Chương 51: Memories Of The Past (Part 2)

Crystal chandeliers hum softly overhead. Not loudly. Nothing in this house is ever loud. Even the light knows how to behave. I stand beside Mother, hands folded neatly at my waist, shoulders relaxed but precise. My smile is calibrated—not wide enough to suggest childish excitement, not faint enough to imply reluctance. Measured and intentional. Mr. Halberg is laughing. Too loudly. The sound rises above the quiet murmur of the room before tapering off, slightly embarrassed at its own enthusiasm.

His cufflinks are crooked. He has not noticed.

"My daughter simply refuses to apply herself," he says, gesturing vaguely with a glass in hand, as though daughters are a common inconvenience shared among peers.

"You're fortunate. Yours is exceptional." Mother's fingers press lightly into my shoulder. Not painful. Not even firm. Just present. An unnecessary reminder. I tilt my head exactly four degrees.

"I simply enjoy learning, sir." I do not rush the words. There is a pause first—as though I am considering whether the compliment is deserved. Then slight warmth. Then humility. His smile broadens. Approval registers immediately. A satisfied nod. My hands are cold. I ignore the sensation. It has been nearly a year since my hair began to change. The white is no longer a patch. Six inches of it grows from my scalp now, pushing the old color farther down with every passing month.

There is no black left beneath the dye along my crown. Every two weeks, the white roots return, and the dye must be redone. Carefully sectioned. Carefully coated. Carefully concealed. My eyebrows have begun to change as well. The first pale strands appeared near the arch, subtle against the surrounding dark hairs. They did not go unnoticed. They are dyed too. When the skin is too sensitive, they are plucked. Precision tweezers. Steady hands. My maids are talented. They work quietly. Efficiently.

But they are not perfect. On more than one occasion, dye has slipped too close to my eyes. The formula used there is gentler than the one for my hair. It is still chemical. It still burns. My vision blurs for several minutes afterward, tears forming reflexively. I do not cry, and I do not complain. The maid responsible is replaced within the week. No confrontation, and no raised voices. Just sudden, unexplained absence. Mr. Halberg laughs again at something Mother says. I adjust my smile by half a degree.

The chandeliers continue their quiet hum above us. A violin begins near the staircase. Live quartet. The first note trembles faintly sharp before settling. I catalog it without effort. Intonation can be corrected. If someone cared to. The bow draws again. The sound bends, thins, stretches across the marble and crystal. And for a moment— The room tilts. — Wood floor. Polished oak, faintly scuffed near the edges where turns land too hard. No chandelier. No guests. No measured laughter. Bare feet against cool grain.

The music is not real. I construct it in my head—strings first, then a steady rhythm beneath, something with weight. It is easier to move when there is sound. I turn. Not a precise adjustment of shoulders and chin. A full rotation. My heel pivots, toes pushing off in a clean arc. The motion travels upward through my calves, into my hips, into my spine. Spin. My arms open wide without permission, cutting through the air instead of folding neatly at my waist. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road.

Report any occurrences. Momentum builds. There is no one here to see it. No one to grade it. No one to adjust my wrist angle by millimeters. I leap. Higher than necessary. My knees tuck instinctively before extending again. I land on the balls of my feet, knees bending softly to absorb the impact. The floor answers with a quiet thud. My next turn bleeds into the landing, weight shifting fluidly from one foot to the other. My shoulders loosen. My hips follow through instead of locking into alignment.

There is no counting. No internal metronome dictating tempo. The rhythm lives somewhere beneath my ribs instead. I spin again, faster this time, hair brushing against my back in a dark arc. My hand stretches outward, fingers splayed, reaching for nothing. Then it sweeps back over my head, tracing an imperfect curve through the air. It is not refined. It is not symmetrical. It is not particularly graceful by any formal standard. It is alive. Movement clears the static from my thoughts. Untangles them.

Lets me think without feeling like I am being watched. My posture lowers instinctively, center of gravity shifting as I prepare for another turn—"That form is undisciplined." The door is open. I did not hear it. Mother stands in the doorway, hands folded loosely in front of her, expression as smooth and unreadable as carved marble.

"If you insist on moving like that," she says, voice even, "at least do it correctly." Correctly. The word settles into the space between us with more weight than my landing did. She steps inside without waiting for acknowledgment. Her heels make no sound against the wood. She takes my wrist first, lifting it by a few centimeters.

"Your lines are sloppy." Two fingers press lightly beneath my chin, raising it.

"Your posture collapses at the apex." She walks a slow circle around me, gaze tracing my shoulders, my hips, the placement of my feet.

"This could be refined." Refined. Optimized. Structured. Measured. Improved. I nod. Of course. I begin again. I turn. But now I am aware. Of the angle of my elbow. Of the height of my shoulder. Of the precise moment my weight shifts from heel to toe. Of whether my spine remains straight at the top of the spin. Of whether someone is watching. The movement tightens. It narrows, breaking apart into components. Arms. Core. Legs. Alignment. There is no longer a single thread running through it. It is a sequence.

It performs. I stop, breathing controlled and even. She studies me for a moment longer.

"This is inefficient," she says lightly.

"You do not have time for distractions." Distraction. An unnecessary variable. Understood. She leaves as quietly as she arrived. The door remains open. The room feels larger without her in it. Quieter. I look down at my feet. Bare against the wood. Exposed. Cold. I bend, retrieve my shoes, and slide them back on. The styled leather encloses neatly. Properly. When I straighten, my posture is correct. I do not return to that room again. — Applause. Polite and contained. I blink once.

