The black did not suit her.
That was the first thing the servants noticed when Lady Seraphine came down that morning — not the color itself, because black was black and grief was grief and nobody could be faulted for wearing it. What they noticed was that it did not suit her the way blue suited her, the way everything that was designed to make the pink of her features pop suited her, and yet she wore it with the same unhurried certainty she wore everything, as though the fabric had been waiting in her wardrobe for this specific morning and she had simply retrieved it at the appropriate time.
Which, as it happened, was exactly what had occurred.
She had laid it out the night before.
