Small. Fast.
But Rosette saw it.
Garette had taught her that people revealed the truth in the second before they arranged their faces.
Her mother’s second had been full of guilt.
Rosette pulled her hand away.
“What am I not deciding today?”
“Darling—”
“No.” Rosette’s voice lost its sleepiness. “Don’t darling me. What is this?”
Elara glanced toward the door, as if even the walls might repeat her answer to Magnus.
Then she looked back at her daughter.
“There have been conversations.”
Rosette went still.
“What kind of conversations?”
“Nothing final.”
“That is not an answer.”
Elara’s eyes glistened, but she did not cry.
“Your father believes Damon Aristotle may be a suitable match.”
“A suitable match,” she repeated. “How romantic.”
“Rosette.”
“No, really. Should I prepare a thank-you speech? Dear Father, thank you for shopping for my husband between mergers and port investments.”
Elara closed her eyes briefly.
“I did not say I agreed with how this is being handled.”
“But you’re here waking me up for it.”
Elara flinched.
Regret struck Rosette at once, but pride caught it before it could become an apology.
Her mother looked at her with the tired love of a woman who had spent years standing between Rosette and Magnus, knowing she could soften the blow but never stop the hand that delivered it.
“I am here,” Elara said quietly, “because I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
That silenced Rosette.
For a while, neither of them moved.
Then Rosette looked away.