The rain had not stopped since dawn. Each drop struck the city like a slow reminder of gravity, of weight.
Serena Maxwell sat before the mirror in Emily's small drawing room, her hands folded neatly in her lap, pretending calm. The glass reflected a woman who looked perfectly composed — hair coiled, collar modest, no tremor at her throat — but the reflection was a lie.
She told herself she would not go when he called. She even repeated it softly, as though her lips might make it true. But when the Cross carriage appeared outside in the gray light of noon, and the messenger bowed low with the familiar card — The Minister requests your presence — her resolve collapsed with the soundless shatter of thin ice.
Her reason was Leonard. It was always Leonard. That was the truth she chose to believe. The truth she could survive with.
