The ballroom had begun to thin.
Some of the lesser houses had started to slip out politely, murmuring excuses about early travel or late letters. The music had softened into something elegant and forgettable. The golden light still glittered across the high windows, but the shine of celebration had dulled slightly.
Like a mirror touched by breath.
Beatrice stood near the second columned alcove, a half-empty glass in hand, her fingers curled loosely around the stem. Francois had been drawn into another diplomatic conversation, this time with Lord Marelen, who had not stopped speaking for ten straight minutes. She didn't mind. The distance gave her space to breathe.
The betrothal had been officially named. The court had witnessed. The king and queen had approved.
But the air still felt too sharp. Not exactly dangerous.
But alert.
