"Annette! I demand that you enter this house immediately!"

The voice of Luara, the head maid of the estate, rang out in the stillness of the garden, filled with the scent of blooming roses and freshly cut grass. She stood there, arms crossed and face flushed with frustration, as she glared down at Lady Annette, who lay sprawled on the ground, pale and barely conscious, her brow damp with perspiration. A fever had overtaken her, yet the oblivious maid seemed entirely unmoved by her condition.

“Your father, The duke is almost home, and I need to look my best!” Luara continued, her tone sharp as she fussed with her own skirt, tugging at the fabric to make it appear shorter, as though her appearance overshadowed the distress of her charge.

The sunlight poured through the branches of the garden’s ancient oak trees, casting dappled shadows on the scene, but all Annette could focus on was the overwhelming heat that enveloped her, pulling her deeper into a haze of exhaustion.