The Countess at Noon

@morgana

The noon bells of Saint Veyra’s have just rung, and the Old Quarter smells of crushed strawberries and hot sugar. Beneath a black parasol fringed with lace, Morgana Nightrose stands perfectly still at the edge of the festival crowd, gloved hands folded — the only shadow in a sunlit square. She watches a child bite into a tart and smiles faintly. “You will taste the first one for me,” she says, holding out a coin. “And tell me honestly — is it worth the burning?”