Serena's POV
Morning came gray and indifferent.
The rain hadn't stopped since the night of the ball — it had only softened, drumming in a ceaseless rhythm against the windowpanes.
Serena lay in bed longer than usual, eyes half-open, staring at the faint reflection of herself in the mirror across the room.
She looked composed, as always.
She always did.
Only she could feel the fracture beneath her ribs.
She rose slowly, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, the air biting cold.
Downstairs, she heard the muted clatter of dishes — Emily, already awake, already trying to keep their small household in order.
Leonard's voice followed, faint, measured. He had been better these days, more focused. His case was still unresolved, but the edge of despair had dulled into endurance.
Serena wished she could say the same for herself.
When she entered the parlor, Emily looked up immediately.
Her friend's expression softened — the kind of softness that came from knowing too much.
