Early December wrapped the city in silence.
The kind that didn't promise calm — only concealment.
The frost came earlier that year. Pale smoke curled from chimneys along the river, and even the bells of St. Wren's sounded muted through the thick fog. Beneath the veneer of stillness, the air was changing — sharper, more aware.
At the Nest, the quiet was almost too perfect.
Serena Maxwell sat by the parlor window, wrapped in a dark wool shawl, her reflection faint against the gray morning light. Charlton had left before dawn again — no destination offered, no time promised.
He had said, in that clipped tone she knew meant war, that he had things to "secure."
The word lingered like smoke. Secure.
It was the kind of word men used before everything fell apart.
She tried to distract herself with reading, with tea, with embroidery, but her mind refused to obey. Every attempt at focus slipped, drowned beneath one persistent thought.
Christopher Cross was supposed to be gone.
