The Cross townhouse was a gilded stage — sunlight fractured through crystal, music murmured from a distant room, and everything gleamed with practiced perfection.
Serena Maxwell had walked these halls before, though then her steps had been followed by curtsies and whispered praise.
Lady Annalys Cross had once walked behind her then — a girl of sixteen with soft hands and eager eyes, her lady-in-waiting, her shadow.
Serena remembered that girl clearly: so eager to please, so bright with admiration that she'd written verses about her beauty, called her the kingdom's dawn.
But admiration curdled when it was not rewarded.
And now, as Serena stepped once more into the Cross residence, her name announced by a butler who would not meet her gaze, she could feel that past watching her — twisted, sharpened, waiting.
"Lady Serena Maxwell," the butler intoned.
The parlor went quiet.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, catching on silver and lace. Conversation paused, laughter thinned.
