The next morning broke with the kind of chill that clung to your bones—bracing, almost medicinal. Snow still rimmed the Hearth’s windows, softening its usual creaks and murmurs. The house felt suspended in breath.
I made my way down to the blue salon dressed in a steel-gray velvet gown, the fabric heavy and cold against my skin. Behind me, Harroway walked in silence, a shape more shadow than man.
At the tea table, Marcelline was already setting out the porcelain. The smell of bergamot rose like a signal.
“Any word from the bursar’s aide?” I asked, slipping into my seat.
She nodded, not looking up from the teapot. “He accepted. He’s bringing an assistant.”
“Better,” I murmured. “Two mouths, two sets of ears.”
One by one, the others arrived. Lady Wren first—sharp-eyed, gloves still on.