The chandelier is back overhead, light refracting through crystal in orderly prisms. The violin draws its final note into a clean finish, the quartet lowering their bows in practiced unison. Mr. Halberg is still smiling at me.

"…remarkable composure," he is saying, glass poised midair as though the observation deserves preservation.

"Yes," Mother replies smoothly.

"She adapts quickly." Adapts. The word settles neatly into place. I adjust my smile to the appropriate degree—appreciative, modest, and unthreatening. Not too bright, nor too distant. Perfect. As it always is. Behind my ribs, something small and unnecessary remains very still. The music shifts downstairs to a lighter piece. I do not identify the key. I do not reconstruct the rhythm in my mind. I do not imagine how it would feel beneath bare feet on polished wood. There are more efficient allocations of attention.

This gathering is not recreational. It is strategic. Executives of a rising tech conglomerate circulate through the room, shaking hands, exchanging quiet laughter, laying foundations for future leverage. Friendships here are not spontaneous; they are negotiated. I have a role. I curtsy. Refined, elegant, and precisely measured. Flawless. The angle of my back is exact. The placement of my hands symmetrical. The rise controlled.

"I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening," I say, tone warm without invitation. I excuse myself. There are others my age in attendance—sons and daughters positioned like decorative pieces near their respective families. I am to speak with them. To assess. To be assessed. Partnerships are cultivated early. Shared tutors. Shared interests. Shared ambitions. If any prove exceptional enough, Mother and Father may consider long-term alignment. Some partnerships extend beyond business. The thought does not disturb me.

It is a logical extension of networking, albeit a highly archaic one. I cross the room with steady, deliberate steps, posture aligned, gaze attentive without appearing predatory. My movement does not go unnoticed. I am the daughter of the hosts. That carries weight. Conversations dip subtly as I pass. Shoulders are patted. Hands settle briefly at the backs of younger necks. Quiet instructions are murmured into compliant ears. Each family has its own method. Some lean close and whisper.

Some tighten their grip just slightly. Some simply look. The message is universal. Perform well. The sons and daughters detach from their parents one by one, drifting toward me while the adults consolidate into their own circle of measured laughter and strategic warmth. I observe those who approach. Their expressions are too unguarded. Brows lifted too high. Smiles too wide. Nervous fingers smoothing jackets that were already straight. Unpolished. Untrained.

I adjust my own expression accordingly, softening the edges. A touch more warmth. A degree less precision. The first to reach me is Elizabeth Sterling. Her parents outrank mine at this gathering. Which makes her presence both expected and instructive. She offers a small smile in greeting. Not practiced or measured at all. It reaches her eyes. Genuine. I reproduce it carefully, matching the curve and softness without overcommitting. A curtsy would be excessive. We are children. The gesture would distort the balance.

Instead, I incline my head just enough to acknowledge her status without diminishing my own.

"Good evening, Elizabeth," I say. My tone is light. Friendly and appropriate.

"Good evening, Lyn Halden," she replies. My full name. Not Lyn. Not even Miss Halden. Lyn Halden. Interesting. A gentle assertion of hierarchy, perhaps. Or a reminder that I am not merely a girl in a dress, but the visible extension of my parents' influence. Her earlier smile did not waver. There is no malice in it. Which means the phrasing was assigned. She was given lines to deploy in situations she does not yet fully understand. A move made by her parents, not by her. It can be ignored.

"How are you enjoying yourself on this fine night?" I ask smoothly.

"Our chefs devoted particular care to the sweets. I would highly recommend them." I gesture toward the dessert table. Not fully. Just enough. A fraction too eager. A shade too bright. Children notice perfection in ways adults do not. Excess polish unsettles them. They cannot articulate why, but they sense it. So I introduce a minor imperfection. A touch of impatience in the eyes. A hint of enthusiasm in the tilt of my head. Harmless and approachable. Complete flawlessness invites suspicion.

Measured humanity does not. Elizabeth agrees at once, and we move toward the dessert table together. The others follow. Plates are selected. Napkins unfolded. Silver tongs clink softly against porcelain. The sweets are arranged with architectural precision—glazed fruits, layered pastries, chocolates dusted in gold. We begin speaking. Introductions first. Names. Schools. Hobbies rehearsed for parental approval. The conversation is light and carefully inconsequential.

Some of the children eat too quickly, fingers sticky with sugar, crumbs clinging to cuffs in ways that will be scolded later. Others, like Elizabeth, are restrained. Measured bites. Careful posture. Controlled laughter. I speak to each of them in turn. Briefly. Enough to establish familiarity. Enough to be remembered. But Elizabeth remains the axis. When someone addresses me directly, I angle the conversation back toward her. When another boasts, I invite her opinion.

When laughter swells, I include her in the glance that follows. Favoritism, when subtle, is forgettable. When deliberate, it is binding. It signals value. One of the few instances where bluntness yields better returns than subtlety. By the end of the evening, alliances have formed. We exchange promises of future visits. Shared lessons. Mutual interests. Nothing concrete. Everything implied. As the adults begin collecting their children, gratitude is expressed. Compliments are traded. Hands are shaken once more.

I remain poised until the last guest departs. By the time the doors close and the chandeliers dim, I have successfully "befriended" most of the group. The children leave happily, believing they have made a new friend. I leave having acquired assets.