Scarlet had barely lifted the soaked hem of her skirt when Edgar's disapproving voice rang through the corridor.
"Miss Scarlet," he said sharply, "how many times must we remind you not to carry the trays yourself?"
Scarlet flinched, the metal clatter of the spilled teacups still echoing in the silence. Her lips parted, but no words came only a nervous squeak as she dropped to her knees and tried to gather the broken pieces.
Liora stood a few feet away, stunned not by the mess, but by the way the air shifted tense, quiet, dangerous. She could sense him before she saw him.
Lucien.
He emerged from the hallway behind them, not in the ornate robes he wore for court appearances, but in dark, pared-down attire sleeves rolled, sword strapped to his hip. His boots halted inches from the spilled tea, steam still curling from the cracked porcelain.
His gaze, steel-gray and unreadable, passed over the mess, the girl, and then landed squarely on Liora.
