The morning began like any other.
Beatrice rose early, dressing without fuss and settling into the chair by her balcony. The sky was a pale stretch of gray, the air crisp but dry. Elisha curled lazily in a patch of sunlight near the hearth, occasionally batting at the hem of Beatrice's robe with sleepy paws.
Breakfast arrived promptly. Lily supervised the placement of pastries and fruit without the usual teasing commentary, and Beatrice found herself grateful for the quiet. She buttered a scone and nibbled without real appetite, glancing occasionally toward the door.
No knock. No message slipped under the door.
No unexpected bouquets or summonses to the east garden or the library or the lesser council chamber.
By midmorning, Beatrice closed her book with a sigh and rose to pace the length of her chambers. It was silly, she told herself. Francois had duties, meetings. The court did not revolve around casual encounters and shared glances.
