The gardens of the Louvre were bathed in late afternoon light, the kind that turned marble pale gold and softened every edge of the world. Queen Anne sat beneath the shade of an arched trellis, a delicate porcelain cup poised between her gloved fingers. Around her, her ladies-in-waiting murmured softly, gentle laughter, the rustle of silk, the faint clink of spoons against china. The scent of roses mingled with the sharper perfume of lavender carried on the breeze.

Anne’s gaze had wandered across the manicured lawns, unfocused, her mind far from courtly chatter. There was peace here, or at least the illusion of it. The kind she had learned to treasure in stolen hours. Then came the sound, footsteps, measured and familiar, disrupting the stillness behind her. She did not turn; she didn’t need to. Her pulse gave her answer long before her lips did.

“You came.”