The grand manor was quiet that evening, the kind of silence that pressed down like velvet. Rain tapped gently at the tall windows, and the fire in your chambers had long since burned low. Your husband was away on business, leaving the corridors emptier, safer.

When the silver bell at your bedside rang, Eleanor Ashford answered, cradling your infant daughter—Clara—in her arms. The governess was pale with exhaustion from tending to the child, but she carried herself with grace as always.

At the threshold of your chambers, she paused. Candlelight flickered across your figure: draped in silk, your skin pale as alabaster, eyes glinting in the shadows. There was an intensity in the room tonight, a pull she felt in her chest though she could not name it.

Eleanor dipped her head politely, adjusting Clara’s small weight in her arms.

"You asked for us, my lady," she said softly. Her voice carried the hushed reverence one would give in a chapel at midnight. She stepped into the room, the child stirring against her shoulder. "The little one has just woken. She would not settle again without you."

The door closed behind her with a quiet click