Chương 3: Chapter 2: Cultivated potential

By the time Elizabeth reached the dining room, she had learned that the White estate was much larger than it had looked from her bedroom. She had also learned that long hair was an inconvenience. It caught beneath the collar of her dress, brushed the back of her neck whenever she turned, and required enough pins to qualify as minor engineering. The dress itself was worse. Too many layers, too much fabric, and sleeves that narrowed exactly where she wanted freedom of movement.

A maid had found her before she made it halfway down the first corridor. The woman had not asked where Elizabeth was going. She had simply dipped her head and taken the lead, apparently assuming the answer was breakfast. That was useful, because Elizabeth did not know the way. Not consciously, at least. At the first junction, she had been about to follow the maid when her body was already turning left. The same thing happened at the next.

A faint expectation appeared before each familiar corner: stairs after the long window, then right at the portrait of a man with a red sash. The knowledge vanished if she tried to examine it too closely. Borrowed habit, perhaps. Procedural memory. Something else to test when she had the means. The maid stopped before a pair of dark wooden doors and stepped aside.

"Lady Elizabeth." The doors opened. Conversation inside cut off. Six people sat around a table long enough for twice that number. A seventh place had been set near the middle. Morning light came through tall windows overlooking a clipped garden, bright enough to flash off spoons and silver serving dishes. Someone had left a heel of bread beside an open pot of berry preserve. A child's cup sat dangerously close to the edge of the table. Elizabeth recognised her father first.

Marquess Alistair White occupied the head of the table in the way some men occupied an entire room. Silver threaded his hair, though he did not look old. He had not raised his voice. He had not needed to. Every person at the table had already turned towards Elizabeth, but none spoke before he did. His name arrived a moment after the recognition. To his right sat Marchioness Eleanor White, ash-blonde hair pinned high and every part of her appearance arranged with deliberate care.

The resemblance to Elizabeth was immediate around the eyes and chin. Eleanor's gaze flicked once over Elizabeth's face, then down to her dress, as if checking for some visible explanation for the delay. Alexander sat beside her. Twenty, if the memory that surfaced could be trusted. He looked more like Alistair than Eleanor, and when he reached for his cup, something blue passed under the skin of his hand. Not reflected light. It travelled with the veins and vanished beneath his cuff. Interesting.

Across from him, Julian closed the book beside his plate before Elizabeth could make out more than a grid of lines and small military symbols on the cover. Fifteen. He watched her for a second longer than the others, then looked back down. Thomas was easier to place. Six years old, feet not quite reaching the floor, one thumb stained red from the preserve. He had been swinging one leg beneath the chair. It stopped as soon as Alistair looked his way.

The last woman sat farther down the table with an infant sleeping against her chest. Dark brown hair. Blue dress. Expensive, but deliberately plainer than Eleanor's. Elizabeth had to search for the name. Marianne Vole. Lady Marianne, but not Lady White. Alistair's mistress. The infant was Isabel, his daughter. There were empty chairs on both sides of Marianne. No one had announced that she sat apart from the family. They did not need to. Elizabeth moved towards the table.

"My apologies for being late, Father." The voice still jarred. High, young, unmistakably female. She had spent the walk practising it under her breath and still had the absurd feeling that someone else had spoken whenever she opened her mouth. Alistair looked at her for a moment.

"Sit." Her body knew the chair before she did. Elizabeth reached the empty place between Eleanor and Thomas. Alexander nudged the chair out with one foot before a servant could reach it.

"You look half asleep," he said quietly as she sat.

"I am awake."

"That was not the claim." There was the beginning of a smile in his voice. Then Alistair picked up his knife, and Alexander returned his attention to breakfast. A servant set a plate before Elizabeth and poured a pale blue liquid into a narrow glass. She recognised the smell before the memory: bitter herbs, mineral sharpness, something faintly sweet added to make it tolerable. She took a cautious sip. Not poison, presumably. Elizabeth White had drunk it often enough to remember hating it.

"Master Halvern sent his final assessment last night," Alistair said.

"Her general saturation is within the expected range." Eleanor set down her cup.

"And the elemental responses?"

"Still broad."

"No preference?"

"Nothing strong enough to matter." Eleanor looked at Elizabeth again. This time the inspection lasted longer. Alexander leaned back slightly.

"You could try lightning once more." Alistair's eyes moved to him. Alexander amended, "If Halvern thinks she can tolerate it."

"He does not. There has been no meaningful response to lightning, and I will not have the ceremony delayed because someone became overenthusiastic during the final week." Alexander accepted that with a small inclination of his head.

"Fair enough." Elizabeth broke bread and listened. The memories she had inherited contained pieces of these treatments: rooms full of crystals, a man counting breaths, nausea after one session, Eleanor arguing with a physician in a corridor. Nothing complete. Nothing she would trust as a record. But the pattern was obvious enough. The family had spent years exposing this body to different kinds of mana before its class ceremony, trying to influence what the System would offer. They spoke about it over breakfast.

"The schedule remains as Halvern set it," Alistair continued.

"Air and water before noon. Fire after her rest. Mixed exposure this evening." Eleanor turned to Elizabeth.

"If you feel sick, you tell him. Immediately."

"I will, Mother."

"And if the headache returns, you tell him that as well." A headache. Useful. Elizabeth nodded. Alistair cut into his breakfast.

