Morning came with too much sun and too little patience.
My tent flap was thrown open with zero dignity, courtesy of Norma’s loud voice:
“Lady Abby, there’s a crisis! The Duke says we’re out of honey biscuits!”
I groaned. I wasn’t even fully dressed yet—robe thrown over my nightgown, hair still half-pinned—and already I could hear Alaric’s sharp voice from outside. His tone was that particular blend of king-slayer and bakery critic.
“No honey biscuits? And what exactly have we been feeding the knights?” Alaric snapped. “Dry bread and disappointment?”
When I stepped outside, still tying my robe, I found him standing like the very picture of Duke Perfection: armored except for his gloves, hair slightly damp from what I suspected was an unnecessarily aggressive morning wash, arms crossed,
