The evening in the Rosedale library had transitioned from the sharp tension of the nursery assembly to a heavy, velvet-draped stillness. The only light source was the dying embers of the hearth and a single, low-wattage floor lamp that cast long, amber shadows across the spines of the Sterling family's unread classics.
Maya was seated on the window seat, her silhouette framed by the silver moonlight reflecting off the frosted glass. Julian sat on the floor nearby—a position of unintended humility—resting his back against the mahogany shelving. The air between them no longer crackled with the electricity of a predator and prey; it was thick with the exhaustion of two people who had finally run out of lies.
"You asked me earlier who I was before the red coat," Maya began, her voice barely a whisper, blending with the crackle of the fire.
