Art and Sedition

The invitations arrived each morning like clockwork, and Ilyra had learned to read them like maps: who was rising, who was falling, whose allegiances had quietly shifted in the night.

She sorted through the stack with practised efficiency. A musicale at Lady Pemberton’s, declined. A card party at the Valyrian townhouse, accepted; useful connections there. An afternoon tea with a baroness whose husband sat on the trade council, marked for further consideration.

In her corner seat, Mira mended a torn hem, needle flashing in the morning light. She had been quieter than usual these past weeks. Or perhaps Ilyra had simply stopped talking to her instead. Either way, the easy intimacy of those first months had curdled into something careful and cold. Mira no longer offered information; she dispensed it, like medicine measured out by duty.

“There’s talk in the servants’ hall.” Mira’s voice was flat, professional. Her needle kept moving. “About a play. If Your Highness cares to know.”

Ilyra set down a cream-coloured envelope. “What sort of play?”

“Scandalous, they say. Something about the succession.” The needle paused. “The Hollow Crown, it’s called. Mocking the imperial family.”

A satirical play. Connected to Cassian’s circle, no doubt - his pet artists loved nothing more than biting the hand that fed them. Ilyra kept her expression unchanged.

“How unfortunate,” she said. “Though I’m sure it’s nothing. These things rarely survive more than a few performances.”

She returned to her correspondence. The musicale invitation went into the refusal pile. But her thoughts had already moved elsewhere.

Evander will want to know about this. He understood these things. He would know what it meant.

She picked up the next envelope and continued her work.

The gardens blazed with colour. Roses climbed the terraced walls, wisteria draped the pergola in purple cascades. The warmth of the season had settled into the palace grounds, and the paths were dotted with courtiers taking the air.

Ilyra walked beside Evander, her deep crimson gloves contrasting against her cream walking dress. Mira followed at the appropriate distance, close enough for propriety, far enough for privacy.

She found herself drifting closer to him as they walked, closing the gap between them until their sleeves brushed. He did not pull away, but neither did he reach for her. She had noticed the change in recent weeks, how his touches had become less frequent, more measured. She understood why. They were engaged now; the court watched more closely. She still wanted more.

“You seem pensive today,” Evander observed. His voice carried that particular warm intimacy that felt reserved for her alone.

“There’s a play making the rounds,” she said, keeping her tone light. Merely sharing gossip, nothing more. “The Hollow Crown. Some satire about the succession.”

“Theatrical.” His lips curved. “I believe I have heard something of it. The artistic community does love its provocations.”

“It’s connected to his circle. His playwright friends.”

“Ah.” Evander nodded slowly, as if considering the implications for the first time. “Such plays often remain local scandals. Talked about in salons, forgotten within the month. Unless someone… notices them.”

She caught his meaning immediately. “You think someone should notice?”

“I think the Crown’s defenders might be concerned, if they knew the content.” He plucked a rose from a nearby bush, examined it briefly, and offered it to her. “Loyal subjects do have a tendency to report such things. When properly alarmed.”

The rose was perfect, just unfurling. She accepted it with a small smile and warmth in her chest that seems to be ever-present nowadays. He was telling her something. Showing her a shape, and trusting her to fill it.

“The wedding arrangements,” he said, as if changing the subject entirely. “Have you given thought to the flowers?”

She had not. She was thinking about theatre programmes and concerned citizens, about whispers travelling up through the proper channels. But she made the appropriate sounds about lilies and orange blossoms while her mind worked.

His gloved hand brushed against hers as they walked. Through two layers of leather, she felt the pressure of his fingers. Chaste, yet always leaving her desiring more.

“I was thinking white roses,” she said. “For the ceremony.”

“White roses.” His voice carried quiet pleasure. “Classic. Elegant. I like your choices.”

The feeling bloomed further. It was such a small thing, and yet.

Lady Varen’s salon occupied the first floor of a townhouse that had seen better decades. The wallpaper was yellowing at the edges, and the crystal chandeliers hadn’t been replaced since the last century. But the guests were fashionable, the refreshments adequate, and the conversation sharp.

Ilyra entered on Evander’s arm, Mira a quiet shadow behind them. She adjusted her deep crimson gloves automatically after handing off her wrap, a gesture that’s grown into a habit of hers.

The atmosphere felt different tonight. The usual sparkle of salon wit had a brittle edge. Conversations fractured when certain topics arose, reforming around safer ground. Everyone was pretending normalcy, and everyone could see everyone else pretending.

“The Marchioness of Kelden has redecorated,” Lady Varen announced to her circle, too loudly. “Pink silk everywhere. Absolute horror.”

Polite laughter, slightly strained.

A poet rose to read something, a pastoral piece about shepherds, aggressively innocuous. The applause came too quickly, too enthusiastically. The relief in the room was palpable.

Cassian arrived late.

