expectations weighed heavily on her, as they always had. It was far from enough for a scion of the de Veres to simply excel; her achievements were treated as obligations fulfilled, not milestones to be celebrated. Ancient History? Mastery of Ancient Greek? Mere feathers in the proverbial cap for her father, somehow yet another proof of his grand plan coming to fruition, his daughter simply a part of his grand scheme. Her impeccable academic record was met with silence, her sharp intellect seen as a tool for his ambitions rather than a triumph of her own.

  She wondered, not for the first time, what purpose her education truly served. She could read Thucydides and Plutarch in the original Greek, quote the rhetoric of Cicero, and debate the finer points of Alexandrian poetry, but none of it would matter if her future was bound to her father’s will. The thought made her stomach twist, because she had never been allowed a glimpse into that enigmatic future that Michael de Vere was planning. The de Vere dynasty was incredibly small as noble families went, with only the two of them in the main branch of the family. There had been children before Artemisia, two sons, but one had tragically died in a ‘car accident and the other had hanged himself after years of untreated depression, and the emotional trauma had driven away Michael’s wife into obscurity on Novorosyia. Ergo, a replacement had been required, and the Duke had apparently grown tired of the foibles and uncertainty of dealing with a spouse and naturally born children; he’d opted for the custom-built option, much like one would want a personalised skycar or a pedigree equine.

  Artemisia brushed a loose near-white curl behind her ear and tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the possibilities of the day ahead. But her reprieve was short-lived.

  The sound of deliberate footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the breakfast room, and a moment later, the butler, Mr Mukherjee, appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes were unreadable, his posture impeccable, but he wordlessly apologised to the young lady. Despite being his father’s creature and hire, Artemisia liked Mr Mukherjee; he was a gentle soul despite what circumstances the job forced upon him. She knew of the Church of St Elizabeth of Hungary that Mr Mukherjee frequented when he was off-duty, where he spent way too much of his well-earned salary to help those less fortunate.

  “My Lady,” he said with a slight bow, “His Grace requests your presence in the morning room at soon as practicable.”

  Artemisia set down her coffee cup, her fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain rim for a brief moment. Of course, her day would not be her own, that would have been too much to hope for.

  “Did he say why?” she asked, nonplussed as to what, but given her father’s mercurial whims, it rarely entailed anything good for her.

  “No, My Lady,” Mukherjee replied. “Only that it is a matter of some urgency.”

  She nodded, rising with careful grace despite the knot of frustration forming in her chest, a helpful footman in white and silver livery removing the chair.

  “Very well. Please let him know I’ll be there shortly.”

  The butler bowed again and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. Artemisia lingered for a moment, staring at the now-cooling coffee in her cup. The weight of her father’s summons settled over her like an iron mantle.

  As she made her way toward the morning room, hems of her gown gently wafting over the spotless marble floor, her thoughts churned. The Duke’s requests were rarely simple, and the timing of this one was especially foreboding. The looming shadow of the Tory party’s internal machinations had been a constant unvoiced presence in Verius House of late, and she suspected this summoning would be no different. Artemisia did not associate with the Tory Party as a whole, but was rather sympathetic to individual politicians among that most august body. If pressed, she might have admitted to being a bit of a Centrist, but luckily her father cared not, and his nominal social enemies were too occupied with a lot else to take grand notice of poor Artemisia. By her own admission, she had no time for politics, adding to the long list of her father’s admonishes. If I am so imperfect, why did the bastard make me this way?

  She paused briefly by one of the tall windows overlooking the rain-soaked garden. The world outside felt so tantalisingly distant, so far removed from the suffocating demands of her station. A recent memory flitted through her mind—glimpses of an earnest face, quiet words spoken in passing, and a lingering sense of inner warmth. Artemisia frowned, brushing the thought aside. Who in this world has time for conversations over lunch and happenstances at balls?

