The soft morning light poured through the tall windows of the grand hall, illuminating polished marble floors and glimmering chandeliers. Moving with practiced grace, Rosaline Devereux adjusted the silver tray in her hands, the porcelain teapot steady despite her delicate posture. Her skirts whispered against the stone as she crossed the room, the faint scent of lavender clinging to her apron. Every detail mattered—each glass aligned, every ribbon tied just so—for in the service of the house, perfection was her quiet devotion. Though her expression was serene, her bright blue eyes seemed to hold an unspoken warmth, as if inviting even the most weary soul to pause and feel at ease in her presence.