New Years Eve

[Daphne Du Cadeau]

There she was.

Araminta.

The woman in the blue dress stood near the heart of the room, beneath the glow of soft track lighting that made her hair shimmer like honey spun through pale silk. She was surrounded, yet separate: a quiet center of gravity. Guests passed through her orbit like petals caught in slow wind, drawn by ease, by instinct. She smiled with her whole face, relaxed in a way that only people without old wounds ever managed to be. She held herself loosely, with no armor at all. She looked like someone who had never needed to survive anything. Daphne slowed her steps.

That first glimpse twisted something in her small and sharp. Not disappointment alone. Displacement. As if whatever fragile image of a mother she’d held unknowingly had just shattered without ceremony. There was no resemblance. No echo in the jawline, the eyes, the hair. No reflection in the way Araminta stood, or smiled, or held the space around her with warmth instead of caution. Daphne, all fine edges and elegant silence, felt suddenly like a marble statue gliding through candlelight. She had spent her life smoothing the edges of pain, disciplining her posture, learning to survive every room as a weapon rather than a welcome.

And this woman… looked like she belonged. Still, Daphne approached. She always had the discipline to approach. She stepped within polite conversational range and waited, her presence as poised as the curve of her gown. No invitation was asked for.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, her voice smooth, low, pitched to fold gently into the space without announcing itself.

It was a politeness, of course. A formal dance-step offered because she knew it was expected of her. Eve’s presence beside her was quiet and steady, but Daphne’s posture remained solitary. Still and unshaken.

Araminta turned at the sound of her voice, a gentle surprise lighting her features as she registered the newcomer. She was just as warm up close. Light spilled across her collarbones where the blue satin dipped, catching in the soft waves of her gold-streaked hair. Her smile was instant and easy, and it spread like dawn.

“Oh, not at all,” Araminta said, glancing fondly to Eve as she greeted her in the same breath, a familiarity in her tone that Daphne could feel more than hear.

She waited until the social nicety resolved, then offered her own thread of gratitude. “Your party was quite festive,” she said simply, tone clipped but not cold. A peace offering, folded into etiquette.

Araminta laughed lightly. “Thank you! I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Araminta Rosewood.”

Daphne inclined her head, no smile, but perfectly polite. Her reply came with exact clarity, her accent drawn clean across each syllable: “Daphne Du Cadeau de Volthström.”

There. She felt the change immediately.

The smile froze, if only for half a breath. Surprise bloomed behind Araminta’s eyes like a lantern lit too quickly, followed by a flicker of uncertainty, curiosity, and beneath it something else. Something soft and sour. The kind of feeling people got when they were trying very hard to remember something they didn’t want to.

Araminta’s gaze shifted to Eve for just a second. She recovered with grace, but not speed. Her energy wobbled like a top near the end of its spin.

“A pleasure to meet you, Daphne,” she said. “Are you a friend of Eve’s?”

“Yes,” Daphne said without hesitation, though her eyes never left Araminta. “We go far back.” She lifted her chin slightly, calm but deliberate. “I’m sorry for intruding on your party, but I had a question to ask you.”

There was a gravity in her now that didn’t belong in social conversation. A shift in tone that weighed against the music and laughter surrounding them. But Araminta, to her credit, didn’t flinch. Her openness, like the blue silk she wore, held fast.

Daphne leaned in slightly. “Why did Tobias Volthström sell this building to you?”

She saw Araminta’s eyes flicking sharper, the air around her suddenly tense in the way champagne is just before it foams over the rim. The pleasantness didn’t vanish, but it cracked. Her expression faltered for a moment, and there it was.

Worry. Not fear. Not guilt. But something caught in her that made her hands shift too quickly and her thoughts start to stammer beneath the surface.

Daphne’s voice came softer. “You need not be nervous.” It was not said cruelly. But it was said without escape.

She felt Eve’s awareness shift beside her. Subtle. The way someone who knew her would recognize what she was doing, but chose not to stop it. Not yet.

Araminta’s eyes widened just enough to register the pressure. Her mouth parted slightly as if to answer then closed again. Her hand pulled gently back, but not in alarm. More like someone stepping back from heat they didn’t expect to feel.

“This isn’t really the time to talk about… ancient history,” she said finally, her tone still warm but now measured.

Daphne studied her. Felt the tangle of things beneath the surface: old confusion, half-truths, doors shut quietly and long ago. Araminta turned her smile back up, but Daphne could feel the difference now. It was a practiced smile. A hostess smile. The kind that meant someone had been caught off guard and was trying to manage the story before it unraveled.

“If you’re free tomorrow,” she said, “why don’t you come back? You and Eve both. We can talk properly then.”