The corridor was quiet. Too quiet. Evelyn stood outside the door, hands clasped, heart thudding softly in her chest.
She had paced for ten minutes now, eyes fixed on the ornate woodwork, lips moving silently with all the words she might say. But none of them felt right.
Finally, she lifted her hand and knocked.
A moment passed.
Then the door creaked open. A maid peeked out. Recognition flashed in her eyes, then uncertainty.
"May I come in?" Evelyn asked gently.
The maid hesitated, then stepped aside. "You may wait here, my lady."
Evelyn stepped into the receiving room, elegant but cold. There was no warmth in the air. No trace of the girl she once laughed with under the washing lines. Just silence, scented oils, and stiff cushions.
Minutes passed.
Then footsteps.
Marianne entered, dressed in midnight blue silk, her hair pinned like a queen's—no, she was a queen now. She didn't sit.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice was sharp. No greeting. No smile.
