It began with a sound Verona had been waiting for. Wheels rolling over gravel and the faint, rhythmic clop of horses slowing before the manor gates. She wasn't even standing at the front door yet. She was in the hallway, clutching a tiny bouquet that she'd assembled herself. Mostly wildflowers, a little uneven, a little squashed on one side where she'd held it too tightly. But it smelled sweet. And she'd thought, maybe it would make Father smile.
She heard the maid that morning, "His Grace returned from the border. He should be here by noon if the roads are clear." And Verona had spent every minute after that arranging and rearranging the same flowers, counting the petals, whispering welcome home, Father, as if practicing it would make it real.
