Elena did not leave Beatrice’s sitting room immediately.The door had closed with a soft, decisive sound, sealing behind it words that could not be returned to their original places. There were two children. Beatrice had said it without ornament, without apology. As if stating a fact of architecture rather than blood.Elena stood very still, one hand resting against the carved back of a chair she did not remember approaching. The room smelled faintly of old paper and bergamot tea. Familiar. Safe. Dangerous.Two children.She said the words again in her mind, shaping them carefully, testing whether they might fracture if handled roughly. They did not. They remained intact, solid, immovable.“That doesn’t mean her,” El
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