Marcella woke to morning sun pressing against the curtains — warm, filtered, and far gentler than her thoughts.
Lira had lit the hearth before dawn and Marcella couldn't quite chase away the cold she felt deep in her limbs.
Today, she would meet the Montclairs. Her in-laws.
Marcella stood in front of the long mirror, the silk of her crimson gown cascading down like melted wine around her. Lira tied the last ribbon at the back of her bodice.
"You look… radiant, Your Grace," Lira said, adjusting the heavy cloak that would guard her from the northern chill. "The Duchess of Ashenholt."
Outside, a bridal carriage awaited her at the courtyard — carved of ivory-lacquered wood with golden inlays and velvet interiors deep enough to disappear into. It looked untouched, like it had been prepared years ago and kept in waiting.
Marcella didn't see Berith until she stepped outside.
