By noon, an invitation arrived — no seal, no name, only the words: "For Miss Winterose. Today. The Rose Parlor."
It was left discreetly on my dormitory desk, folded between yesterday's lesson scrolls. The ink was fresh. No one saw who delivered it.
Serena leaned over the card. "You think it's real?"
"Oh, it's real," I murmured.
After last night's encounter with Lady Delaria, I suspected something like this would follow. One does not trespass on sealed archives and remain unnoticed — not when Delaria walked away saying nothing. That silence meant danger.
The Rose Parlor was infamous — the queen's preferred setting for polite threats.
I arrived in my least offensive gown, silver-grey and soft-spoken. Inside, the scent of roses nearly choked.
Queen Isolde sat near the window, steeping tea with mechanical grace.
"Sit, Elira. And don't look so surprised. I've had my eye on you for a while."
I sat. Every breath was calculated.
"What do you think I want from you?" she asked.
I answered without hesitation. "Control. Of the truth."
Her smile was a still blade. "And here I thought you'd say loyalty."
She poured tea. Pale, fragrant. Poisonous in all but taste.
"The academy is a lovely stage," she continued. "But the audience is shifting. Some of your little performances have reached ears they shouldn't."
I said nothing.
"Be careful, Miss Winterose. Some ghosts are best left buried."
"And some queens," I said calmly, "forget how dry their thrones really are."
A flicker of steel passed through her gaze. Then, just like that, it was over.
"We'll talk again. Perhaps next time, you'll bring honesty."
"Or a shovel," I murmured.