Something shifted beneath Clyde's blue eyes at the question.
It was subtle—so brief Ryley almost thought he imagined it—but the change was there.
And Clyde looked away first.
"I asked her," he muttered quietly, his gaze drifting toward the garden below instead of meeting Ryley's eyes. "But apparently… she does not wish to return here."
Ryley pressed his lips together again, bitterness rising for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
He wanted to say there had to be a reason for Madam Beckett to refuse so firmly.
He wanted to tell Clyde that the woman was most likely building something far bigger behind the scenes—gathering influence, securing allies, preparing Morgan's path toward the throne long before anyone else noticed.
But he couldn't.
Partly because he had no proof.
And partly because the thought of burdening Clyde with more problems right before another sudden campaign made the words die in his throat.
So instead, he swallowed everything back down.
