The lives of women have been unjust and unfair for many years. Most were raised to be perfect daughters, married off to be perfect wives, and expected to be perfect mothers. From the time they wake to their last breath, there is a standard for which all women are held to. Currently, Donatella grimaces, this included tight bodices, stiff corsets, and elaborately styled hair pieces weighed down by luxuriant pins made of pearls of gems. The hems of their dresses must reach the ground, training a few paces from the back of their heel just so it sways ever so modestly as you walk forward. Their toes must be crushed by fine pointed shoes, irrespective of the fact that no one may actually glance upon them for fear of being labeled seductive. Still, the neckline must be low, and the tops of your chest must be dusted by a pearlescent powder so it may glimmer ever so gently in the light.

Looking around the table, many women came sporting gem covered bosoms, cinched so tightly that whatever modesty was hidden by the length of their hem was taken from the height of their neckline. It was such a strange dichotomy, Donatella mused. She must be a saintly seductress, one who knows to toe the line between being desirable while escaping the suspicion of being provocative. The trends of the upper nobility have always been rather contradictory.

Yet, today, she has seen it shift ever so slightly towards modest pragmatism.

Sadly, to the dismay of those who support her, she was not the lady of the hour. Garbed in a soft clean white dress, neither too luxurious nor too modest, was a young lady sitting across from her. She did away with the conventions of the time, braiding her hair simply in a fine ribbon leaving it to drape down her shoulder. She wore no jewels save for clean and neatly trimmed fingers paired with pale hands. Other women, especially those gathered around her, seemed to have copied that simplicity. They moved away from the dark regal tones the Queen had popularized and, even, abandoned the luxuriant bright tones made famous by the Noble Lady.

“She’s been gathering influence,” a voice cut into Donatella’s side eye observations. It was a pleasant and light tone, barely audible over the clatter of fine porcelain and the tweet of gossiping ladies. “An unexpected guest, indeed.”

“The Temple is a welcomed friend of the state,” Donatella answered slily. It wasn’t the time nor the place to try and understand how someone entered a private tea party so abruptly. Had it not been the Marchioness Romani’s invitation, Donatella would have turned her teacup upside down and sent for her carriage. The table of the noble and mighty seemed so cheap suddenly.

“Hmm,” Lady Anne-Marie Irving replied. She had been ignoring the rabble from the moment they muscled their ways into a seat through their blue crescent flag. Using the Temple as a shield was effective in wrestling support from those devotees. Even among the wealthy and influential, such a thing was more common than one would think.

The women across from them continued to chat, voices rising ever so often as their guest of honor’s hands wove figures in the air. The saint was very animated, today. She talked in sweeping gestures forcing many of the more peaceful guests to look on out of curiosity. Behind their open fans and raised teacups, they were measuring her worth. More than once, a prominent lady would shift their gaze to the regal young miss at the other end of the table.

Peacefully sitting back with her head held high and a small smile on that vibrant face, Lady Donatella von Ardent seemed to be overseeing the whole soiree without so much as a word or twitch. A staple of the kingdom’s social scene, the women, especially those of affiliated families, could feel their stomachs tightening. In recent years, this young miss’s smile has grown sharper – the soft edge stiffening into a thin but deadly blade. It was quite frightening, for many, to think that this young lady was the same age as that sprightly and genteel saint.

Seeing them so close, some ladies could not help but compare the two: the dark steadfast beauty from the noblest of bloodlines in the continent, and the allure of one whose value comes from divine intentions. Two extremes coming together for a silent confrontation just as the Foundation Celebrations was rising overhead.

Anne-Marie could smell the moist and musty smell of gossip. She was sure that her friend would hear from her maid by the end of the day, hear of how she had wrenched the flaxen hair from this ordained bitch and thrown her into the pigsty before trampling on her with her well-fitted boot. As frustrating as it was, Anne-Marie could not help but lean back, trying to glimpse at her friend’s feet just to make sure she had the most appropriate footwear.

