Rain clung to the streets of Windsor like grief made visible.
The city moved slower that morning — the carriages rolling cautiously over slick cobblestones, the cries of the paper boys muffled beneath the hush of falling water.
Every whispered headline told the same story:
The Minister Has Fallen.
And beneath that, murmured in corners and corridors alike —
The House of Brenford is collapsing.
--
Serena closed the door behind her, the echo of the latch sounding far too loud in the small parlor.
Her gloves were wet. Her hair clung to her temples. The hem of her gown had turned the color of the street.
For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at nothing — feeling as though she had left a part of herself in that courthouse.
Emily looked up from the chair by the hearth, startled. "Serena."
The soft voice nearly undid her.
Leonard was seated opposite, a book unopened in his lap. He rose immediately. "You're drenched. Where have you—"
