In his study on the second floor, Louis Henri de La Rose sat behind a massive ebony desk, his eyes fixed on the columns of figures before him. He had not slept that night — again. Insomnia had become a familiar companion in recent months, ever since his father had officially announced his engagement to Mademoiselle Dubois. Three months until the wedding. Ninety days until the gilded cage closed for good.

Louis rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the familiar weight behind his eyelids. The ink on his fingertips left dark marks against his skin. The morning coffee Pierre had brought him at six had long since gone cold in its porcelain cup — untouched, covered with a thin film. The fireplace behind him was dying down, casting uneven shadows across the spines of the leather-bound volumes lining the walls. The smell of tobacco, old paper, and something else — lavender from freshly ironed linen — lingered in the air.

He rose abruptly, pushing back his chair; the wood scraped against the parquet. He needed to leave this study, or the walls would begin to press in harder. Louis unfastened the top button of his waistcoat — a rare gesture, one that spoke of control maintained only with effort. His gaze slid toward the window, where the grey sky promised rain by noon.

Perhaps he ought to go down to the library. There, at least, he could pretend to read instead of merely existing in anticipation of the inevitable.

Louis left the study, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridor of the second floor. The portraits of his ancestors watched him from the walls with cold, condemning eyes. Duty. Family. Reputation. Those words had been branded into his mind since childhood.

Descending the broad staircase with its marble banister, he turned toward the library. The massive oak door was ajar — strange. Bernard usually made certain the rooms remained closed until ten, when the master officially began his day.

Louis pushed the door open.

And froze on the threshold.

By the tall window, where the morning light spilled in, stood a girl. A servant — a laundress, judging by the plain grey dress and white apron. In her hands was a book. His book — a volume of Voltaire from the upper shelf, the very one he himself had been reading a week earlier. She stood with her back to the door, and the shaft of sunlight fell across her bowed head, turning the morning scene into a painting that should not have existed.

The girl's lips moved soundlessly.

She was reading.

Something tightened in Louis's chest. Not anger. Not irritation. Something else, something he could not name. For several seconds, he simply watched her, unable to move. Then reflex returned — control, authority, the need to restore order.

"You can read?" His voice came out colder than he had intended. Low, even, with that icy courtesy that was far more dangerous than shouting.

Louis stepped into the library and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch echoed through the silence. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, and narrowed his eyes as he studied the uninvited guest.

"I assume Madame Rousseau did not explain to you that touching the master's belongings is forbidden." A pause, heavy as stone. "Or does literacy make you too bold for a laundress?"

His tone was mocking, but something else flickered in his dark blue eyes — curiosity, though Louis himself did not yet recognize it. He waited. Waited to hear what she would say. How she would look at him. Whether she would be frightened, or dare to answer.

Outside the window, a crow cawed, breaking the stillness. The clock on the mantelpiece counted out the seconds.

The book was still in her hands.