By evening, Albert had heard Evelyn’s words in every quiet room he entered.
You sent her to war.
It no longer sounded like history.
It sounded like a verdict.
He dismissed the musicians and servants and had the private dining room rearranged before she arrived.
The doors stayed open.
A low fire burned behind the grate, enough to warm the room without turning it intimate.
The table held bread, roasted meat, root vegetables, and coffee strong enough to scent the hallway. No flowers. No honey cakes. Nothing borrowed from a life Evelyn no longer recognized.
Her chair faced both entrances.
Albert stood when she came in.
She looked over the room and noticed every change.
Her dark uniform was open by one fastening at the collar. Her sword hung at her left hip.
“You made adjustments,”