He swept in with his usual dramatic flair, silk cravat a fraction too bright, gestures a fraction too expansive. The greeting he received was warm, ostentatiously warm in fact, people rushing to demonstrate their continued allegiance.

But fewer sycophants pressed close than in months past. More sideways glances. The loyal core remained, but the outer circles had begun to contract.

He nodded to Ilyra as he passed, a brief acknowledgement. No cutting comment this time, no barbed observation about her sudden presence in society. He had more pressing concerns.

Good, she thought. Being overlooked is the point.

Near the refreshment table, she caught a fragment of hushed conversation.

“…heard the authorities are asking questions. About the theatre district.”

“Which theatre?”

“Does it matter? They’re all connected, aren’t they? Same patrons, same…” The speaker glanced around, lowered her voice further. “Same suppliers.”

Nervous laughter. The kind that meant everyone understood exactly what wasn’t being said.

“There’s talk of retaliation,” the other voice continued, barely audible. “Cassian’s people. They say if anyone’s exposed, they’ll take others down with them.”

Retaliation. The word lodged in her mind. A chill of apprehension ran up her spine, but thinking of Evander brought her courage. He’ll be able to help her, no matter what happened.

Ilyra’s hand paused on her glass. The fear was spreading faster than she’d anticipated. One theatre raid, and already the whisper networks were humming with anxiety. Cassian’s people were realising that proximity to him might become a liability.

She scanned the room, finding Evander by the window. He was speaking with Lord Hartwell about something, trade routes perhaps, or hunting. Innocuous. He caught her eye and inclined his head slightly.

It’s working.

The thought should have brought satisfaction. Instead, she felt only the cold clarity of observation. These people were afraid, and she had helped make them afraid. That was the success.

She turned back to her glass and did not examine the feeling further.

When they departed, she provided her quiet summary in the carriage: “They’re afraid.”

Evander’s profile was sharp against the passing streetlamps. “Fear makes people talk. Eventually.”

Mira sat across from them, eyes fixed on her clasped hands. Silent. Watchful. She said nothing, but her presence filled the space like held breath.

Late spring had settled into the city, heavy and golden.

Ilyra reached for the morning gazette before her correspondence, a habit she’d developed these past weeks. Mira sat in her corner, working on something or another. The morning light fell across the desk in warm bars.

The raid was on the third page, below a notice about grain prices.

THEATRE DISTRICT SCANDAL: Arrests Made at Crown and Compass. Authorities discover opium, seditious pamphlets. Playwright Mortimer Crane among those detained.

The Crown and Compass. She had mentioned it to Evander weeks ago, one of the venues connected to Cassian’s artist friends. A place where plays were staged and other business conducted in the back rooms.

She read on. Several actors and poets taken into custody. Sources indicate connection to prominent patron, though no names released pending investigation.

No names. Not yet. But the implication was clear enough for anyone who knew Cassian’s circle.

Ilyra set the gazette aside and reached for her correspondence. Her hands were steady.

This is what you wanted. This is justice.

The theatre where illegal substances were sold, where seditious plays were staged. Exposed. The artists who fed Cassian’s vanity while corrupting the city’s youth. Caught. This was the law working as it should. This was order being restored.

The first invitation was cream-coloured, scented with lavender. Lady Ashworth’s charity luncheon. Ilyra set it in the acceptance pile without reading the details. There was work to do, and sentiment had no place in it.

She found Evander in the portrait gallery, or perhaps he found her. It was sometimes difficult to tell.

“The theatre,” she said, when they had stepped into an alcove away from passing servants. Mira positioned herself at visible distance, as usual. “The one I mentioned.”

“Unfortunate timing.” His expression was neutral, but something moved at the corner of his mouth.

“Someone must have reported them.”

“Justice often finds its own way.” He tilted his head, studying her face. “You seem troubled.”

Was she troubled? She examined the sensation and found only… efficiency. The mechanism had worked. The information she had gathered had been put to use. There was nothing to be troubled about.

“Not troubled,” she said. “Simply… considering what happens next.”

“And what does happen next?”

“The arrested will talk. Under questioning, they’ll name names.” She paused, testing the logic. “Cassian’s network is larger than anyone realises. And networks… unravel.”

Evander’s regard was almost tangible. “Very good. You understand the mechanics.”

“You taught me.”

“I showed you possibilities.” His hand traced down her arm, the pressure of his fingers clear even through glove and sleeve. “What you saw in them, how you chose to use them, that was entirely your own.”

She leaned slightly into the touch, as instinctive as breathing.

“You’re doing well,” he said.

“Better than you think,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

The words settled into her like sunlight. Familiar now. Essential. She couldn’t imagine going back to being cold and alone again.

She waited for more, but he was already looking past her, watching a servant cross the far end of the gallery. The praise hung incomplete in the air, and she found herself leaning slightly forward, wanting it, needing the rest of whatever he’d been about to say.

