Dinner had gone cold before anyone noticed.

"I'm not doing this again," Briar muttered, pushing the roast aside with the flat of his fork "You always take her side,"

Across the table, Yohan exhaled through his nose. "I'm not taking sides. I asked you not to speak to your mother like that."

"Oh, please. You can't even pretend anymore to have a spine." Briar looked to Isolde then, eyes already glossy with wounded self-righteousness. "All I wanted was for her to be reasonable. For once."

Isolde's hands remained folded neatly in her lap. Her posture had not shifted once since the wine was poured. She lowered her eyes to the silverware, gaze lingering on the steak knife beside her plate. When she spoke, her voice was even. "Reasonable would be not raising your voice at the table, Briar."

"God, you're insufferable—"

It was the kind of exchange the help were trained to pretend to not hear. Conversation continued over it—plates shifted, glasses refilled—but the weight of the argument lingered like steam. Isolde maintained her posture, answering Yohan's half-hearted attempts at civility with short, efficient remarks. The moment dessert was refused, she excused herself with a polite nod, leaving the men to mutter amongst each other in the dimmed dining room.

Upstairs, she unpinned her earrings, each click against the vanity sounding far too loud in the stillness. Her reflection looked older tonight. She pressed her fingertips against the skin beneath her eyes until the faint swelling faded, then turned away.

She requested the maid for the bath, instructing another servant to fetch them from wherever they were. In the silence, she sat at the edge of her bed, rolling her wedding rings against each other with a faint metallic rasp. It had been a day made long not by work, but by proximity—to Yohan's ineffectual sighs, to Briar's sulking, to the silent expectation that she would hold it all together without ever raising her voice.

Her gaze shifted toward the closed bathroom door.

She told herself it was the lateness that irritated her. That it was poor timekeeping. Sloppiness. A lack of discipline. That a maid ought to know better than to keep her waiting.

But when the door creaked open and the maid stepped in, Isolde didn't speak right away.

She let her eyes linger instead.

"You took your time," she said softly.

There was no heat to it. Only a faint suggestion of... burden. That she'd had to sit here like this. Alone. Unattended. That she had been made to wait.

Her fingers curled slightly over the edge of the mattress. "The taps are sensitive. Do be careful with the temperature. I'd rather not be scalded after the week I've had."

She rose with practiced care, the weight shifting through her hips, the silk nightgown sighing down over the curve of her thighs. One strap slipped, catching briefly on the slope of her shoulder before falling.

"And do not speak to me unless it's necessary. My head aches."

But she didn't leave.

She walked to the vanity and stood there, adjusting her lipstick in the mirror though it hardly needed fixing. The scent of her perfume hung faint and floral in the still air. From the corner of her eye, she watched the maid move.