Feeling the heated gaze coming from her side, Donatella discreetly pinched her friend’s hand through her powder blue glove. Anne-Marie hissed under her breath, the small reprimand dazzling in Donatella’s eyes.

“Oh,” a chirp like tone cut through the air, landing at Donatella’s feet. “Lady Ardent, are you not enjoying the tea? I’ve noticed you’ve been neglecting your cup.”

This arrogant – Anne-Marie felt stiff anger clouding her eyes.

“Thank you for the concern, Miss… “ Donatella paused,”… Sylvia. I’m sorry.” She put on a rather sheepish look, raising her hand to cover her mouth while the other found its way to her chest. “It was a rather pleasant surprise to see you and share a table with you today. Yet, I find myself unprepared. I wish I had confirmed with the scholar before – I hope you forgive me for my ignorance.”

It was a touchy subject, after all. In a society where peerage and paternal relationship were the foundation of your role, rights, and responsibilities, the ambiguity of not carrying or receiving a surname was a defect among the women at this table. In games of power, your land, and by proxy your surname, defined your mobility and, at times, your survivability.

“Well,” the other girl seemed to be murmuring,” I understand that I came rather abruptly. I just really wanted to be able to share a meal with everyone. I understand if that… um… caused a disruption.” She stood up, placing her palms together and bowing shallowly. “Truly, I am sorry.”

Look how she plays, Anne-Marie crinkled her nose, eyes darting back to her friend.

“It’s rather alright, our dear saint. We know you meant no harm by wanting to partake in our small gathering. We are rather blessed to have you here.” Lady Simone Aesop hastily answered as she pulled the saint back to her side, gesturing for her to take a seat.

Watching the farce, Donatella turned to their host. In the sprawling compound where it was being held, her authority rose above the reigning monarch having served two kings in her time, the Grand Matron of the Romani family was the highest woman at the table today. Not one so quick to speak nor act,  the stalwart Marchioness was nursing her teacup. Meeting those steely silver eyes, Donatella almost broke out into a grin. The cheeky second Aesop wife might be replaced soon, she reflected to herself.

“Yes, it was a surprise.” Not one for mindless flattery or even pointless self-talk, the Marchioness put down her half-empty teacup to meet the inquisitive looks of her guests. At the side, some of the previously eager ladies and misses shifted slightly from their unexpected friend.

Anne-Marie almost beamed at her grandmother’s cutting tone, noticing how she neither dissuaded nor comforted the two. “Well, seeing as you’re already here,” she leaned forward slightly, smiling,” how do we properly address you, then?”

“Silly girl!” Again, this baroness cut in. “You call her Her Holiness, of course.” She sounded so sure, unaware of the color draining from the face of the one she was so intent on revering.

It was stupid. She was stupid. Donatella could only scoff at how intent she was at showing her support and favor to this young interloper that this baroness had forgotten the very basics of high society: peerage, power, and profits. The layers of disrespect and discourtesy she had shown all attendees here today was enough to limit her social circle to a select few. Such was the effect that it might cripple the ability of her children to marry into any other prominent family. Judging from the faces of  Lady Anya Polat, Dame Catherine Mann, and Lady Adelia Sommer, the political and military achievements of her family line may be inspected.

The Kingdom of Parveen, essentially, had no official state religion by way of the founding king’s early policies. Founded through a slave uprising against a theocratic government, the founding king had not only banned the establishment of any temple within the capital’s walls but also limited the power of religious leaders such that they were outside of the aristocratic order. Calling a figurehead of a religion, a foreign one at that by an honored appellate was alarming for one whose husband had the king’s ear.  

Anne-Marie could not hide her glee, eyes shining as she looked to her closest friend then turning to her grandmother.

Hands clasping together, Donatella leaned against the back of her chair, tight muscles relaxing. “My dear baroness, why did we not know of your scholastic pursuits? You have been much too humble.”

“Yes,” Duchess Ilya Church, of Her Majesty’s court, quipped from behind the feather tipped fan she had covering much of her face save for the crinkling eyes peeking through. “We did not know that it would take a foreign saint visiting for you to share such joyous pursuits.”