  The morning room was warm, suffused with the rich scent of Earl Grey and the faint crackle of the fireplace, but Artemisia felt none of its comfort. She chose a chaise longue and perched on the edge of the embroidered chair, delicately folding her hands in her lap, merely waiting. The silence between her and her father stretched long enough to fray even her considerable patience. A footman, one of the ones from the breakfast she had barely time to look at before being whisked away, gently poured into Neue Buda porcelain cups engraved with the de Vere crest; Per pale sable and argent, a double-headed eagle displayed counter-changed, armed and beaked or, upon a chief gules three estoiles argent. After pouring, the footman stepped back to stand at the doors to the morning room. One was never alone in a noble mansion, there were always servants moving ahead, and they naturally picked up on a lot of nuggets of information in the conversations they were unwitting audience to. But, part of the contract they signed was non-disclosure, a part that was firmly entrenched as non-breakable in Court unless overriding moral or legal motives could be presented. So the footman stood by the doors, pretending he was not there.

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  The Duke of Trewellynshire sat opposite Artemisia, his thin, long-fingered hands resting atop the carved argentwood cane he only used as a symbol of authority, and not for any practical purposes. Well, apart from using it for “disciplining” daughter from time to time. Though well past two-hundred years old, Michael de Vere remained as sharply composed as ever, both mentally and in appearance, and his crisp navy morning suit and high-collared waistcoat was immaculate. The firelight played off his white hair –oh so like his daughter’s, ironically enough due to age and not genes–, a striking contrast to the deep-set green eyes that had not softened with age.

  Artemisia knew that expression well; it was calculating, measuring. He was considering something, and whatever it was, it would involve her, attention she would rather have gone without.

  She lifted her teacup and took a slow sip, composing herself before breaking the silence. “You sent for me, Father.”

  His gaze flickered to her, cool as ever. “You are free this evening, I assume.”

  It was not a question, and Artemisia suppressed the urge to respond sarcastically or caustically. Her fingers tightened around the delicate porcelain for a brief moment.

  “I had not made plans.” That, at least, was true, though that would not have made no difference and she was perfectly cognizant of the fact.

  Michael de Vere exhaled shortly, as if the idea of her having any independent engagements were ridiculous to entertain. “Good. We are hosting a gathering tonight here at the apartment.”

  Artemisia set the cup down carefully. “Tonight?” She was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

  “Yes,” he said smoothly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request. “A reception, or rather, a gathering of select members of the Conservatives in the Lords and some of their social orbit. It is to be discreet, you understand, albeit quite necessary to arrange. The current political climate demands that certain discussions take place outside the halls of Parliament.”

  Artemisia’s mind raced to keep up. It wasn’t unusual for the Duke to host affairs of political significance, but with no prior notice? A formal reception worthy of the social standing of a duke was no small undertaking, even with Verius House’s army of staff.

  “You expect me to organize this,” she said, voice measured, not forming it as a question.

  “I expect you to see that it is done, and to the standards that is to be expected of our station.”

  A spark of resentment curled in her stomach. He had no doubt already decided on the guest list, the purpose, the outcome. The execution, however, fell to her. That in of itself was a novel new venture, Mr Crenshaw was usually the one arranging the social get-togethers of the de Veres, and Artemisia just followed on his proverbial coattails. The unspoken implication was clear—she would either rise to the occasion or once again fall short of the lofty and exacting ambitions he harboured for her. And she knew all too well what the punishment for failure was. She suppressed an urge to run a hand over her upper arms. Instead she smoothed a loose curl behind her ear, choosing her next words carefully.

  “That is very little time to prepare, Father, you could have told me this yesterday.”

  Michael de Vere tilted his head slightly, as though mildly interested in whether she was making an excuse or stating a fact. “Then you had best begin.”

  Artemisia inhaled slowly through her nose. This was a test, of course. Her entire life had been one unending examination under the scrutiny of a man who saw her as a project, a necessary fixture in his carefully curated world. She had long since ceased expecting praise or even acknowledgment of success—perfection was simply expected, and anything less was deemed irrecoverable failure. Still, she was not a child anymore. And though she had no illusions that arguing would change his mind, she would not let him dictate her every breath.

  She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, pink meeting green.

  “Very well, whom will the guest list entail?”

  The Duke’s eyes gleamed faintly at her lack of protest, or perhaps at her unvoiced challenge, –small as it was– though he masked it well. He reached for his handcom and, with the flick of a finger, sent the list across the room to her own device. It vibrated softly in her lap, in an inner pocket of her gown.

  “A selection of Lords and Ladies from the Conservative benches,” he said. “The Viscount New Kingston, Baroness Redgrove, the Countess of Cafferwyn, Baron Appleby, the usual sorts, and a few in their respective social circles. Plus a few political allies from the Democrats.” There was a pause. “A representative from Corinth may also be in attendance.”

