Early February. Windsor trembles with song and rumor alike.
Serena
The morning after the Whitechapel performance, Serena woke to silence.
No carriages, no footsteps outside the townhouse, — only the faint crackle of dying coals.
Her voice was raw, her throat sore. Her fingertips ached from playing too long.
And yet there was peace.
For the first time in years, she felt something resembling purpose.
Not survival, not ambition — meaning.
The city had begun to see her again, but differently now. Not as scandal or ornament, not as the crown's discarded jewel, but as something real.
A woman who had walked through fire and rain and still stood.
She rose, crossing the parlor where the morning light fell in thin lines through the curtains. The piano waited, its keys ghosting the echo of last night's melody.
She touched one, smiled faintly, and whispered,
"Fire and rain. What a strange thing to live through both."
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