An elegant black evening dress.

Her hair done.

Her back straight, her chin level, her whole body carrying itself in a way I had never seen it carry itself in that house.

She crossed to a microphone by the media station, and though her hands trembled at first, her voice came out steady.

“My name is Yvaine Thornquist,” she said, and it rang off the high ceilings.

“For years, this family told everyone in their circle that I was unstable, sick, dependent on their charity because I couldn’t manage my own life.” She looked directly at Ottavia.