Warm afternoon sunlight, the color of pale honey, streamed through the turning leaves of the oak trees. A gentle, cooling breeze carried the scent of late-blooming roses and lavender. On a small, marble terrace overlooking the grounds, a young woman sat, her fingers gliding over the strings of a large, golden harp. The melody was soft, intricate, and deeply calming, a soft sound that seemed to wash away the last, lingering stains of the recent horrors.
Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, sat in a comfortable, high-backed wicker chair, her eyes closed, a rare, peaceful smile on her face as she enjoyed the music.
Opposite her, Marissa and Derek sat at the small, white-iron table. A pot of tea steamed between them, and the atmosphere, for the first time, was not one of open warfare, but of a careful, cautious truce.
