The hallway outside Beatrice's bedchamber was quiet, the usual bustling sounds of the estate muted by the heavy carpets and the solemnity of the morning. Derek stood before the tall oak door, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He adjusted his collar, brushing away the last of the road dust.
He raised his hand.
Knock... knock... knock.
The sound was firm but respectful.
A moment of silence, then a frail voice replied from within.
"Enter."
Derek pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room smelled of old lavender, beeswax, and the faint, medicinal scent of the herbal tea Beatrice favored. The curtains were drawn against the bright sun, leaving the room in a soft, golden twilight.
Beatrice was sitting in her favorite armchair by the fireplace, a heavy wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders despite the warmth of the room. When she saw him, she didn't wait for him to bow. She stood up, her movements slower than he remembered, her cane forgotten by the chair.