"Discomfort is expected. Injury is not. Do not confuse the two." There was no question of whether she wanted the treatments. Elizabeth drank more of the blue mixture so no one would see her mouth tighten. Beside her, Thomas reached for the preserve. His sleeve caught the spoon and nearly pulled it from the dish. He snatched his hand back before anything spilled. Alistair noticed anyway.

"Thomas."

"Sorry, Father."

"Your own exposure resumes next month. Halvern believes your response to earth remains promising." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Thomas stared at his plate.

"Yes, Father." His red-stained thumb disappeared beneath the table. Alexander glanced towards the sleeping baby.

"What about Isabel? Have you started with her yet?" Marianne adjusted the blanket over the infant before answering.

"Low-grade crystals only. In the nursery."

"For how long?"

"Two weeks."

"She is five months old," Eleanor said. Marianne's eyes dropped.

"Lord Alistair approved it."

"I am aware." Nothing more followed. Eleanor reached for her tea. Marianne bent her head over Isabel and smoothed a fold that did not need smoothing. Elizabeth filed the exchange away. She did not know enough about either woman to decide what it meant, and guessing would not improve the evidence.

"Your awakening is in six days," Alistair said to Elizabeth.

"The royal assessor arrives the evening before. Alexander will remain at the estate until the ceremony is complete." Alexander set down his cup.

"It will interfere with my duties."

"The family takes precedence over your duties." A pause.

"Yes, Father." It was the first thing anyone at the table had said that sounded remotely like an argument, and it had lasted less than five seconds. Alistair looked to Elizabeth.

"The preparation should produce at least one advanced magical option. Perhaps more." She inclined her head.

"You will not select the first impressive title you see. Read the descriptions. Read the advancement conditions. If the System presents anything unfamiliar, memorise it before you choose." That, at least, was sensible advice. Elizabeth had already recovered enough fragments from her memories to understand the important part of an awakening: the options were private. The assessor could confirm that the ceremony had worked. He could not see what appeared inside her head. Neither could her father.

Alistair continued before she could enjoy that fact too much.

"When it is done, you will tell us every option you were offered." There it was.

"The assessor will need your declared class for the record," he said.

"Halvern will want the descriptions as well if any of them fall outside the normal White lines." Elizabeth buttered a piece of bread she did not particularly want. She could lie. The difficulty would come later, when abilities, advancement and whatever else the System changed inside her failed to match the story she told.

"A rare class is not automatically a good class," Alistair said.

"You will consider stability, growth and what the class can become. You will also consider what is useful."

"To me?" Elizabeth asked. It escaped before she had decided whether the question was safe. Thomas looked at her. Julian's attention came up from his plate. Alistair did not appear surprised.

"To House White," he said. Alexander reached for his cup.

"Ideally both." Alistair's gaze shifted to him, but Alexander only drank. Elizabeth lowered her eyes before anyone could study her reaction too closely.

"Of course, Father." The choice itself would be hers for however long it took to make it. After that, everyone else would begin trying to own the consequences. She could work with that.

"Duke Harcourt's representatives will attend the reception after the ceremony," Alistair said.

"His second son is coming with them." The reaction came from the body before Elizabeth understood it. Her shoulders tightened. Her grip on the knife changed. A garden. A boy with dark red hair. Adults talking nearby while a younger Elizabeth tried very hard not to listen. Eleanor noticed the movement.

"You have met his son before."

"I remember." Some of it, anyway.

"You will be polite," Eleanor said.

"You do not need to perform for him." Alistair looked at his wife.

"She will make an appropriate impression." Eleanor held his gaze for a moment, then returned to her tea.

"Yes. An appropriate one." Elizabeth had no idea how much disagreement those words concealed. Alexander reached across for the bread.

"Harcourt talks too much."

"Alexander," Eleanor said.

"He does."

"Not at the table." Thomas hid a smile behind his cup. Julian did not bother hiding his. For a few seconds the room felt less like a tribunal and more like a family breakfast. Then Alistair said, "Enough," and the moment ended. Elizabeth had no particular interest in Duke Harcourt's son. No one was proposing an immediate marriage. This was positioning: familiarity now, an arrangement perhaps later. That made it no less relevant.

Another household meant other libraries, other connections, perhaps greater restrictions. She did not have enough information to know which mattered more. So she would smile when required and learn what she could.

"Marianne," Alistair said, "you will assist Eleanor with the reception." Marianne looked up.

"Of course, my lord." Eleanor's hand remained around her cup.

"I have already arranged the staff," she said.

"Then there should be little left to do." A beat passed before Eleanor answered.

"As you wish." Marianne said nothing else. Elizabeth looked down at her plate. She had been awake in this world for only a few hours, and already she knew better than to mistake a shared instruction for equal standing. Eleanor could object. Alexander could question. Thomas could make a mistake and be corrected. Marianne seemed to measure every word before allowing it out. Julian, meanwhile, had reopened his book beneath the level of the table. Elizabeth caught the movement. He caught her catching it.

Neither of them said anything. A servant came to take Elizabeth's glass. She had finished the blue tonic without noticing. Water replaced it. Six days. Six days until the System examined a body shaped by eleven years of someone else's life and decided what it could become. Her father expected the answer to belong to House White. Elizabeth lifted the water and drank.

For the moment, nobody at the table seemed to realise that the person making that choice would not be the daughter they had spent those eleven years preparing.