The manor at Willow's Creek was a beautiful sight to behold. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the fine silk wallpaper and polished floors of the guest suite Philip had left for her.
Anne paced the length of the room, from the canopied bed to the window and back again, her footsteps a frantic, restless rhythm on the expensive rug. "What do I do now?" she asked herself for the hundredth time, her voice a raw whisper in the quiet room.
A soft knock sounded on the door. Anne froze, her heart leaping into her throat.
"My lady," came a young maid's voice from the hallway. "There is a woman downstairs asking for you. She said… she said she is your mother."
Anne's breath caught. Her mother? Here? How was that possible? She had assumed Augusta was in hiding, or worse. A surge of emotions—fear, relief, confusion—washed over her. "Let her in," Anne called out, her voice stronger than she felt. "Accompany her here."
"As you wish, my lady," the maid replied.
