Marron woke before dawn out of habit, not obligation.
For a brief second she expected to feel that old tension—the need to prepare for scrutiny, to anticipate requests before they were spoken—but it never arrived. The room was quiet. The apple tree outside brushed softly against the windowpane in the early breeze.
She lay there for a moment, listening.
Downstairs, faint movement. Someone stoking embers. A pot lid lifted and replaced.
The inn was waking at its own pace.
Marron rose, washed quickly, and tied her hair back. Lucy pulsed gently in her jar as if stretching. Mokko shifted and rolled onto his side with a low rumble.
"Kitchen?" he asked sleepily.
"Kitchen," she confirmed.
The air downstairs was cool but already fragrant. Ciel stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up as always, but without the tight focus of dinner service. She glanced at Marron.
"You're early."
"I like early," Marron replied.
