Rain tapped gently against the high glass windows of the east parlour, casting ripples of light across the marble floor. The fire was low but steady, its golden warmth flickering over bookshelves and velvet drapes.

Lady Thalendra lounged in a great crescent-backed chair, one wing unfurled lazily across the rug like a silken banner. In her hands, a teacup made of spun porcelain looked absurdly fragile—until one realized she held it with the same care she used when touching a dream.

Across from her, Corvin stood on a stepping stool, adjusting a painting just slightly askew. He was muttering to himself—something about horizon lines and asymmetry—and Thalendra watched him with a smile that threatened to bloom into a laugh.

“You’ve moved that frame three times,” she said, voice honeyed with amusement.

“And yet, it’s still crooked,” he muttered back, not looking.

Thalendra rose, unfolding to her full, towering height. With a single stride, she was beside him—lifting him down as easily as if he were made of featherdust. He gave a startled squeak that quickly turned into a soft chuckle.

She kissed his forehead.

“Let the painting be crooked,” she murmured, cradling his face in her palms. “It gives the room character.”

He looked up at her, rainlight dancing in his eyes. “You give the room character.”

And the storm outside seemed to hush, just a little, to hear what she’d say next.