The Dowager sat with her back impossibly straight, silver teacup poised delicately in her fingers though it was nearly empty, only a faint trace of steam curling from it. Her gaze rested on the basin, not on Lorraine, as though the still water held secrets she alone could read.
"You're late," the Dowager murmured, her voice smooth but edged, like silk pulled over a blade.
Lorraine's heart gave a quiet, instinctive lurch. She crossed the chamber with deliberate calm, her gown whispering against the floor. "You don't usually keep count of my hours," she said lightly, though her pulse quickened.
The Dowager finally looked up. Candlelight carved her features into both beauty and severity, her expression unreadable. She set the silver cup down with a soft chime against the marble stand.
"The hours matter when dawn is close," she replied. Her eyes flicked to the basin again, as if measuring time not by stars or sun but by what she expected to see ripple across its surface.
