The bird was singing again—cautiously this time. The air was fresh. The clouds overhead were dramatic in that poetic, early-morning way, like the world itself was trying to romanticize my suffering.
I was not ready to be awake. I was not ready to be perceived. I was definitely not ready to be evaluated.
And oh, I knew that tone. That was the Coffi-being-Coffi tone.
The one that meant she already knew the answer, disapproved of it, and was moments away from launching a full-scale "fix my lady before society sees this" operation.
I swallowed. This morning was already doomed.
Her hair was neatly braided now, no longer wild from travel. Her maid uniform was clean but travel-worn, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest competence. She was wearing shoes—shoes—which meant she had already been awake long enough to commit to productivity.
This woman had slept. This woman had thrived.