  Her lips pressed into a fine line. So that was it.

  This was no mere social gathering; this was about the growing tensions in the Corridor. The warships allegedly assembling for Vistula, and the quiet, unspoken manoeuvring happening beneath the surface of formal diplomacy. Her father was positioning himself, ensuring that when the time came, the right people were aligned, so that he might be painted as either a conciliator or a credible alternative voice to rash actions by the Cabinet.

  “And I assume,” she said dryly and not a little sarcastically, “this will be the usual affair? Private, but impeccably executed, enough to make an impression without calling undue attention.”

  Michael de Vere gave a small nod, seemingly not picking up on his daughter’s barbs.

  “I will need the full authority of the household staff then,” Artemisia said, already thinking through the logistics, putting aside any misgivings and the icky feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Catering, seating, arrangements for discussions. Music, to take away from the discussions.”

  “I leave that to your discretion,” her father said, though it was clear he would accept nothing but perfection.

  Artemisia knew better than to ask why she was expected to handle it when any number of aides could do the same. It was a lesson. A reminder that, regardless of how much she excelled academically, socially, she would always be a tool for him to wield.

  “Will there be a guest of honour?” she asked finally.

  Michael de Vere’s expression remained unreadable. “There are many who need reminding of where their loyalties should lie. Consider that when making your preparations.”

  Her stomach twisted slightly, but she only inclined her head. The fact that the Duke had not mentioned the other bigwig Conservative duke, the Duke of Dawnshire, was extremely telling.

  “As you wish, Father.”

  She stood and smoothed down the folds of her tea gown, curtsied slightly, and turned toward the door.

  “Artemisia?”

  She hesitated. For the briefest moment, there was something in his voice, something just shy of approval, though it was buried beneath his usual clipped tone.

  “You are a de Vere,” he said simply. “Do not forget that.”

  She did not turn around.

  “No, Father,” she said softly. “I never do.”

  With that, she swept from the room, doors opened by the tea-pouring footman, her mind already racing through everything that needed to be done.

  As Artemisia strode out of the morning room, her mind was already churning through the logistics of what needed to be done. Her father had given her an impossible deadline, but impossibility was never an acceptable excuse in the de Vere household. The event would happen, and it would be flawless, no matter how much effort it demanded.

  The staff was already waiting. It was an unspoken rule of Verius House that when the Duke made a demand, his servants moved almost before he finished speaking, which was meant to be taken almost literally. The moment Artemisia stepped into the main hall, Mr Mukherjee was there, his hands clasped behind his back in that ever-composed manner of his. Alain Crenshaw, the major-domo, loomed just behind him, looking mildly perturbed as he thumbed through his handcom’s schedule. How they had been made aware of what Artemisia had just been told, was evidently a trade secret that professional servants refused to share with their mistress, because when Artemisia looked questioningly at Mukherjee, the butler simply stared ahead and gently adjusted the lapel of his jacket with a white-gloved hand.

  “My Lady,” Mukherjee intoned with his usual impeccable politeness instead, “the household staff is ready to receive your instructions.”

  Artemisia barely paused before nodding. “Then let’s not waste time.”

  The small retinue followed her to the grand dining hall, which had long since been repurposed as the nerve centre for social planning when large gatherings were afoot. A large oak table dominated the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in dark velvet. On occasions like formal dinners, the table was elongated and more chairs added, but for now it “merely” seated fourteen. Artemisia moved to the head of the table and sat, smoothing the fabric of her gown as Mukherjee and Crenshaw took their places at her side. Around them, the most senior members of the household staff –Mrs Whitmore, head chef Mr Aathooran Swasihnan, and Hectoria Prei?ner as stand-in for the maids– stood in attentive silence, waiting.

  She took a measured breath. “The Duke has decided to host an evening affair. It will be attended by a selection of the Conservative Party’s most influential figures and their associates. We are expecting upwards of probably seventy guests.”

  There was a slight shift in posture among the assembled staff, though none of them voiced their thoughts. The timeframe was absurd, but they knew better than to protest.

  “The ballroom will need to be fully prepared,” she continued. “I want every surface polished, the chandeliers spotless, and the rugs immaculate. We will need a formal table setting, English style of course, none of those French or Lübeck styles; and the seating must be arranged in a way that allows for discreet conversation—no rigid placements, but enough structure to guide movement naturally. And that is just for the ballroom, we also need to prepare the sitting room, the library, and the tea and reading lounges as retreats.”

