"Leaving so soon, Avalene?" Her voice had lost its earlier sweetness entirely, replaced now by something harder, more desperate. "Without even properly introducing yourself to the rest of the assembly? How rude of you."
"I think I've made quite enough of an impression for one evening," Avalene said.
Her stepmother's eyes flicked toward Rhys, calculating something Avalene couldn't quite read. "Your Grace, might I have a word? Privately."
"I don't believe we have anything to discuss that Lady Avalene shouldn't hear as well," Rhys said.
Her stepmother's composure cracked at last, the polished veneer of the evening finally giving way to something raw underneath. "You don't understand what she is," she said, her voice pitching low and urgent. "She's ungrateful, difficult. She's never once appreciated what I've done for her since her father died: taking her in, feeding her, clothing her—"
"I believe," Rhys said, cutting through her words with a quiet precision that carried more weight than any raised voice could have managed, "that the invitation I sent to this house was addressed specifically to Lady Avalene. I believe I watched you burn it with my own eyes. I believe that whatever debt you imagine she owes you has been considerably outweighed by that single act alone." He paused, letting the silence settle heavily around them. "I think it would serve you well, Mrs. Marchetti, to reconsider how you speak of her going forward. My esteem, once withdrawn, does not tend to return."
Her stepmother's face drained of color entirely. Whatever she'd hoped to salvage from this confrontation had clearly crumbled in the space of those few sentences, and she seemed to understand, finally, that continuing to press the matter would only cost her more standing than she could afford to lose.
"Of course, Your Grace," she said stiffly, and turned away without another word, disappearing back into the crowded ballroom with the particular haste of a woman fleeing the wreckage of her own making.
Avalene let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I'm sorry," she said. "She's not usually so—"
"You have nothing to apologize for," Rhys said gently. "None of what happened tonight or these past three years was ever your doing."
They walked together out into the cool night air, down toward the garden gate where the cart waited, Martha's nephew keeping a respectful distance as they said their goodbyes.