Marcella had always believed morning sun was gentler than moonlight. Less cruel. Less knowing.
But here in Ashenholt, morning bled silver. Not warmth, but warning.
Marcella sat before the vanity table as the maid braided her hair. Snow had dusted the courtyards overnight, as if the manor had exhaled its own frost in her sleep.
"You've been summoned," Lira conveyed the information to her. "Lady Elyria requests your presence in the East Courtyard for tea."
Not invited. Summoned???
Marcella's hands stilled over the velvet sash of her morning gown. "Of course," she said, her voice a little too calm. "Tell her I'll be there shortly."
The East courtyard was white with morning frost. A cold, manicured garden with evergreen hedges shaped like wolves and lilies that never bloomed. A single table of wrought iron waited under the eastern arch.
Two chairs. A steaming silver tea set. And Lady Elyria Montclair, already seated.
"Mother," Marcella greeted, dipping her head just enough.
