Princess of Calamity (#2 PRINCESS series-part of the GOLDEN UNIVERSE)✔

•T H I R T E E N•

♪ But your home is now your prison
You forgot that, without me, you won't go far, far ♪
{MARINA—Purge the poison}
[EXPLICIT WARNING for the song]

Keeping her chest puffed out, her arms tight at her sides, her fingers stiff in her itchy gloves, Cordelia proceeded into the decorated main salon. One would never guess the amount of large, accommodating rooms Read Manor had from looking at it from the outside. Within were a multitude of spaces with warm wooden floors and high windows and a lofty appearance that reminded Cordelia of a Ballroom. Her Ballroom.

She'd never entered a Ballroom without men's heads turning to her, women's eyes glazing over her outfit, admiration and awe echoing in their words while she breezed through guests and accepted the proper introductions and greetings. She'd never been unknown, unseen—and if she'd ever wished to be invisible, she'd gotten her wish that night.

Guests kept to themselves, barely acknowledging her as she took a few steps into the area. The light music—a fiddler and a piano-player—hummed in the corner, where a few men were watching, tapping their feet to the rhythm. It was not a dance-party, Lady Read had specified, so there was no room to dance. Yet Cordelia caught a few gazes between potential dance-partners, who'd proceed with dancing later, after having had a few too many drinks.

A smell of baked goods and dough rose through the area as servants deposited platters of food on the buffet, at the rear of the room. There was more awareness for that than to Cordelia's arrival.

No one knew her, here. Few were those who'd visited with Lady Read and learned of her stay here, of her existence, even. Those ladies—who'd gossiped about her fate right in front of her—either hadn't arrived, or were stationed in another of the salons. Lady Read had prepared several areas for the guests to entertain themselves.

Hadn't this anonymity been what Cordelia wanted, when fleeing from Torrinni? The freedom to make her own choices, to marry whom she wanted to if she wanted to, to live life as she saw fit with no rules, no temper-throwing older brother to dictate her decisions? She'd fled to hide her identity as the writer of a scandalous book; she'd ran off to preserve her sanity from her brother's heartlessness. And yet here she was, disappointed that no one would notice her tonight. But also disappointed, she realized, at those who'd locked themselves in Lord Read's study and hadn't given her a chance to prove who she was.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Helen amongst the guests, standing near the windows. She also hadn't seen her—but her excuse was that her wrist was being held tightly by a man a few heads taller than her. She was wincing, struggling not to cry, from what Cordelia could tell. He gripped her hard, with the intention to hurt, that was obvious. He scolded her—even with the music playing and the light chatter of other guests, Cordelia could hear his hissing voice directed at Helen. Spittle flew from his mouth as he reprimanded her, having no care for those around them. And, truth be told, no one was watching them, anyway, too absorbed in other gossip to pay attention.