  She turned to Crenshaw. “The wine cellar needs to be reviewed immediately. I want a selection of both locally sourced vintages and off-world stuff –both the expensive and the easily procurable kind– but do be mindful, some guests can be quite particular about what they drink. Ensure there’s a variety of wine, sparkling, hard liquor, sweet and dry selections and non-alcoholic options as well. Bubbles for welcome drinks, spumante, and mozelli I think we have in abundance.”

  Crenshaw gave a brisk nod, already making notes on his handcom. “And for the cuisine, My Lady?”

  Artemisia pursed her lips in thought. “Light but refined. Canapés, shellfish, smoked meats, finger-food in general; this isn’t a dinner, but no one should go hungry either, that reflects poorly on us as hosts. Mr Swasihnan, any objections or ideas?”

  The head chef pursed his lips in thought for a few moments before he shrugged.

  “My Lady’s suggestions are good, canapés and light refreshments would be best, since they don’t take that long to prepare and can be served cold, and if the table settings run out the kitchen can quickly prepare more. We will have to send someone to the Fish Market in Lysander to get fresh produce though, unless you want off-world and by extension frozen…?”

  Artemisia could already feel an embryonic headache start to develop.

  “Personally, I don’t mind either option, Mr Swasihnan, just as long as you and your staff can serve something that’ll leave some impression on the guests. If I authorise you to buy say, five kiloes of Juvian malimani, could you put that to good use? Other than that, plus a few orders with local butchers', bakeries and liquor shops, I would assume our pantry is up to the task?”

  The chef almost paled at the idea of handling such expensive and exotic fish, imported from the United Autarchos, but his professional pride took over and he nodded eagerly.

  Mukherjee spoke next. “Will His Grace require any specific preferences regarding floral arrangements or additional decorative elements?”

  Her father had not specified, but Artemisia knew what would be expected. “Nothing excessive,” she said. “Understated elegance, and by that I mean primarily native Auroran and Camlann blooms—white niniannes, blue ringflowers, and midnight bells. Keep the arrangements physically low in height and spaced out to encourage conversation rather than obstruct it. Get some florists in Kensington or Guildford to handle it, don’t waste our staff’s time with it, apart from placing them and making final adjustments.”

  A faint murmur of approval ran through the room. If nothing else, the de Vere name was synonymous with impeccable taste, and Artemisia intended to uphold that legacy, even if it exhausted her.

  Mukherjee inclined his head. “I shall see to it personally, My Lady.”

  Artemisia met his gaze and nodded. “Very well.”

  At the corner of her eye she could see Crenshaw almost bristle at Mukherjee taking personal charge of the evening’s arrangements. Professional rivalries within the servant staff was common, especially for advancement into roles as valet, lady’s maids, or between nominal chefs d’h?tel like a major-domo and a butler.

  There was a moment of quiet as the weight of responsibility settled fully onto her shoulders. She had arranged minor events before, but this was different; those had been setting tables and arranging decorations for dinners, or being a cute and welcoming face all dressed up to greet arrivals to larger events. But this was not just another function; it was a political statement, a reflection of her father’s influence. And by extension, it was a reflection of her.

  As the staff dispersed, Artemisia remained seated, hands folded in her lap. The rain drummed softly against the tall windows, and for a fleeting moment, she longed to be anywhere else—to step outside, to disappear into the anonymity of Cordelia’s crowded streets, to be free of expectation. But she was a de Vere, and de Veres did not abandon duty.

  She rose gracefully, smoothing her skirts as she did, and turned to Mukherjee. “See to the musicians. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  And just like that, the machine of Verius House was set into motion.

  By early afternoon, Verius House was already beginning to shift under the weight of preparations. The kitchens had sprung to life, footmen moved through the halls with quiet urgency, and the household’s logistics were unfolding like a well-rehearsed play. Housemaids were cleaning the floors, cleaning drones were brushing off and polishing chandeliers and windows, orders for food and drink deliveries had been placed and some had started to arrive. Artemisia oversaw it all with the air of a general preparing for an impromptu campaign albeit one she had no desire to fight but would execute flawlessly nonetheless.

