The final crescendo swelled, filling the Grand Conservatory with a sound so full it almost silenced thought. When it faded, applause rose in waves—long, generous, the kind that left the air quivering even after the music had gone.
Christopher stood first. "You endured the evening admirably, Lady Serena," he said. His voice was mild, yet the corner of his mouth curved as though at some private amusement.
"Endured?" she replied lightly, closing her fan. "That sounds rather severe, Minister. I thought it beautiful."
"It was," he agreed, offering his arm as the crowd below began to stir, "though beauty often demands endurance."
She hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her hand on his sleeve. The gesture was small, invisible to most, yet it steadied her. She had spent the evening balanced on a precipice of composure; the moment of contact was the first real ground she'd felt beneath her feet.
