Chapter 487: The Tea Party
"Tea, your Highnesses," the royal head maid announced brightly, gliding forward with a tray as other attendants followed, setting down cups and small porcelain pots. The fragrance of warm herbs and delicate blossoms curled into the air, soft and inviting.
"Oh yes," Beatrice, wife of the Second Prince, said with lifted chin, pride gleaming in her eyes. "I brewed and devised this blend myself."
The ladies’ chatter faltered, every head turning toward her. Suddenly, the tea seemed worth more than simple refreshment.
Salviana reached for her cup, her movements calm and elegant, mirroring the other princesses as they all leaned forward to sniff the steaming liquid. The fragrance was floral, citrusy, layered with a faint trace of spice that tickled her senses.
"I have the most exquisite taste of us all," Beatrice declared as though it were fact, her lips curling with satisfaction.
A scoff snapped across the table. "No," Princess Abigail interrupted sharply, flicking her hair back. "The Queen does. My mother, of course."
Her tone made it clear no other woman could possibly be superior.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Aside from the Queen, naturally."
Princess Lilian’s voice, cool as mist, slid into the air. "Princess Genevieve perhaps—she is the Queen’s first daughter, after all."
The table quieted at that, the faintest ripple of tension spreading.
Salviana sipped her tea slowly, letting the flavors roll across her tongue. Interesting. These women competed not only in beauty, but in taste, status, refinement. Even tea became a battlefield.
She set the cup down gently, letting porcelain touch porcelain with a soft click. "It is quite delicate, Beatrice," she said warmly, her voice carrying just enough weight to draw every ear. "Not many could balance the spice so gracefully without overwhelming the floral. You must have a patient hand."
Beatrice’s face lit with triumph at the compliment—though several others looked visibly displeased at Salviana’s generosity.
"Well," Irene cut in, her lips twisting, "anyone with leisure time and a good kitchen maid could experiment until something acceptable emerged."
Salviana’s gaze flicked to her, unbothered. "Perhaps. But patience is a virtue you and I both know is rare."
The jab was subtle, veiled in silk. Yet it silenced Irene at once, her face tightening as though she had swallowed a lemon.
Around them, the other women murmured over their cups, tasting, commenting, vying for attention. Trays of sugared biscuits, candied fruits, and small cakes followed the tea, each contribution from a different princess to "show off" her refinement.
Salviana nibbled politely, though her appetite was faint without Alaric’s steady presence. Still, she smiled, listened, and let her words fall like carefully placed stones into the current of conversation, creating ripples whenever someone dared dismiss her.
This was not a tea party. It was a proving ground. And she would not be trampled.
"But I wonder what Alaric packed in there, Oh lord help me" Salviana thought as she took a small gulp.
The fragrance of Beatrice’s tea still lingered when Princess Abigail pushed her cup forward with a delicate clink. She leaned back in her seat, eyes flashing with defiance.
"Well," she began, her tone ringing with pride, "if Princess Beatrice insists on claiming her hand is most refined, then I shall let my work speak for itself. I brought sugared violets, prepared in the manner of the royal kitchens of old. The recipe is my mother’s—Her Majesty the Queen herself—and thus it carries a heritage far beyond... experiment."
The words were honeyed, but the undertone was sharp enough to cut glass. She gestured toward the silver tray set near her, where delicate violet petals, dusted in fine sugar, glittered like tiny amethysts.
"Oh, sugared flowers," Jolene murmured sweetly, tilting her head. "How... quaint."
A sharp intake of breath followed the barb, and Abigail stiffened, lips twitching with restrained rage.
"They are not quaint," Irene interjected before her sister could explode, her eyes glinting like knives. "They are regal. And it is no surprise that Princess Abigail brought them, since I, too, thought to bring sugared petals for our gathering."
Her tray was lifted forward by a maid: sugared rose petals, pale pink, soft as blush, gleaming with crystallized sweetness.
The room shifted, low whispers rippling like a restless tide.
"Ah, how awkward," Christina muttered under her breath, unable to resist the sting. "Two of the same. One might think there was... a lack of originality."
Abigail’s face flamed. "It is tradition!" she snapped, her composure slipping. "What could be more suitable than sweets fit for Her Majesty herself?"
"Or more predictable," Jolene added with a sly grin, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.
The air was thick with unspoken challenge, and Salviana lifted her cup again, hiding her mouth behind the rim as she fought the urge to smirk. So much pride over sugared petals. I wonder if they even taste as fine as they look.
She set the cup down softly, every gesture measured, every glance controlled. When the sisters’ bickering grew sharp enough to draw stares from every corner, Salviana’s voice, gentle but steady, slipped into the fray.
"Both are exquisite," she said, her tone balanced like a blade. "The violets carry the Queen’s dignity, and the roses... well, roses speak of youth and passion. They remind us that refinement can wear many faces. Why quarrel over which face is lovelier, when both adorn the same family?"
For a heartbeat, silence. Then a few reluctant nods. Even Jolene blinked, caught off guard by Salviana’s diplomacy.
But Irene scoffed. "Spoken like one who does not understand the weight of bloodlines. You would not know what it means for a mother’s hand to guide you in such matters."
The words were venomous, carefully chosen, and aimed straight for Salviana’s heart. A hush fell. Even the maids holding the trays froze in place.
Salviana met Irene’s gaze, calm and unflinching. So this is how far they will go. To throw my origins at me like I’m filth. She might not have been royalty but she wasn’t excluded from weight of bloodlines. That is why she became a princess afterall.
She inhaled softly, then smiled—a smile that was not sweet but sharp. "Perhaps not," she said. "But I do know what it means for a husband’s hand to guide mine. And it seems to me, Princess Irene, that is worth more than all the violets and roses sugared in this kingdom. And the weight of my bloodline is what brought me here, to become a princess, I can’t believe you’re the one to speak like that" Salviana has become ruthless and she couldn’t care less what the court thinks of her, she has been throw almost every hell but childbirth in the last few months. She is good.
A ripple of gasps swept the table. Christina nearly choked on her tea. Abigail’s eyes widened, Irene’s face darkened, and Beatrice pressed her lips together to hide a smile.
The silence stretched. Then Lilian’s silken voice slid in like oil on water, attempting to smooth the edges. "My, my... such spirit today. Shall we not taste the sweets before the words spoil them?"