Victoria Goodison's lips slowly curled into a small smile, her gaze running across the room and settling on Emily Whizen.
"Aaah, the little gem in the rough…"
Emily stared at her impassively, her green eyes sparkling with the slightest hint of curiosity.
The low murmur of the waltz continued to lap against the obsidian-veined marble pillars, but the immediate vicinity of the southern gallery seemed to hold its collective breath.
Victoria merely tilted her head slightly, the braid of her hair catching the crystalline light above them. Her psychic presence—subtle, dense, and unnervingly clean—brushed against the periphery of Emily's mental defenses like a cold spring breeze.
"The Black Meridian does not easily take apprentices who lack substance. You've done well for yourself, Emily."
Victoria's smile widened by a fraction, an flicker of amusement crossing her youthful features.
In another part of the ballroom, the conversation withered.
