The grand salon of The Gilded Cage was beginning to empty out. The day's activity, a careful and quiet session of embroidery, was over. Delicate hoops holding half-finished flowers and monograms were being carefully packed away into velvet bags, and the gentle, polite chatter of the noblewomen filled the air as they prepared to leave.
Delia was cleaning her own workstation, her movements slow and deliberate. She neatly folded the piece of fine linen she had been working on and placed her needles and colorful silk threads back into a small, carved wooden box. All morning, she had been looking at the door, a small, anxious knot in her stomach, waiting and hoping to see Duchess Lyra arrive, even if she would be late. But she never came.
