Page 42 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Forty-two

Compliments and Cruel-Tea

The next afternoon, Lyric was summoned to tea.

Summoned—that’s how it felt. The butler, Charles, had appeared at her door with a gentle knock, informing her that Mrs. Thornwick expected her presence in the east parlour at three. Not requested. Expected.

Lyric smoothed the wrinkles from her blouse and tied back her hair before descending the stairs. As she approached the parlour, the delicate clinking of china and the sound of high, brittle laughter reached her.

The room was suffocatingly elegant. Heavy velvet drapes smothered the light, and a long polished table was set with gleaming silver, delicate pastries, and mismatched teacups that were probably antiques.

Mrs. Thornwick sat at the head, flanked by three women in muted florals and stiff smiles—cut from the same brittle cloth.

“Ah, Lyric,” Mrs. Thornwick said, gesturing to the empty seat beside her. “Do join us. We were just discussing childbirth.”

Lyric sat slowly. Every eye at the table turned to her.

“I was telling the ladies,” Mrs. Thornwick continued, pouring tea with mechanical precision, “that you’ll be having a natural birth, of course. Just as every Thornwick woman has done. No medication. No hospitals. It’s a family tradition. ”

Lyric blinked. “Actually, I haven’t decided yet—”

“Oh, but we have,” Mrs. Thornwick interrupted, handing her a cup. “It’s the purest way. The most spiritual. And so empowering, don’t you agree, ladies?”

The women nodded in perfect unison.

One of them, a woman with icy gray eyes and a fox-shaped brooch, leaned forward. “You’re rather small,” she said. “I do hope the child won’t be too large. Natural births can be… quite intense.”

Another chimed in, smiling thinly. “I had one without so much as a whimper. Of course, I was raised to tolerate pain.”

A third added, “It’s such a beautiful process when done properly. You’ll need real discipline. Emotional control. But I’m sure you’ll manage... eventually.”

Lyric’s cheeks burned. She sipped her tea, but her hands trembled, and the rim clinked sharply against her teeth.

One woman leaned closer, eyes scanning Lyric like an x-ray. “Are you still gaining a lot of weight? It’s hard to tell under that blouse.”

Lyric nearly choked on her sip. “I’m gaining what the doctor said is normal.”

Mrs. Thornwick raised a brow. “You did say you had some trouble staying active, didn’t you? I’m sure the doctor has a great deal of patience.”

Laughter flitted through the room—brittle, sharp, cruel.

The conversation shifted—gardens, horses, charity auctions—but the glances never stopped. Lyric felt their judgment settle over her like a second skin.

At one point, one of the women gestured toward Lyric’s neck.

“Oh, what a charming little necklace. A locket, is it?” she asked, squinting. “It looks... very sentimental.”

Lyric’s hand flew to the locket. “It belonged to my mother.”

“How sweet,” the woman said. “You can tell it wasn’t purchased from a proper jeweller.”

Another chimed in, “Yes, so many modern girls hold onto the strangest things. But what else can you expect when there’s no family estate to inherit from? ”

Lyric’s breath caught.

Mrs. Thornwick said nothing. Just sipped her tea, watching.

The woman with the fox brooch tilted her head. “Do your parents live nearby?”

Lyric hesitated. “They... they passed away.”

A beat of silence. Then a syrupy voice: “Oh. Well. That explains it.”

That explains what?

Lyric’s stomach twisted violently.

Mrs. Thornwick’s voice sliced through the stillness. “It’s been a difficult adjustment for her, of course. No real upbringing in the traditional sense. But she’s adapting.”

Lyric felt the air being vacuumed out of her lungs.

She reached for another sip of tea, but her hands shook so badly the cup clattered in its saucer.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.

Instead, she smiled—a brittle, hollow thing.

“Do have any hobbies, dear?” someone asked.

“I sketch,” Lyric said, voice barely above a whisper. “Design work, mostly.”

“Ah yes,” another said. “You’re the one from the little boutique. I saw it once. Quaint.”

Another voice, soft as a scalpel: “I always say there’s a difference between designers and decorators. Professionals versus hobbyists.”

Lyric’s throat closed. Her hands curled into fists beneath the table.

By the time tea was over, her stomach ached more from tension than from the dainty sandwiches.

Mrs. Thornwick stood and brushed Lyric’s shoulder with a faux-sweet smile.

“You were lovely, dear. Just lovely. I think the ladies were quite taken with you.”

The women offered vague compliments and half-hearted goodbyes. One said, “You’re so brave, dear,” with a pitying pat on Lyric’s arm .

As the door closed behind them, Mrs. Thornwick turned back to the tea tray, humming softly.

Lyric sat frozen in her chair, hands clenched in her lap.

And for the first time, she saw it clearly—

The smile.

The way Mrs. Thornwick had watched.

She hadn’t just allowed the cruelty.

She had orchestrated it.

Every jab. Every humiliation.

Not just for control.

For pleasure.

She liked watching people suffer.

And Lyric was trapped inside her masterpiece.