The cathedral bells tolled for evening vespers, low and resonant, vibrating through the stone walls of the Vermont residence like a warning dressed in prayer.
Cattleya Vermont sat at the long oak dining table, fork poised above her plate, but her appetite had long since surrendered to the weight of the day. Candlelight flickered across the white linen and silverware, casting elongated shadows that seemed to reach toward the high ceiling. Her father, Archpriest Dominic Vermont, occupied the head of the table as always—imposing even in silence, his black robes absorbing the light rather than reflecting it.
“You have been distracted lately, daughter,” he said without looking up from his meal. His voice carried the same measured authority he used in sermons and secret council chambers alike.
