The next morning arrived beneath a sky still heavy with rain. Grey light spilled weakly through the curtains of Penelope's dim bedchamber, carrying none of yesterday's deceptive gentleness.
The storm had lingered through the night, rattling softly against the windows while London slept unaware of the bargains made behind closed doors. Penelope did not sleep. Or rather, she had drifted in and out of a restless haze, every movement reminding her sharply of the lingering ache left behind by the examination.
Even now, seated before her vanity in a robe of pale cream, she held herself unnaturally still while Mary arranged the red waves of her hair with careful hands.
The silence between them was unusual.
Mary always had a quiet tendency toward conversation, sharing small observations about the weather, the flowers, or Francesca's endless complaints about ribbons, but this morning she said almost nothing at all.
