(Late February, The Nest)
The winter was breaking.
A slow thaw traced its way through the city — icicles thinning along the eaves, snow bleeding into the cobblestones, fog rising like breath.
At The Nest, the world seemed to hold its breath. The townhouse stood quiet but alive — a sanctuary, a secret war room, a place that carried the scent of cedar, ink, and lingering firelight.
Serena sat at the piano, her fingers resting idly on the keys. She had been pretending to play, though her thoughts had wandered far beyond the music. The melody she half-murmured — the same one she'd been writing in the margins of her mind for days — dissolved when she heard the carriage outside.
"They're here," she said softly.
Charlton looked up from his papers near the fire, his expression unreadable. "Leonard first. Hugo won't arrive on time — he never does."
"Then Emily will make sure he doesn't leave until he listens," Serena replied.
