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Lady Hargrave quirked an eyebrow, settling herself into a nearby armchair. “Indeed it does.” Her gaze flicked to the dress in my lap, then back to my face. “I told you last time, she doesn't like flowers.”

“Ah, but that's where you're wrong,” I said with a wry smile. “She likesblueflowers.”

Lady Hargrave's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Blue flowers. Of course.” She shook her head, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Children and their whims.”

I nodded, focusing on my stitching. The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft rustle of fabric and Isla's occasional fidgeting.

“I heard about your forge,” Lady Hargrave said suddenly. “A terrible tragedy.”

I swallowed hard, fighting back the sting of tears. “Yes,” I managed. “It was.”

“And yet here you are, picking up the pieces. It must take such courage to strike out on your own, to build something after losing so much.”

I blinked, startled by the unexpected empathy in her voice. “I... thank you. But I'm merely doing what needs to be done.”

Lady Hargrave waved a hand, dismissing my humility with a flick. “Oh, please don’t downplay it. You’re far braver than you realize.”

I stilled, the needle suspended in midair.

Brave? It didn’t feel like bravery.

It felt like survival—barely making it through each day, scraping by with work that no longer fit the person I’d become. The words “striking out on your own” echoed in my mind, mocking me. My forge was in ruins, my hands manipulating silk and thread instead of iron and fire. Was this what bravery looked like?

It felt like defeat—like I was clinging to the edges of a life that had already burned away.

But Lady Hargrave's words stirred something deep inside me. Maybe it was the way she said it—unexpected, almost reverent—or maybe it was just the ache of wanting to believe it was true. Could it be? Could I still be brave, even now?

I lowered the needle, my fingers trembling slightly, but I forced a smile. “I suppose... courage looks different depending on where you're standing.”

Lady Hargrave tilted her head, her sharp gaze softening ever so slightly. “It does, indeed.”

We held each other’s eyes for a moment longer than felt comfortable. I wasn’t used to seeing her... human. I half expected some cutting remark or instruction on the next bit of work for Isla's dress, but instead, Lady Hargrave folded her hands neatly over her lap, the laces of her embroidered gown shining in the light.

“You know,” she began, and with Lady Hargrave, any thought that started that way was bound to be something I very much didnotknow, “I envy what you have.”

I nearly dropped the needle. “I’m sorry, what?”

She blinked, unaffected by my outburst. “Oh yes. Don’t act so shocked. You may have had setbacks, but at least your life is your own. I may sit here, gliding through dinners and teas, but every movement is watched. Judged.” She raised an eyebrow at Isla’s bouncing figure at the far end of the parlor. “Even decisions as trivial as flower embroidery are scrutinized. You’ve done something...” She paused, searching for the right word, “...bold. To choose your own path after so much loss.”

I stared at her, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the reminder that I could only earn a fraction of her wealth with any path I chose. But she didn’t say it.

“So,” she added lightly, as if pulling a thread through the heavy conversation, “you’ll be rebuilding then?”

“I'm not...” I cleared my throat, willing my voice to stay steady. “I'm not sure.”

In truth, I hadn't let myself even think about the forge. Only a couple of days had passed since the fire, but it felt like a lifetime. Rebuilding felt impossible. Too close to everything I was afraid to confront. If I faced the forge, I’d have to face it all—Vorgath, my future, my failures.

Lady Hargrave watched me carefully, and for the first time, I wondered if she saw through the fragile veneer I was trying to hold together. Her gaze flicked to the trembling needle in my hands, but she said nothing.

I swallowed, the silence between us growing thick. “It’s been hard to think beyond what’s right in front of me,” I admitted, my voice quieter now.

Lady Hargrave’s eyes softened in a way I’d never seen before. For a moment, she wasn’t the imperious noblewoman, all sharp edges and well-practiced smiles. She was just a woman—a woman who, maybe surprisingly, understood what it meant to carry more weight than one person should ever have to.

“Well,” she said, her voice measured but kind, “you’d better start thinking about it. I hear the Wildclaws have commissioned their own set of silverware. I’ll be needing one, too, of course. Wouldn’t want to fall behind.” She gave a thin smile, but there was something in her tone—a hint of genuine warmth beneath her usual aloofness.

I blinked, feeling as though a rug had just been pulled from under me. “Y-You mean...”

“Yes,” she replied, rising smoothly from her chair and going to a small writing desk. She reached inside a drawer and pulled out a velvet pouch. “Five new settings. Plus carving knives to match.” She held the pouch out to me, dangling it lightly between two fingers. “Consider this an advance on the work.”