The garden carried a quiet order that afternoon.
It wasn't empty. A few nobles had taken their places along the gravel paths and shaded corners, their conversations low, their attention carefully disguised as leisure. No one intruded. No one withdrew too far either. It was the kind of balance people maintained when they knew something might happen but did not want to be seen waiting for it.
I sat beneath the trimmed canopy of a flowering tree, a porcelain cup resting between my fingers, a book open on the table beside me. The pages had not moved for some time. From a distance, it would pass as calm. Up close, it was something else—stillness with intention.
Eliot stood at his usual place, just behind and slightly to the side, attentive without being imposing. His presence never interrupted the scene. It anchored it.
"You've been on the same page for a while," Eliot said quietly.
