It had occurred several decades ago…
The Falkrona Estate sat on its island like a sovereign thing, ancient stonework wrapped in salt air and the low ripples of the sea.
Within it, the quarters of Belle Falkrona were the warmest corner of all. Soft lamplight, the faint scent of something floral, shelves lined with books that had been read and loved rather than merely displayed.
Belle herself was absent that evening.
But her son was there.
Seven years old right now.
He sat in the center of the large bed, the same bed he had slept in since infancy, curled against his mother's side in her arms, with a book open across his knees.
