Page 32 of The Threads Between

A leaving.

The shopkeeper stiffened.

Syra’s eyes sharpened. Then her mouth curved. Polite. Sympathetic. The kind of expression a woman wore when she was about to ruin you.

“How fortunate,” she said lightly, “that your neighbors couldn’t see over the hedges.”

The shopkeeper went still. Frozen by her words.

“I beg your pardon.”

“It would have been terribly awkward,” she continued softly, “for them to witness a lady of the house entertaining the gardener in broad daylight.”

All the color drained from his face at once, leaving him a chalky grey. His hand slipped on the counter’s polished surface before catching himself.

“I don’t know what vile insinuation⁠—“

“Of course you do, darling,” she said, voice honey-sweet. “It is always a shame when the staff begins to talk. Servants notice everything. And once they do . . . ” She gave a small, sympathetic sigh. “Well. It is only a matter of time before all of Mayfair hears precisely how attentive your gardener was to your wife’s hedges.”

Something worse than anger moved across his face. Panic.

His mouth opened, then closed, but no sound came.

Syra’s smile never wavered.

“Good day, sir.”

She turned without waiting for a reply.

For a moment we simply stood there on the pavement—then Adeline let out a startled laugh, one hand flying to her mouth as if to catch it before it escaped.

“You did not,” she said, eyes bright with disbelief.

Syra adjusted her gloves with perfect composure, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “Oh, I very much did.”

A laugh climbed up my throat before I could touch it. Not polite laughter. The kind that escaped whether you wanted it to or not. But something else flickered beneath it—watching Syra's threads reaching uninvited into the shopkeeper's chest, reading the private architecture of his grief.

“You didn’t have to antagonize him,” Adeline said, though her voice shook with suppressed mirth.

“I absolutely did.” Syra smoothed a nonexistent crease from her sleeve, her glamour flickering faintly before settling. “He assumed we were empty-headed women incapable of independent thought. Such assumptions deserve correction.”

“You enjoyed that,” I said.

Syra’s smile turned sharp and unapologetic. “Immensely.”

Adeline’s composure cracked. She laughed outright, bright and unladylike, drawing a scandalized glance from a passing gentleman.

“Remind me never to offend you,” she said.

“On the contrary,” Syra replied pleasantly. “Offend me if you like. Just be certain your household secrets are dull.”

That only made us laugh harder—three women flushed and giddy on a tidy Mayfair street, having said exactly what polite society insisted must never be said.

“Well, at least we know you can maintain three glamours under pressure,” I said, unable to keep the grin from my face.

“Speaking of, we have one more stop,” Adeline said, composing herself. “I must finalize the opera house arrangements.”

“The tickets?” Syra asked.