Elara Vance’s laughter was a sharp, brittle sound in the quiet coffee shop, a mockery that drew glances from nearby tables. She leaned back, raking her eyes over Linsy: the simple wool trousers, the functional flats, the absence of any jewelry beyond a modest watch. “You? Mrs. Michael Helwart?” She snorted, derision dripping from every syllable. “Linsy, desperation is an ugly color on you. If you were, that orphanage would have a new wing by now, not a busted gate. You wouldn’t be ...