88 – Frida POV
The duchess is… glowing?
I blink, confused, trying not to let my expression slip into anything unprofessional, but it's hard to ignore. I've served her for over a decade—watched her moods shift like the tides, read the tiny creases of her brow and the twitch of her mouth like they were written in scripture.
And today? She's positively radiant.
There's a softness to her face, the sort of ease that only ever appears in the rarest of moments—like when she's reading under the sun in the garden, or watching the rain from her window with a cup of tea.
But this... this is different.
She sits at the head of the table, spine perfectly straight, hands folded over her lap, while the other ladies of House Callum chatter about whatever political drama or fashion nonsense they're currently obsessed with
. Usually this puts her in a terrible mood—Lady Viola alone is enough to cause an ulcer—but today? She sips her tea like it's honeyed wine and occasionally offers a smile.
