Hilda startled slightly, turning toward the sound.
"I pray for that too."
Lady Selene Goldheart stood at the threshold, hands clasped before her, her silken gown glimmering faintly in the warm lamplight. The faintest trace of amusement softened her composed expression.
"My Lady—!" Hilda immediately bowed, a touch of embarrassment in her tone. "I didn't sense you there."
Selene smiled — a gentle, knowing thing that somehow made Hilda feel both forgiven and mildly scolded. "Few do, Miss Hilda. It's a useful habit in a household like ours."
Her gaze drifted toward the sleeping child. The faintest tenderness brightened her eyes. "He looks so peaceful like this. One would never imagine the chaos he leaves in his wake."
Hilda chuckled quietly, lowering her voice. "Indeed, my Lady. I believe the Saints send him trouble the way rain finds mountains."
Selene let out a light, musical laugh. "Or perhaps he is the storm."
