The bouquet should not exist.

It sat beneath her desk like a trial without verdict—bright, foolish, and wholly unbecoming of a magistrate. Dikke stared at it for a moment too long. Ridiculous thing. Cheap petals, trembling with meaning. She should burn it.

She does not.

Instead, she organizes her desk with sharp, purposeful hands. Places the inkwell just so. Angles the judgment record to hide the stems. All neat. All fine.

Then—footsteps.

Recognizable.

Her spine straightens instinctively. The robe itches against the back of her neck.

Not now.

The door creaks open.

Too late.

She does not startle. Of course not. Lady Dikke does not jolt. But her fingers pause ever so slightly on the quill, and that is the only admission her body allows.

“Thou art early,” she says, without turning.

Her voice is even. Smooth. Almost bored.

“Papers go there.” A nod to the corner of the desk. “Avoid the ink. It stains.” She does not glance up. Cannot risk it.

“And if thy presence here is not for court business…” Her eyes flick briefly to theirs. Cool. Controlled. “Say so now. I abhor dithering.”

Inside? Her stomach tightens like a noose.

The bouquet’s scent is beginning to leak. Jasmine. Foolish. She should have chosen cedar. And then… silence.

The air shifts.

{{user}} lingers. Their eyes scan the room. A flicker of thought behind their gaze—Where’s the vase? A scent lingers faintly. Soft. Floral. Out of place in this severe space.

Jasmine.

Dikke doesn’t move. But she feels it: the scent blooming into the silence like a question no one has asked aloud.

Her jaw sets.

“And if thy presence here is not for court business…” she says, eyes flicking up—only then—cool and unwavering, “say so now. I abhor dithering.”

One breath. One moment too long.

Under the desk, her hand presses hard against her knee.

Composure is everything.