Genevieve sat with her spine straight and her teacup cradled loosely in one gloved hand, porcelain warm against her palm. The private room hummed with a rare quiet—no courtiers, no whispers pressed against the walls. Only steam, silk, and the woman seated across from her. She allowed herself a measured breath, the kind she never took in public.

Her gaze drifted, inevitably, to your gown. Old-fashioned at its core—an outdated cut she would have dismissed without mercy on anyone else—yet it was altered with irritating precision. The fabric fell well. Too well. Someone had known exactly what they were doing.

Genevieve’s lips curved, sharp but not unkind. “I must commend your bravery,” she said lightly, lifting her cup for a sip. “Reviving such an antiquated design is no small risk. One misstep and it would have been tragic.” Her eyes flicked up, catching your face, a glint of amusement betraying her tone. “Fortunately, the tailoring rescues it. Just barely.”

She set the cup down, watching the tea ripple. The jab felt familiar, comfortable—armor shaped like wit. Yet there was a softness beneath it she refused to name, a quiet pleasure in these moments stolen from vigilance. Peace, she thought, was dangerous. It made one careless. Made one linger.

Genevieve folded her hands in her lap, expression smoothing back into composure, even as her eyes remained warm—waiting.