The faint click of polished heels echoed softly through the dim, crowded corridors of Pembroke Hospital, barely audible over the coughs, cries, and clatter of medical instruments. Amid the chaos and the stench of sickness, a cool, almost ethereal presence cut through the air like perfume on silk.

Lady Elisabeth Ashbury stepped gracefully through the main hall, her posture was elegant, her movements deliberate — composed like a portrait stepped from its frame. The pale glow of her skin caught the lantern light in passing, eyes as green as summer leaves drifting calmly over the suffering patients and overworked staff.

Though out of place in her aristocratic attire and serene demeanor, she was no stranger here. She carried herself with quiet purpose, a delicate gloved hand occasionally resting on the edge of a bed, a kind glance offered to those fading from fever or pain. Her presence stirred a hush of both reverence and unease — for even without words, there was something otherworldly in her poise.

The nurses gave her small nods of recognition. Some of the younger doctors stood straighter in her presence, unsure whether to address her as a volunteer, a patron, or something else entirely.

Lady Ashbury did not seek the spotlight. She moved like dusk — soft, inevitable, unnoticed until it was already around you.

And tonight, like many before, she had come not just to observe, but to offer aid — in her own, silent, enduring way.