Cordelia Prescott stopped right in front of Nora, blocking her view of the room. Her friends fanned out around her, creating a wall of expensive dresses and judgmental stares.
"So, you're the one they dragged in from Montana," Cordelia said, her voice loud enough to carry to the nearby guests. She wrinkled her nose. "I was expecting overalls. I'm Cordelia Prescott. You've probably never heard of my family. They don't sell feed in the country."
The girls giggled.
Nora took a slow sip of her champagne. She looked Cordelia up and down, her expression blank.
"Yes, I am Eleanora," Nora said, her voice calm. "And you are?"
Cordelia's smile tightened. She wasn't used to being met with indifference.
"I just think it's funny," Cordelia continued, stepping closer, "that you're standing here in a gown that probably cost more than your house, pretending you belong."
The nearby conversations died down. People were watching.
Nora swirled the champagne in her glass. "My teacher once told me that when addressing someone, it is important to observe the proper formalities."
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Oh, a lesson from your village school? Please, enlighten me."
Nora looked at her, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips.
"Barbaris ex fortuna, non ex sapientia, pendet insolentia," Nora said.
The Latin rolled off her tongue with a fluent, musical elegance. It sounded like a prayer. It sounded like a curse.
The ballroom went quiet. Most of the people in the room had no idea what she had just said, but the delivery was so sharp, so confident, that it demanded attention.
Cordelia's face turned red. She had no idea what Nora had just said. She felt stupid, exposed.
"What did you just say?" Cordelia demanded, her voice rising. "Speak English!"
Nora tilted her head. "It is an old proverb. It means, 'The insolence of the barbarian stems from luck, not from wisdom.'"
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"My teacher also said," Nora continued, her voice dropping to a clear, cutting tone, "that when dealing with those who cannot understand wisdom, formalities are unnecessary."
The implication was clear. Cordelia was the barbarian. Lucky to be born rich, but completely lacking in intellect.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Someone snickered.
Cordelia's face twisted with rage. She had been outclassed, and she knew it.
Up on the balcony, Julian Sterling let out a low chuckle.
An elderly professor standing next to him raised an eyebrow. "Did you understand that, Mr. Sterling?"
Julian nodded, his eyes fixed on Nora. "I did. And she is absolutely right."
He watched as Nora stood in the center of the room, calm and unbothered by the storm she had just created. She was a revelation.
Downstairs, Cordelia was desperate. She had been beaten intellectually, so she switched tactics. She went for the jugular.
"Big words from a fake," Cordelia sneered, pointing at Nora's gown. "That dress might look impressive, but I've seen the real Schiaparelli. That is a knockoff. You're wearing a fake!"
