But the true evening began when the last candle was snuffed out in the hall. Emily would retreat to her private solarium. This was a small, circular room with a domed glass ceiling that allowed her to view the stars. A fire was always roaring in the hearth, combatting the chill of the high altitude.
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"You are painting a woman who lives in a castle," Emily corrected with a faint, rare smile. "That is complexity enough." But the true evening began when the last
By eleven, the Citadel stirred to life. The steward, an elderly man with a cough that sounded like shuffling papers, would arrive with the daily dispatches. While other princesses of the realm might be attending hunts or reviewing troops, Emily’s governance was academic. She oversaw the Great Archives, a labyrinthine wing of the castle that housed maps of stars no longer visible and treatises on magic long since faded. A fire was always roaring in the hearth,