Morning arrived at the Anderson estate with a deceptive sort of gentleness.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows draped in pale muslin, spilling across the drawing room in soft gold. It painted everything it touched in warmth: the worn edges of upholstered chairs, the delicate porcelain set upon the tea table, and the quiet stillness of a household attempting, with great effort, to appear untouched by strain.
Penelope sat poised upon the settee, her posture as graceful as ever, though her mind was anything but still. Opposite her, Francesca leaned forward with animated interest, her eyes bright with curiosity as she recounted—rather enthusiastically—the events of the previous evening.
