The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound that seemed to swallow the laughter outside.
Serena hesitated in the threshold. The small sitting room was modest by Cross family standards: pale walls, one low-burning fire, a single lamp whose flame trembled with each breath of air. It smelled faintly of cedar and candle wax—too quiet, too intimate.
She told herself to move. Slowly. Controlled.
The last thing she could afford was to appear nervous. Christopher Cross was a man who noticed hesitation and filed it away like evidence.
He crossed the room before she did, lighting another lamp. The glow touched his sleeve, the edge of his jaw, leaving the rest in shadow.
"Better," he said, adjusting the wick. "Noise has its uses, but it distorts meaning."
Serena managed a faint smile. "You prefer silence?"
"I prefer clarity," he answered. "Silence merely helps one listen."
