When I returned to the manor that evening, dusk had already draped the world in muted violet and shadow. I made my way to my private chamber, the heavy wooden door echoing softly behind me.
Once inside, I filled my bath with steaming water and let it envelop me like a quiet promise of renewal. I bathed slowly, deliberately, as if I were washing away not only the day's grime but also the lingering uncertainty from my long, disorienting sleep.
After I changed into a light, silky nightgown that brushed gently against my skin, I sank into the upholstered sofa and waited. I didn't know exactly whom I was expecting.
A few minutes later, a man entered—Abelard. He held a stack of folders in one arm and a wine bottle with a delicate glass in the other. The soft clink as he set the items on a small table pulled me into the present. He poured me wine with a measured quietness that belied the urgency of recent events.
