(Early March – The Nest, then St. Liora Hall)
The days that followed felt like a slow inhalation before the fire.
Windsor was restless again — the kind of restlessness that had no clear enemy but smelled of smoke and fear. Markets opened with murmurs of scandal; carriages passed slower near the Parliament square as though expecting arrests. The word treason hung in the air like an unspent curse.
At The Nest, the windows were kept half-drawn. There were too many watchers in the street now, too many reporters pretending to sell flowers. Serena had stopped leaving the house except for her rehearsals, and even those had to be disguised as charity performances.
Still, the piano never stopped.
Between Notes and Fire
Serena sat before the instrument, a candle burning low beside her sheet. The air was thick with rain again, the smell of it seeping through the cracks of the old townhouse. Her fingers hovered above the keys — not trembling, just… waiting.
