By the time Beatrice reached her chambers, the weight in her spine had settled into something dense and cold.
She entered without fanfare. The guards didn't glance at her twice. No servants hovered nearby. No one waiting to flatter or needle.
She preferred it that way.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the moment it did, she exhaled. Slow and sharp, as if she'd been holding her breath for hours.
The stillness of her rooms was intact.
Almost.
Her eyes swept over the space out of habit, the same way she had every morning since arriving at court. Everything looked untouched. The chairs were where she'd left them. The fire was unlit. The curtains slightly parted.
But something was wrong.
It took her another second to realize what it was.
The drawer to her desk, where she kept her journal was open.
Not wide. Not conspicuously. Just barely ajar, as if someone had forgotten to close it properly. But Beatrice knew herself too well to dismiss it.
