The lanterns in Lord Hargrove’s great hall burned like tiny theatres, each flame a sigh and a promise. They hung on chains and chimneys, threaded through rafters where pennants fluttered like gossip. Guests leaned over one another with the intimacy of people who lived by being seen—necklaces catching light, whispers tossed like coins. Plum wine perfumed the air under a flurry of broadsheets: Julian Hargrove’s latest paean to Angela Davenport pinned to a pillar, its edges scorched from enthusiastic fingers. Lenora peeled an orange at the long table and watched the peel spiral away like a theater prop. Every slice of rind was a comma in the conversation. She listened because not listening in Greyhaven was a form of treason; knowing was the difference between being served and being sold. “Another year, another feast,” Julian announced from the dais, voice syruped with collusion. He rubbed his hands and grinned at Angela as if he’d invented her name. “Let the poems begin. Tonight is for sudden genius.” Angela moved like she’d been carved with applause in mind. Silk settled when she walked; the room made way because everyone wanted to be remembered as the one who'd seen her first. Her smile was a practiced arc of moonlight. “You’re spoiling us, Julian,” she said, soft enough to warm the table. “But if I must—we’ll play a game.” She lifted a glass. “An instant poem. A scene, a scent, a face. You give me