The Society of the Eleventh Hour

Conflicts of Interest

A letter was left for me at the bakery, shortly after the derby ended. Lorelei's work.

Mrs. Crawford was completely ecstatic to see another noblewoman taking interest in me, seeing it as another sign of my slow rise to a position she believes "suits" me. (I am not so certain I share her ambition, or her passion. If anything, it makes me feel embarrassed. Who is in charge of determining what I deserve and don't deserve? And more importantly, do I even agree with all of this?)

I also don't like that Lady Windsor figured out where I lived so quickly. Does half the noble court know of my mother's abandonment? Do they even see it as such— or do they see it as a desertion of my duties to my people?

When I bring the letter home for Morgan to inspect, she is carefully polite.

"Mhm, yes, it is very fancy," She remarks blandly, and only after being urged to respond aloud.

Letter-writing is a noblewoman's art. I spend a long while staring at the letter, assessing Lorelei's intentions (or at least what she wants me to think they are.)

"This is a... very... flattering letter," I mutter, finally. "Almost overzealous, but not quite."

Morgan looks over my shoulder at it, skimming the contents.

"Really? I don't see anything special."

"It's about the quality of her stationery. She used her best, far more than custom would demand. There are also many ways to extend an invitation— certain words one uses— to demonstrate a level of excitement for the occasion. This, to put it plainly, is very intense." I explain, face coloring. No one in my noble court has ever treated me like this... at least, not in the past few years. They used to try to gain favor with me, quite desperately and falsely, in the belief that I could somehow elevate their status.

But then I seemed to fall out of favor, and everyone disappeared. It heartens me to have a true ally, or someone who I might be able to turn into a true ally.

"...I could write a stupid letter," Morgan mumbles under her breath, irritably. "I guess I just don't get it. Anyways, you sound like you're holding something back— like 'oh, this is great, but...'"

I frown.

"She doesn't want you to come. This has been emphasized to the point of being outright rude. I have a bad feeling about that."

Morgan leans over my shoulder to read over the letter, twice.

"Really? It seems pretty subtle to me. She doesn't even say my name!" She laughs, and pats my shoulder. "You might just be shutting her down early, Lucy. I know you don't want to get your hopes up and be let down, but why not try to get along with her, first? She likes you. That's enough for me."

"But why would she not want you to come? It doesn't make any sense!" I complain, already mentally writing off the woman in my mind. If it's based on high-class snobbery, or worse... I don't think I'd want her on my side.

Morgan hesitates.

"I can think of a lot of reasons," She tells me in a flat, dispassionate tone, before brightening once again. "Honestly, it's fine. I wouldn't be able to attend either way. I've got work early tomorrow, and I can't afford to miss any more work." She ruffles my hair, gently, and rises to stretch her arms.

....

When I woke up the next morning, breakfast was sitting out on the table. My sword was gone, too, apparently for the purpose of getting it repaired at the magical society's blacksmith.

Thankfully, Morgan anticipated that this would make me nervous, and left her obsidian blade in its place.

She'd left a note to explain this, written on well-built parchment I don't recognize her ever using before. Her penmanship is much finer than you'd expect, too, for a note of such mundaneity. I had to ponder this for several moments before making the proper connections, and then sat in her dining room blushing like a fool.