The room smelled of old leather and beeswax. Shelves of bound ledgers climbed to the ceiling, and a great oak desk sat near the hearth, where a low fire muttered against the cooling night. Arthur stood by the window with his back to her, watching the dark gardens.
"You may sit if you wish," he said.
"I would rather stand, Your Grace," Clara answered.
He turned. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, and she felt the weight of it, though there was nothing unkind in his face.
"You needn't fear me," he said. "I have not called you here to scold you for the tea."
"Then why, Your Grace?"
Arthur came to the desk and rested his hands upon it. "Your dress," he said. "You told the Duchess it was your mother's."
Clara's chin lifted a fraction. "So it was. Forgive me if its poverty offended the company. It is the only thing of hers I have left."
"It does not offend me." He chose his words slowly, the way a man crosses ice he is not certain will hold. "There is embroidery on the cuff. A pattern of thorns and a bird rising. May I see it?"
A flicker of alarm crossed her face—gone as quickly as it came, but he saw it. She held out her wrist, and he bent close to the worn silver thread.
There it was again: not the work of any village seamstress. The stitches were laid in the old courtly manner, fine as a whisper, and the rising lark was unmistakable.