The garden, in the bright, warm light of the late morning, was Marissa's sanctuary. The day was promising. She was tending to a row of small pots, where the tiny, bright green heads of new sprouts—herbs for the kitchen—were just beginning to emerge.
She was humming a happy, tuneless, and almost forgotten little song from her childhood, a small watering can in her hand. Lily, enjoying the tune, was beside her, happily arranging the small pots into a neat, sunlit row.
"Your Grace."
The voice was not belonging to any of the servants. It was a soft, sweet, and utterly unwelcome sound.
Marissa's humming stopped. Her hand, holding the watering can, froze in mid-air. She looked up slowly, the peaceful, happy, and unguarded expression on her face vanishing, replaced by the cool, polite, and unreadable mask.
Senna was standing at the entrance to the garden, her maid, Esme, a few respectful paces behind her. She was smiling, a picture of perfect, fragile, and beautiful innocence.
