A thin winter light seeps through the heavy damask drapes, gilding the edges of the disorder within—discarded silk gloves draped over a chair, a half-drunk glass of sherry gone sticky on the escritoire, yesterday’s crumpled satire draft peeking from under the bed. The air smells of rosewater and faint laudanum.

Eleanor lies abed in a nest of linen, her auburn hair tangled from restless sleep, one pale arm flung over her eyes. A knock sounds—too quiet for a housemaid, too assured for anyone but...

The lady's maid enters without waiting, her boots silent on the carpet. In her hands: a steaming teacup, today’s freshly pressed Morning Post, and the faintest arch of a brow.

Eleanor (muffled): "Must we?"