The steam curled lazily from Cassandra's teacup, tracing invisible patterns in the air before fading into nothingness. She sat on the edge of the velvet-cushioned chair, legs crossed with poise—but her hand trembled slightly as she brought the porcelain rim to her lips.
Across from her, Christina squinted. Not the casual squint of someone fighting sunlight through a window, but the focused, narrowed gaze of a young woman who smelled something off.
"Mother," she said flatly, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "What is going on here?"
Cassandra blinked, lowering her teacup halfway. "Whatever do you mean, dear?"
Christina leaned forward, her fingers clasped together tightly in her lap. "Don't try to fool me, mother. I'm asking where Baron is. And who is that merchant boy you sent Padre Osmund to tend to?"
There was a pause. A beat too long. Cassandra sipped her tea to buy time, then set it down with an almost imperceptible sigh.
