The cottage felt strangely quiet.
Adrien hated it.
Normally, Adéolá was everywhere. Always complaining—protesting about the lack of fresh organic peppers in his kitchen, declaring American furniture to be entirely "hostile to the spine," or finding things to be offended by that didn't even logically deserve human emotion.
But today? Nothing.
No arguments. No high-and-mighty speeches. No random declarations of marriage over a plate of sweet bread.
Just absolute, suffocating silence.
Adrien glanced toward the wide bay window. Adéolá sat curled on the cushion beside it, her knees pulled tightly against her chest.
The storm had started over an hour ago.
Thunder rolled somewhere far in the distance.
And she hadn't moved an inch.
Adrien frowned, dropping his charcoal pencil onto his sketchbook as he walked over to the window.
"Okay," Adrien said, stopping a few feet away. "You're being weird."
No response.
"Princess."
