Chapter 28
The first week in the Achterhoek was not measured by the tick of a palace clock or the rigid schedule of a royal equerry. It was measured by the gradual thawing of two hearts that had been frozen in the permafrost of duty. Away from the marble floors and the weight of the "Succession," Casper and Elisa were discovering the quiet, staggering intimacy of the mundane. In the morning, they woke not to the sound of a valet drawing curtains, but to the rhythmic symphony of the countryside. Casper would rise early, his body reverting to the muscle memory of his youth, and Elisa would often find him in the kitchen, his skin smelling of pine wood and the crisp morning air, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs. One rainy Tuesday, four days after their return, the pretense of "shared survival" fi
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