"Didn't realize the corridor was occupied," I say, my voice even.
Her head tilts just slightly, a gesture so minimal it barely qualifies as acknowledgment.
"Lena," she says.
"Assigned to you as of this morning."
The words are delivered without ornament, without explanation.
"Bodyguard?" I ask.
She nods.
"Ruairí's orders."
Of course they are.
I shrug, push the trolley toward her, and as I pass, I watch her watching me.
She does not glance at the trolley, nor at the sack with the note.
Her gaze is fixed on my face, as if she's waiting for the truth to fall out and shatter at her feet.
"Anything you need, just let me know," she says, and this time there is the suggestion of a smile, thin as paper.
"I'll do that," I reply.
I leave her in the corridor, the echo of my footsteps retreating into the stone as I head to my room and begin preparations for a brunch that I have to host.
After showering and dressing, I make my way to the kitchen, where the crew have begun preparing the sauces.
I arrange the floral centerpieces myself, heavy blooms in low crystal bowls, thistle and black peony and blood-colored rose, all nodding slightly from the weight of their own beauty.
The staff knows better than to interfere.
I choose the menu in full—roasted quail with spiced honey glaze, griddled sourdough with rosemary butter, smoked tomatoes slick with oil, a sugared tart of late-season figs.
By eleven, the house is full of polished voices and silver.
A brunch for five—mostly wives, one cousin with hungover eyes.
I wear cream silk with pearl buttons and a lipstick too red to be ignored.
I pour coffee from a French press with a steady hand, make conversation with the skill of someone who once watched her mother hold court during a siege.
Ruairí appears near the end, unannounced, his sleeves pushed past his elbows.
His presence reshapes the table, quiets it.
He kisses the curve of my temple like he means it, takes the last seat, and eats a fig with the careful indifferenceof a man who knows every eye is on him.
Our fingers brush once, by accident or design, near the sugar bowl.
The touch is nothing.
The touch is everything.
I refill his coffee, lean close enough for the scents of bergamot and citrus to drift off my skin, and say, too softly for anyone else, "You should try the quail."