  The musicians, however, remained an unresolved issue.

  She had just finished approving the final menu—discreetly reducing the more ostentatious options her father had suggested, mainly due to availability and to reduce the workload on the kitchen staff rather than cost—when Crenshaw approached her in the usually sunlit but now thoroughly dreary windowed corridor outside the main first floor study. His lined face was as impassive as ever, but the very fact that he had sought her out rather than waiting to be summoned was a quiet indication that some unforeseen dilemma had arisen.

  “My Lady, regarding the musicians,” he began, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Most of the professional ensembles suitable for such an occasion are either engaged elsewhere or unwilling to accept a last-minute engagement.”

  Artemisia frowned. “You mean to tell me there is not a single available classical quartet in all of Cordelia?”

  “There are some, of course,” Crenshaw allowed. “But none that I would personally recommend to the de Vere household. Either their reputation is… dubious, or their pricing is extortionate even by noble standards. Given the short notice, they seem to believe we are desperate.”

  She sighed. Perhaps they weren’t entirely wrong. Nobles and even upper middle class families often threw on-the-day formal parties in Cordelia, and that meant a bob or two for those musicians and troupes able to step up on short notice. At the same time, it was a Saturday, and the vast majority of people who had the opportunity to take Saturdays off did.

  Yet live performances were a necessity. A subtle display of culture and sophistication was required—one did not subject the upper echelons of the Tory party to the indignity of drone-orchestrated music, no matter how finely tuned the synthetic strings were.

  “However, I could make inquiries,” Crenshaw offered once he saw her expression, “there are always rising talents eager for an opportunity.”

  Artemisia frowned. She disliked unknown variables. A poor performance would reflect upon her as much as the event itself.

  “I want a baroque ensemble,” she said firmly. “Something with restraint. Chamber pieces, no theatrics.”

  Before Crenshaw could respond, a new voice joined the conversation—one that sent a slight ripple of surprise through both of them.

  “If I may, My Lady,” said Mr Mukherjee, stepping forward with his usual quiet grace, which neither Artemisia nor Crenshaw had heard, startling them both slightly. “I may have a solution. By happenstance, I was overseeing some errands in Kensington earlier and came across a student baroque ensemble performing in one of the arcades. A rather competent one.”

  Artemisia blinked. “A student ensemble?”

  Crenshaw’s brow furrowed. “It wouldn’t happen to be the QMMU Student Baroque Orchestra? The one that had the impromptu performance at the Beaufort Arcade?”

  Mukherjee nodded. “The very same, a small subset of them at least. A quintet, I believe. Their performance drew quite the appreciative audience in their little pop-up, and while they are not professionals in the traditional sense, their skill was evident. More importantly, they would in all likelihood be available on short notice and would likely be willing to accept the engagement.”

  Artemisia hesitated, the notion catching her off guard. The aristocracy did not typically hire university students for events of this nature—at least, not unless they were protégés of some renowned master or already attached to one of the established musical societies. But Crenshaw and Mukherjee would not propose something truly outlandish. She could see Crenshaw was amenable to the notion, despite the blow to his professional pride it no doubt was to accept Mukherjee's ad-hoc solution when he had just admitted he had failed.

  She folded her arms, considering. “Do we even know if they’ll accept?”

  Mukherjee inclined his head. “I can return to Kensington and inquire personally. Given the prestige of the event, I suspect they would be eager for the opportunity. Plus they had a cellist, a harpsichord, a harp, and two violinists.”

  It was a practical solution. A last-minute fix that would allow her to focus on the more pressing matters still demanding her attention. She had no reason to object. No reason at all.

  “Very well,” she said, brushing off the faint unease but also unwarranted giddy hopefulness curling at the edge of her thoughts. “Have them vetted first. I want assurances of their capability before anything is confirmed.”

  Crenshaw bowed. “Of course, My Lady.”

  She dismissed them with a nod, turning away before her own mind could linger.

  There was no reason to dwell on it if a familiar name would, by some miracle, be among the tiny little orchestra’s roster.

  No reason at all.

  And yet, as she ascended the stairs to prepare for the evening ahead, she felt a strange feeling settle awkwardly in her chest. One that might take the edge of the evening, if it so happened to be a prophetic one. Artemisia found herself holding up her skirts as she skipped down the stairs to check on how the floral arrangements were coming along in the ballroom.