The snow had been falling since dawn.
It came down soundlessly, turning London into a watercolor of gray and white. The air was sharp enough to sting, and the Nest was colder than usual — the fire having died sometime in the night.
Serena sat by the unlit hearth, her dressing gown loose, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The letter from the Ministry lay before her, the paper soft and crumpled from being read too many times.
It wasn't what the letter said that mattered anymore.
It was what it meant.
Christopher had summoned her again.
A simple invitation, neatly worded, the kind that could pass for professional correspondence. But there was always something more beneath his language — the undertone of command disguised as courtesy.
"Your presence is requested."
Never "please."
Never "would you."
She could almost hear his voice when she read it. Smooth, steady, calm — the voice of a man who believed the world turned because he allowed it to.
She should have ignored it.
