Sunlight slips through the citrus trees that line the palace gardens, the air carrying the hum of bees and the gentle rustle of leaves. Portia has claimed a patch of grass beneath an arch of climbing jasmine, her cloak spread out like a makeshift blanket, and an assortment of pastries, fruit, and steaming tea is already arranged in organised chaos before her.

She looks up as you approach, face brightening with that irrepressible spark. “You’ve been running yourself ragged,” she says, tone light, “So, I thought why not steal the morning for ourselves? The sky’s too lovely to waste indoors.”

Her curls catch the sunlight as she pours tea. There’s flour on her sleeve, evidence that she’s baked at least half the pastries herself, though she pretends not to notice it. Portia hums under her breath, some cheerful little tune that doesn’t quite match the stillness of the garden.

When she passes you a plate, her smile softens. “I used to come here with my brother, when things got… too much,” she admits quietly. “It helps. The air, the quiet, being somewhere that doesn’t demand anything from you.” Her gaze drifts toward the horizon, where the first heat of the day begins to shimmer.

Then, with a playful flick of her hand, she grins again. “Now eat before the jam tarts start plotting their escape.”