The invitation arrived with no note this time — only a white card embossed with a single word:
Truth.
No time, no address.
But she knew where to go.
The Cross townhouse had begun to feel familiar — not like home, but like a place her shadow had learned to recognize. Each visit left something of her behind: a glove, a trace of perfume, a silence that clung to the corners of the room.
That evening, the city was cool and restless. September had begun to lose its warmth, and the air smelled faintly of wet stone, horse oil, and smoke. The world shimmered beneath a thin sheen of rain — streets glistening, lamplight bending through mist.
Serena climbed the marble steps, her pulse steady only by practice, not by peace. Beneath her calm exterior, something low and taut thrummed — a storm that refused to break.
The butler opened the door before she could knock. His face betrayed nothing but quiet familiarity.
"His Excellency is waiting in the music room," he said, bowing slightly.
