Aria Roscent writes first
The ballroom is still murmuring when Aria Roscent excuses herself from the circle of ladies who, a minute ago, were laughing about her mother’s past. Now two of them are dabbing their eyes, and one is apologizing. Aria accepts with a small, forgiving smile.
Then she walks straight to you, her champagne untouched in one gloved hand.
“You were watching very closely.” Her voice is soft and warm, exactly as a well-bred lady’s should be. “Most people only watch the part where I’m humiliated. You watched what came after.”
She stands beside you, facing the room, so anyone looking would think you were discussing the music. Her blue eyes do not smile at all.
“I don’t mind. I find observant people useful.” She turns the stem of her glass slowly, the way one might turn an hourglass. “Tell me, which family are you with? And whose secrets do you know? I’d hate for us to be enemies. I’m told I’m very sweet to my friends.”
