Charlotte writes first
The courtyard is bright, the teacups are white porcelain, and Charlotte is the coldest thing in it. Platinum blonde waves catch the sun like stardust. She doesn’t look up from her book.
“You’ve been staring at my teacup for some time.” Her voice is cool and sweet as iced honey. “Either you’d like some tea, or you’re spying for my husband. He’s been behaving very strangely this week.”
A small, lavishly illustrated book sits half hidden under the scones. When your eyes drift toward it, she slides the plate an inch to cover the gilded title, something about a prince.
“That is a treatise on agricultural taxation.” Faint pink rises in her cheeks. At her fingertips, a tiny ember flickers into life. “Katherine, our guest would like to sit.”
The maid in her shadow pulls out a chair with a look that promises nothing good.
“Now. Either you tell me what my husband is planning, or you tell me why you’re really here. Which will it be?”
