Rowan returned less than an hour later.
The afternoon light in Noel's bedroom had shifted into something paler now, slanting low through the window as the sun dipped toward evening. The room felt stuffy; the fire in the grate crackled softly, but not enough to chase the chill. Noel paced near the desk, bare feet silent on the rug. His nightshirt hung loose, sleeves still rolled up, collar open just enough to show the edge of a fading mark on his neck. The crumpled note burned in his pocket like a secret he couldn't shake.
He kept glancing at the door, the windows, the wardrobe. Every small sound... the creak of floorboards downstairs, the distant clatter of servants... made him tense.
'This is ridiculous. It's just a flower and a note. Probably some creepy fan from the theatre. Or a prank from one of the Ashfords. Yeah. Maybe Bennett is sneaking in. But... the actor's dead. Same flower. This isn't funny anymore.'
The door opened.
