Harmony Arrives in Europe
The courtyard was too quiet for a surprise. Provence mornings didn't rush. Light spilled over the stone in pale sheets, slow and deliberate, as if even the sun respected inheritance. Lavender fields stretched beyond the low wall in winter-muted rows, silvered by frost. I was halfway down the steps when the black car rolled through the gates. Not one of ours. Not one of Lucien's usual vehicles either—the tires sounded different on the gravel, a sharper crunch, like whoever drove it wasn't trying to be polite to the land. Silas stepped out beside me without touching me, but the bond shifted—alert, angled toward the entrance like a compass recalibrating. The car stopped near the fountain. A driver got out first, moved with the efficient neutrality of someone who'd been trained to look
- Writer
