The next morning came soft and silver, the kind of light that lingered just long enough to make time feel slower. Fitzgeralt Manor was quiet again, this time with the peace that followed a long night of cold rain. The sky outside was pale and cloud-heavy, and the windows of the sitting room reflected the softened brightness over polished floors and cream upholstery. But no sign of snow yet.
Lucas had claimed one of the sofas, curled into a throw blanket that was doing most of the work of his self-imposed exile. A tablet rested on his knees, the screen filled with calendar notifications that looked like a battlefield of social obligations. Every few minutes, one of them pinged with a cheerful reminder that only seemed to worsen his mood.
