The night after Annalys Cross's luncheon carried a stillness that clung to the air like dust after a storm.
Outside, the city glimmered under gaslight and early-autumn rain, but in Serena Maxwell's sitting room, the air was too quiet to breathe.
She sat before the mirror, pale lamplight drawing soft gold from her hair.
Her reflection looked flawless, detached — the sort of beauty that silence cannot bruise.
Only her hands betrayed her, fingers tightening now and then around the edge of the vanity.
Emily crossed the threshold without waiting for permission. Formalities had long since wilted between them.
"You haven't touched your supper," Emily said, voice gentler than her expression.
Serena didn't look up. "I've had enough bitterness for one day."
Emily exhaled, pacing a step closer. "You endured Annalys's luncheon with more grace than anyone could have expected. Half the women there would have cried."
