By the time we dried off and changed into something less rain-soaked, the late afternoon sun had fought its way back through the clouds. A soft golden glow pooled along the balcony floor, painting the stone railings and garden below in warm amber.
Lucien was already waiting when I stepped out with a tray of tea and fresh bread—courtesy of Annabelle, who pretended not to watch us from the kitchen window.
“I figured we deserved this,” I said, setting the tray between us on the small round table. “Tea. And strategy.”
Lucien was no longer wearing his royal coat—just a plain linen shirt rolled at the sleeves and dark trousers, still regal somehow, but less formal. His dark hair was half-dry, curling faintly at the edges.
“Tea and war,” he echoed with a lopsided grin. “That’s a very Abby com
