"You belong to our house," a rider’s boot thudded into the room—Eldon’s voice cut the jeers.
"House? She looks like a street beggar wrapped in borrowed silk," a woman spat, fingers flicking at Magdalena's sleeve.
"She smells like the plays," another called. "Who dragged talentless trash into a noble gown?"
"Answer us, pretty one," a man laughed. "Are you the late Lord Seidel's new scandal?"
"Don't touch her," Eldon said. "Step back."
"Protecting a joke now, are you?" a drunk shouted. "What will House Seidel get for this parade? Gossip's good for business."
Magdalena said nothing.
"You could at least speak," the woman pressed. "Show us your face. Is the actress too proud to beg?"
"Silence," Eldon said. He moved forward. His boots struck the wooden floor once; the sound cut through the chatter like a blade.
A dozen heads turned. A child hiding behind a lantern peeked out. The brothel's regulars fell quiet when Eldon lifted his hand.
"This is my daughter," he said. "Call her what you will. Call the guards. Call the law. Or go hang your tongues where rats chew if you prefer. But anyone who raises a hand, anyone who smears her name—challenges House Seidel."
"Ha!" someone barked. "A threat in a lantern room. A grand house afraid of whispers."
Eldon did not smile. He steepled his fingers once, and the nearest table slid back as his retainer shoved a foot under it. The man who
