The hall was nearly empty by twilight.
Shadows stretched long across the polished floors, broken only by the pale flicker of wall sconces. Beatrice moved without sound, her steps quiet on the marble, the hem of her gown whispering as she passed each paintings.
It was always colder here.
Not physically, though the stone never quite held warmth. No, this cold came from the walls themselves. The hush of a space meant for legacy, not comfort. Generations of monarchs stared down from their frames, oil eyes indifferent.
She paused near the far window, where the last edge of light still touched the floor.
Her thoughts had been loud all day.
This was the first moment she'd managed to breathe. But she wasn't alone.
"Is this your new hiding spot?"
Beatrice didn't turn.
"I'm not hiding," she said.
Francois stepped closer, his presence like a shift in air pressure.
She could see his reflection in the glass now. Tall, composed, and watching her.
