Morning at the Iron Hearth Castle arrived far earlier than the biological clock of an ordinary person.
Rumina had been standing like a statue before her vanity mirror since before the sun had even managed to peek over the mountains. Her slender fingers moved to adjust the collar of her chosen dark gray blouse—an outfit deliberately selected not to flaunt her curves, but because its thick wool weave was sturdy enough to withstand the freezing winds of Frostmere.
There were no feminine satin lace trimmings. No shiny beaded embroidery details. It was merely a practical business suit that happened to be neatly ironed.
On top of her wooden vanity, a large brown leather bag sat rigidly—stuffed to the brim with stacks of report files. She likely wouldn't even have the time to touch them between the ballroom dances, but she was bringing them anyway.
