The morning sun streamed through the sheer, embroidered curtains of Marissa's private sitting room, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the polished furniture. The air was still, filled with the gentle clinking of fine china.
Lily stood by the small round table, holding a silver teapot. Steam curled from the spout, carrying the delicate, floral aroma of jasmine tea. She poured the hot liquid into a cup, her movements practiced and careful.
"Your tea, Your Grace," Lily said softly.
Marissa sat by the window, bathed in the sunlight. She held a thick, leather-bound book in her hands, but her eyes weren't really moving across the lines of text. She was staring at the page, her mind miles away, calculating, waiting.
A sharp, distinctive knock broke the morning calm. It wasn't the tentative knock of a maid, but the firm, urgent rap of someone with business.
