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“No, Amelia is right,” Miss Lynwood said. “We might be young, frankly, but it is our duty to put forth solutions to problems that we find, and you can do that. And I think we can all agree that the Unblooded are becoming a problem.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Shan twisted her hands in her lap—just a moment’s worth of calculated dithering—then lifted her head. “No, you are right. I will get to work on drafting this bill and I’ll present it myself. Thank you all for your support.”

Amelia smiled. “Excellent. It’s always good to have another bright young mind join us, especially one who does sit in the House.” She squeezed her hand. “I think we’ll be good friends, you and I.”

Shan returned her smile, letting the conversation slide away from this dreary bit of politics to the latest opera. Yes, this salon was indeed a success in every conceivable way. Except for the way that she felt Samuel’s gaze linger on her—confused, angry, and full of judgement.

Well, there was no such thing as the perfect day.

Samuel was one of the first to leave, ducking out of the salon when it was just barely acceptable to do so. Shan didn’t linger on it—didn’t let herself linger on it—as she focused on the rest of her guests. She smiled at Miss Rayne, curtsied before Sir Morse, clasped hands with Miss Lynwood.

Last of all came Amelia Dunn, who only smiled at her knowingly. “We must meet again soon,” she said, and Shan murmured in agreement.

Of course, she had to please her new handler.

But soon enough they were all gone, leaving Shan with an empty home and an even emptier heart. Despite the successes, it had been harder than she had anticipated to play that role, to fold herself into a shape that was socially acceptable as she played the part politics demanded of her.

It was easier to be the Sparrow than the Lady LeClaire, and, somehow, she thought she might get fewer enemies that way.

Turning towards the scattered remains of the party, she wanted nothing more than to tidy up, even though it wasn’t her place. Even though it wasn’t something any lady of quality would do. Her hands ached to do something—anything—and a restlessness filled her as she clenched them at her side.

Useless.

“Well, well,” Anton said, appearing behind her as stealthily as a shadow. “That was an interesting meeting, wasn’t it?”

Shan didn’t even turn to her brother. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“Naturally.” He slipped around her to grab a couple of biscuits off the table, shoving them both into his mouth whole. “Ugh, dry.”

“They’re popular.”

“They’re shit,” Anton replied. “There is this recipe of Mother’s—”

She shook her head, a quick, sharp movement. “You know I can’t serve those.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t even say which ones they were.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She crumbled a biscuit in her hand. Her brother was right. They were awful, dry things, hardly sweet at all and with no discernible flavor. “I cannot serve Tagalan food. I’d be laughed out of society.”

“Oh, foolish me.” He wiped the dry crumbs off his hand. “I should have remembered. We can have adobo and sinagang and pancit when it’s just the two of us, but we can’t let anyone else know that we dare defy expectations.”

Shan just slumped into a chair, too tired to be angry. “Are you just here to fight, Anton? Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Probably,” Anton admitted. “But there is something I wanted to talk about.” She just waved her hand, urging him on. “I didn’t know you had planned to be so… political.”

Ah, so that was it. Of course that would have caught his attention. “It wasn’t precisely something I planned, you know. Sometimes I have no choice but to react to things as they happen.”

“And you just so happened to fall into monarchist sentiments?”

“As opposed to what? This democratic nonsense that’s been filling the streets?” Anton didn’t respond, and Shan looked at him in shock. “Really, Anton? I expected such things from Samuel, but I thought you knew better.”

A dark silence hung over them as Anton chewed on his lip. Blood and steel, but when had they grown so distant? He had always been interested in politics and frustrated that he could not actively participate in them because of his Blood, but she never would have pegged him as a democrat.

“I thought,” Anton said, with more calm than she expected of him, “that we are working to change things.”

“We are,” Shan said, then dropped her voice low. “I haven’t changed my plans.”

“And what do you expect to happen, then,” Anton said, “when your little coup succeeds? You’re only trading one King for another.”