He turned back to her. Smiled. “Much better.”

Better at what? some distant part of her whispered. But the thought dissolved before she could examine it, washed away by relief.

The garden paths were crowded with ladies taking the afternoon air. Lady Varen had attached herself to Ilyra’s circle, along with three other wives of minor nobles. They walked in a loose formation, parasols tilted against the sun, conversation flowing in the easy rhythms of court small talk, the maids trailing behind them, invisible and present.

“The scandal with the theatre,” Lady Varen said, unable to contain herself any longer. “Have you heard the latest? They say the playwright confessed to everything. Named names.”

“Such a shame.” Lady Osborne pressed a hand to her chest. “To think we attended his plays.”

“I never cared for him,” Lady Varen said quickly. “Too experimental by half. One always suspected - well.” She let the implication hang.

The others nodded, rewriting history with practised ease. No one mentioned the rave reviews Lady Varen had written in her letters, the salon evenings where she’d proclaimed Crane a genius.

“Surely we shouldn’t condemn all artists for the sins of a few,” Ilyra said.

The ladies turned to her with visible surprise.

“Your Imperial Highness is very… moderate,” Lady Varen offered. “Considering Prince Cassian’s connection.”

“My brother is precisely why I hope for a fair investigation.” Ilyra paused, as if choosing her words. “Not a witch hunt. The innocent should have nothing to fear from the truth.”

Lady Osborne’s fan moved more quickly. “Of course, Your Highness. Very gracious of you.”

“The princess speaks wisely,” Lady Varen agreed, pivoting smoothly. “Measured response. Exactly what the situation requires.”

Lady Varen tucked her arm through Lady Osborne’s as they turned down a side path, voices dropping to conspiratorial murmurs. The others drifted in pairs toward the refreshment pavilion. Each of them would carry away the same impression: the quiet princess had shown unexpected judgement. Moderate. Merciful. Above the fray.

The image is everything now.

Here she was, appearing merciful while feeding intelligence to the authorities, positioning herself as the voice of reason while she helped dismantle her brother’s world piece by piece. The two facts sat side by side in her mind, and she simply refused to let them touch. If she examined the contradiction too closely, something might slip.

Better not to examine it at all.

The formal dinner glittered.

Crystal and silver, candles by the hundred, the court in full evening dress. The Emperor and Empress presided from the high table, their faces set in expressions of careful neutrality. Tension ran beneath the glitter like a fault line.

Ilyra sat near Evander. They were betrothed; it was expected. Her ivory gloves matched her gown, and he had complimented them when he arrived.

Across the hall, Cassian maintained his cultured composure. His smile was firmly in place, his wit as sharp as ever when someone approached. But there were fewer approaches tonight, and the smiles he received had a fixed quality.

A messenger entered mid-course.

The room’s attention shifted, watching the man cross to the Empress’s chair. A murmured conference. The Empress’s expression flickered, something passing across those weathered features too quickly to read.

She summoned Cassian.

Ilyra watched her brother rise, smooth and unhurried, playing the part of a man with nothing to hide. He approached his parent’s chairs, bent to listen. The exchange was brief. When he returned to his seat, his movements were still graceful, still controlled.

But when he raised his wine glass, his hands shook.

The crystal trembled in his grip, wine lapping at the rim like a tiny sea. He set it down quickly, but not quickly enough.

The court pretended not to notice. Everyone noticed.

Ilyra took a bite of something. Venison, perhaps, or pheasant. She couldn’t taste it. She chewed. She swallowed.

Finally.

The thought arrived without guilt, without hesitation. Her brother’s hands were shaking, his careful world coming apart, and she felt… satisfaction. Clean and clear, like a scale finding balance.

She turned, instinctively, to share the moment.

Evander was already watching her.

His face was composed, pleasant, the perfect mask of a courtier observing nothing in particular. But his eyes met hers across the glittering table, and the corner of his mouth curved, just slightly. He’d been waiting for her to look.

He knew, she thought.

The dinner continued. Dessert was served. Speeches were made about the coming harvest and trade negotiations with the eastern provinces. Eventually, the guests began to disperse.

Evander fell into step beside her as they moved through the receiving room.

“Someone from the theatre,” he murmured. “Under questioning, they mentioned the prince.”

So that was what the messenger had reported. Cassian’s name, spoken. Connected. The unravelling beginning.

“The court will be watching now,” Evander said. “And you have positioned yourself well.”

Across the hall, Cassian stood alone for a moment, his circle having drifted away to safer conversations. His wine glass was nowhere to be seen. His hands were clasped behind his back, hidden from view.

She took Evander’s arm as they walked toward the doors.

Behind them, her brother’s world continued its slow collapse. She continued walking, her gloved hand light on Evander’s sleeve, and did not look back.