Mourn 35

Chapter 35 Gallery Verdict 

Gregory inclined his head. “In my view, Miss Sadie holds the advantage in calligraphy, Commander Gates, would you agree?” 

Zephyr offered nothing more than a frosty response. “I see it exactly the way you do, Mr. Hamlet. 

Daisy’s knees buckled, and she lurched a step backward as though the floor had tilted beneath her. Only then did she grant herself a proper look at Sadie’s brushwork. Until this moment, she had dismissed it, certain the praise flowed from fear of Nicolas‘ power, not from honest admiration. 

One casual glance proved fatal to her certainty, for she found she could not tear her eyes away. 

When had Sadie mastered such breathtaking, fine writing? 

At first glance, the page resembled a grove of bursting blossoms–utterly captivating and impossible for one to tear their eyes away. Her own work, set beside it, looked stiff and listless; identical in stroke, but they were worlds apart. 

Adonis scowled. “How can this be?” 

Daisy bit hard on her lip. “Impossible… She cannot write with such beauty. Someone else must have done it for her.” 

Adonis nodded, his voice low yet clear enough for every corner of the hall. “Sadie never studies as a child. Her handwriting has always lagged behind Daisy’s. She has only lived in the Gates Estate for half a year. No one perfects a script that fast.” 

Oliver let out a chilly laugh. “So that is your game, Sadie. You hire a ghostwriter to chase acclaim. Apologize at once, toss that forgery aside, and display Daisy’s piece instead.” 

They were, after all, Sadie’s brothers. The accusation rippled through the assembly. Curious eyes stabbed at her from every side, and the low hum of doubt buzzed like hornets determined to drown her confidence. 

Sadie kept her composure. “If this work is truly mine, will you two apologize?” 

Adonis‘ patience snapped. “Sadie, your insolence grows by the day! Everyone may be fooled, but I am your brother. I know your handwriting. Jealous of Daisy’s elegance, you used The Duke’s influence to steal her place.” He added, “What does not belong to you will never belong to you. Chasing praise at the cost of honesty is wrong!” He glared, face flushed and neck corded, the very picture of righteous outrage. 

“Mr. Adonis is an honest sort,” someone murmured. “Shame his sister learned so early to trade power praise.” 

Sadie paid their whispers no mind. 

She repeated gently, “Adonis, if the calligraphy is mine, will you apologize?” 

Adonis drew himself up. “Naturally. When a man admits his fault and mends it, nothing is greater. E will not wrong you without cause. 

Sadie’s answer was nonchalant. “I have a witness.” 

for 

Oliver barked a laugh. “Your witness is probably Mr. Alexander. Everyone knows he is your friend, and we 

will never trust his word.” 

Chapter 35 Gallery Verdict 

Alexander’s fists clenched. “What did you say?” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves as if to swing, then forcing his arms down lest he embarrass Sadic. 

Sadie’s gaze slid past him to the most striking figure in the crowd–a young man in a scarlet robe no one could ignore. 

Sadie wondered whether Zephyr would be willing to speak on her behalf. His gaze brushed over her. He had never been the sort who liked poking into other people’s quarrels, yet for some reason, he felt himself 

hesitate. 

The spring wind howled through the Sunlit Arcade, turning Sadie’s normally fair face flushed pink. The silver butterfly pinned to her chignon trembled so violently it seemed ready to whirl into some unseen maelstrom. The sight made Zephyr yearn to reach out, capture the fragile ornament, and hold it fast in his palm. 

Whatever. Zephyr thought. His grandmother had placed the girl in his care, and he would not let the old lady fret. 

Zephyr said, “Miss Sadie learned her calligraphy from me. Though I would not call her script exemplary, it carries a certain charm. Since you insist her hand is inferior to Miss Daisy’s, perhaps you can tell us from whom Miss Daisy received her lessons?” 

At that moment, the entire Sunlit Arcade fell utterly silent. 

Everyone present knew Zephyr had ranked first in every examination during his time at Cranesong Academy. His calligraphy was so coveted that a single scroll could sell for thousands of silver coins, yet military duties kept new pieces rare and left collectors sighing in frustration. 

If he had personally instructed Sadie, well–everything suddenly made sense. 

Adonis, however, felt the blood drain from his cheeks. 

Impossible. How could Lord Zephyr have taught Sadie? The notion stirred a tangle of emotions Adonis could not 

name. 

A hazy memory surfaced. Many years ago, when Sadie was still little, she had begged him to teach her to write. 

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