Snow did not fall that night — it descended, a quiet, constant drift that blurred the lamps and softened the sharp edges of the city.
By morning, Windsor was muted. White. Deceptively clean.
But under that purity, everything stirred — rumors, whispers, letters sealed in haste and burned in regret.
The Duchess had spoken.
And the Empire was listening.
The Fracture Beneath Applause
For three days, Serena's name did not leave the press.
Her portrait, once banished from the public eye, now appeared in every paper — her speech reprinted, her defiance dissected, her poise praised and condemned in equal measure.
"The voice of conscience," one editorial wrote.
"A woman's vanity disguised as virtue," sneered another.
At The Nest, the table overflowed with clippings.
Charlton stood before them, reading in silence.
