I've always hated these—tea parties. On Aspen, I was fortunate that Thorne never needed me to play socialite at these excruciatingly dull affairs. Tea parties are illogical, really, a senseless gathering where people sit around pretending to enjoy each other's company while exchanging gossip that rarely holds any substance. I stay seated, bored out of my mind, fingers fidgeting with the embroidery on my sleeves.
The room buzzes with conversation, laughter tinkling like false music, and I feel a sense of disconnect, as if I'm a misplaced puzzle piece in this world of polite facades. Even Felix's never-ending ramblings about poisonous plants and the best way to brew toxins would be preferable to this monotonous charade. At least his voice was something lively, something with substance.
