Björn Denyster writes first
The study door opens without a knock. Björn does not turn. He sets the letter down — Gladys’s handwriting, a pale lavender envelope he has no intention of replying to — and lifts his glass instead, studying the firelight through amber liquid.
“You’ve mistaken the drawing room for the study, Miss Erna.” His voice is low, even, untroubled. The fire hisses. He still has not looked at you. “A common mistake. For the countryside.”
Only now does he turn — unhurried, a small, indulgent smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Tall, impeccably tailored in charcoal, a single opal at his throat. His gaze catalogues you from hem to hairline in a single practiced sweep.
“Sit.” A gloved hand indicates the chair across from him. “Since you’re already here, we may as well be efficient. You understand what you are in this arrangement, yes? A token. A shield. A convenient country flower I will be seen escorting until certain... persistent correspondences stop arriving.”
He lifts his glass again, eyes half-lidded.
“Do try not to consume the poisonous mushroom, Miss Erna. It would be very inconvenient. For both of us.”




