12-20-2025, 05:53 PM
The heat of celebration clung to the walls like an overwhelming fog of drunken glee and last-minute desires. Midnight passed like a velvet curtain thrown wide open, and everyone inside seemed desperate to cling to the moment.
Daphne followed Eve’s lead, pausing only to resettle her gloves at the wrist as she crossed the threshold again. The silvery sheen of her gown shimmered briefly in the light spilling from a modern chandelier overhead. She kept her gaze forward, spine straight.
Eve’s description of Araminta hung in her memory, warm as a sunrise, and it was that line in particular that had rooted in her mind like a hook behind her sternum. Daphne could feel the echo of affection and sincerity radiating outward from Eve still, mixing with the tenor of the room into a concoction of emotion and feeling.
Still, she let her steps slow as they passed beneath a smaller archway, where the noise dimmed slightly and the crowd thinned enough that she could hear her own thoughts, and more importantly, feel no one pressing in too close other than Eve. In that moment, she chose to explain the long story as best she could in a short moment. Her voice came soft, cautious.
“I’m not certain,” she began, her accent folding the consonants gently, “that I should say anything at all.” Her expression remained composed, but the hesitation sat beneath her skin, taut and unfamiliar. She wondered if Eve would be able to sense her hesitation.
She looked to the side, studying the way Eve moved, the easy presence of someone she trusted. And then just before another guest might pass too close Daphne leaned in, her lips just beside Eve’s ear, her voice a careful thread of breath. She hadn’t said it out loud until this moment.
“I suspect she might be my birth mother.”
She drew back slightly, enough to meet Eve’s eyes if she turned, but she said nothing more. Her posture had not faltered, but the edges of her calm had drawn tight. Daphne held herself as she always did, but internally, her sixth sense surged. Not from Eve. Not from any one feeling. From herself.
She felt ridiculous and unmoored. Araminta was said to be beautiful, bright, and welcoming. Someone who painted rooms with light and drew people around her like petals to the sun. Daphne had never inspired anything like that. How could she be that woman’s daughter?
Daphne followed Eve’s lead, pausing only to resettle her gloves at the wrist as she crossed the threshold again. The silvery sheen of her gown shimmered briefly in the light spilling from a modern chandelier overhead. She kept her gaze forward, spine straight.
Eve’s description of Araminta hung in her memory, warm as a sunrise, and it was that line in particular that had rooted in her mind like a hook behind her sternum. Daphne could feel the echo of affection and sincerity radiating outward from Eve still, mixing with the tenor of the room into a concoction of emotion and feeling.
Still, she let her steps slow as they passed beneath a smaller archway, where the noise dimmed slightly and the crowd thinned enough that she could hear her own thoughts, and more importantly, feel no one pressing in too close other than Eve. In that moment, she chose to explain the long story as best she could in a short moment. Her voice came soft, cautious.
“I’m not certain,” she began, her accent folding the consonants gently, “that I should say anything at all.” Her expression remained composed, but the hesitation sat beneath her skin, taut and unfamiliar. She wondered if Eve would be able to sense her hesitation.
She looked to the side, studying the way Eve moved, the easy presence of someone she trusted. And then just before another guest might pass too close Daphne leaned in, her lips just beside Eve’s ear, her voice a careful thread of breath. She hadn’t said it out loud until this moment.
“I suspect she might be my birth mother.”
She drew back slightly, enough to meet Eve’s eyes if she turned, but she said nothing more. Her posture had not faltered, but the edges of her calm had drawn tight. Daphne held herself as she always did, but internally, her sixth sense surged. Not from Eve. Not from any one feeling. From herself.
She felt ridiculous and unmoored. Araminta was said to be beautiful, bright, and welcoming. Someone who painted rooms with light and drew people around her like petals to the sun. Daphne had never inspired anything like that. How could she be that woman’s daughter?
![[Image: Daphne-sig-updated.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/Daphne-sig-updated.jpg)