(Rosaline POV)
The invitation arrived without ceremony.
No trumpet. No seal pressed in red wax before my eyes. Just a folded sheet of cream parchment laid neatly atop my breakfast tray, the edges aligned with deliberate precision.
Priscilla noticed it before I did.
Her hands paused mid-motion as she poured tea, fingers tightening just slightly around the porcelain handle.
"Milady," she said carefully, "this was not delivered with the rest of the morning correspondence."
I set down my cup.
The script was elegant—feminine without being soft, every stroke confident, measured.
A private winter tea, it read. An opportunity to speak woman to woman.
No signature was needed.
Lady Elysande Heathfield did not sign invitations. She issued expectations.
I exhaled slowly. "When?"
Priscilla glanced at the margin. "In one hour."
Of course.
Short enough to prevent consultation. Long enough to prepare obedience.
"And where?" I asked.
