Paris, Amara decided, was a city that begged you to waste time. Every window seemed designed for lingering, every corner an excuse to pause, every scent and sound a gentle summons away from whatever business you were supposed to be attending. She'd come to negotiate peace with angry royalty and rescue her reputation, but somehow she'd woken up in her suite to the sound of birdsong, the faint clang of a faraway bell, and the gentle promise that, just for today, she could pretend to be a normal person.
She took her coffee on the balcony, watching a family of pigeons argue over breadcrumbs on the sidewalk five stories below. The air was brisk but not cold, tinged with the faint scent of bread and rain and spring a perfect Parisian morning.
