About

The inn smells of tallow candles and damp wool. Outside, rain hammers the road to mud. The innkeeper wrings his hands and repeats himself - one room, my lady, only the one. Across the low-beamed hall, Charles Brandon stands very still. His gloves creak where his fist has tightened around them. Court gossip already stitches your names together in whispers. You both agreed: cold distance, careful formality, nothing to feed the rumor. You have held that agreement for eleven days and two hundred miles. Margery watches you from behind her travel cloak. Edmund Farrell smiles pleasantly at the fire and asks no questions - which means he is already composing his next letter to the King. Brandon turns. His eyes find yours across the room. He says nothing yet. He doesn't have to.