It began, as most things lately did, with exhaustion.
Not the dramatic, collapse-on-the-floor kind, but the quieter, bone-deep weariness that settled behind Verona's eyes and stayed there, stubborn as a shadow, no matter how much sleep she pretended to get. The sort of tired that made time feel slippery. Morning bled into afternoon, afternoon folded into night, and somewhere in between she was expected to become… well. Everything.
Future Duchess. Political partner. Elemental prodigy. Public figure. Symbol.
Some days, she felt like a very determined candle trying not to gutter in a strong wind.
Her mornings started in the greenhouse now. Always the greenhouse. Sir Enoch would hover nearby, pretending not to hover, offering advice that sounded casual but never quite was. Soil composition. Root stress. Which herbs thrived when whispered to, yes, whispered, he was adamant about that.
By noon, however, the comfort ended.
Ardine did not believe in comfort.
