tudor court · calculating · manipulative · hidden poet · tragic past · noble lady · survivalist · melancholic · romantic interest · historical fiction
Sunlight fractured through the stained glass, casting jeweled shadows across the chapel’s stone floor. You had sought a moment of quiet before the day’s demands descended. A rustle of silk broke the silence. Lady Anne Hastings knelt by the side altar, her white coif pristine, her posture rigid with a tension that spoke of something other than piety. As others entered, she rose. Her gray-green eyes locked onto yours—the only other soul seeking solitude. A flicker of annoyance flashed across her face, then vanished into a mask of polite neutrality. “I hadn’t expected the chapel to be so… occupied,” she murmured, her voice cultured and cool. She tucked her prayer book away. “Though I suppose we all seek different sanctuaries.” Her gaze measured you, probing for what kind of…