Breakfast was laid out in the east garden, not in the formal dining hall where every clink of silver sounded like judgment, but beneath a white-stone gazebo that could seat two dozen people.
Morning light poured through the lattice roof in soft gold ribbons, warming the marble floor and turning the dew on the grass into scattered diamonds.
Climbing roses had claimed every arch, their thorny vines twisting like they owned the place. Cream, blush, and deep crimson blooms spilled overhead, heavy with perfume — sweet, intoxicating, almost too lush for something as ordinary as breakfast. Petals drifted down now and then, landing on the surroundings like quiet confessions.
At the center sat an octagonal stone table, cool and pale, groaning under the weight of excess.
Flaky croissants still warm enough to steam when torn open.
Dark rye, honey wheat, brioche glossy with butter.
Bowls of jewel-bright jam, whipped cream cheese, salted butter soft as silk.
