(Early March, The Nest and Westminster)
The city had begun to change its song.
A week ago, the air had carried music — shopkeepers humming Serena's melody, children singing her name like a prayer. But by the first week of March, those same streets murmured something else: suspicion. Doubt.
All it took was ink.
The posters plastered overnight — "THE DUKE'S LIES," "TREASON IN ELEGANT CLOTHES," "A WOMAN'S SONG TO COVER SIN."
Each bearing the same watermark: the Register.
Inside The Nest, Serena sat in the drawing room, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cold air and the sound of horses on cobblestones. A crumpled newspaper lay beside her teacup. She hadn't touched either.
Emily paced near the fireplace, her usual composure fraying. "He's turning the city against you again. It's the same tactic — slander, rumor, moral outrage. God, he's clever."
