Beatrice closed the door to her chambers with more care than usual.
The corridor outside was still faintly buzzing with distant voices from supper. Laughter, footsteps, servants clearing dishes, but none of it reached her here.
Inside, the air was still. Orderly. Too clean.
She didn't light the fire. She preferred the cold tonight.
Her chambers were spacious by design, lavish by necessity. Polished floors. Velvet curtains. A writing desk that had never seen true work. Cushions arranged like they were waiting for guests who never came. It was all as she left it that morning, untouched and pristine.
She dropped her gloves on the small side table, then removed her cloak and folded it over the arm of a chair. Her shoes followed, careful and quiet, left beside the wardrobe.
Finally, she sat at the edge of her bed, hands clasped together in her lap. The room should have comforted her. Instead, it felt like being observed.
Her gaze drifted to the top drawer of the writing desk.
