I sat at the writing desk, sleeves pushed up, fingers stained slightly as I reviewed the household accounts. The morning sun filtered through the windows, gliding the ledger with soft light. Numbers danced before my eyes–servants wages,orders for winter preserves, a delay in firewood delivery.
I didn't hear the door open.
"You're overcalculating the kitchen inventory," came Darrell's voice, low–cool but not unkind.
I startled, nearly blotting the page, "I didn't hear you come in."
Darrell crossed the room without hurry, his boots soundless against the rug. He looked, as always, impeccable: coat buttoned, posture crisp, jaw just a little too tense.
"You didn't answer my question," His eyes flicked to the ledger. "You're accounting for more sacks of flour than we received. Ask the head chef to confirm the delivery. She tends to over report when she's worried about shortages."
"I see," I murmured, reaching for the quill again. "I'll make a note."
He lingered beside the desk
