Melyn stepped closer, setting the ledger and parchments aside with a deliberate slowness as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile glass of Ilaria's composure.
"Your Highness," Melyn began, sitting beside her. "Letters from the South are often softened by the distance they travel. A 'winter chill' is a common grievance, even for a Queen. It may be exactly what she said—" she looked at the letter, then back at Ilaria, "—a nuisance, nothing more."
Ilaria exhaled slowly, though it did little to settle the frantic thrumming in her chest. Her fingers tightened around the parchment, the elegant, loopy script blurring into a charcoal smear as her vision wavered.
"Serenya does not soften the truth, Melyn," she murmured, her voice sounding hollow. "She buries it." A single, hot tear escaped, but Ilaria swept it away with a quick motion of her gloved hand before it could even mark her cheek.
