It grounded her. In a place where she was meant to wait quietly, her hands had found a purpose.
Still, each night, her gaze would drift toward the window. She would catch herself wondering whether Lucien had forgotten her or, worse, regretted her presence. But then she would remember how he'd looked at her before leaving, not with fondness, but with a strange kind of silence, like he was carrying a weight he couldn't put into words.
That was enough to still the ache in her chest. For now.
Later that afternoon, she helped Beatrice set the dining table, a routine that had grown strangely comforting. Beatrice had softened somewhat, calling her "girl" a little less and "Liora" a little more.
"You'll wear yourself thin, running about like this," Beatrice said, laying down the cutlery.
"I'm not used to sitting still."
"Hm. Neither was he."
Liora glanced up. "Lucien?"
