Serathine sat in the east drawing room of the D'Argente estate, where sunlight filtered through sheer ivory curtains and touched the floor in narrow golden strokes. A single tea set had been arranged on the low marble table, untouched.
"Madam Wright," she said, without looking up from the thin stack of documents in her lap, "do you know why I called you here today?"
Isabela Wright sat straight-backed in the velvet armchair across from her. She wore conservative grey, a modest brooch at her throat, and her hands were clasped too tightly in her lap to suggest ease.
"I… assumed it was about Lucas," she said carefully.
Serathine lifted her gaze, slow and deliberate. "Lucas D'Argente, yes. My ward. Now, Grand Duchess."
Isabela's lips parted slightly—whether in surprise or calculation, Serathine didn't care.
