Two days later, a small, folded slip of vellum appeared. Lysander discovered it tucked into the spine of an unread tome in the Grand Library’s deepest, dustiest alcove – a book he himself had meticulously cataloged years ago. The script was delicate, almost shy, yet undeniably Elara’s.
“*Might you spare a moment in the Glass Conservatory before your morning protocols?*”
A familiar chill traced Lysander’s spine. He immediately dismissed the notion of any tender sentiment. Such an idea was preposterous within Thorne, particularly for one of his reduced standing. No, this could only mean trouble. Elara’s volatile fixations were a dangerous current, threatening to drag him down.
He had nearly forgotten the note amidst the morning’s archival duties, his mind heavy with the weight of ancient ledgers. But as the hour approached for his ceremonial review of the household accounts, the memory of her unsettling plea resurfaced.
Lysander made his way to the Conservatory. Sunlight, filtered through the grimy panes, cast fractured patterns on the overgrown flora. A faint curiosity pricked him, overshadowed by a more dominant sense of unease. He assumed nothing significant, merely another manifestation of Elara’s peculiar devotion.
Yet, the figure waiting amidst the languid fronds proved unexpected. Elara, her dark hair a severe curtain around her face, stood twisting the hem of her simple gown. She possessed a timid countenance, belying the strange intensity Lysander had witnessed in the infirmary.
“Elara?” Lysander’s voice was a low query. Her small head, previously bowed, snapped up. She offered a hesitant half-smile, a flicker of the same unsettling adoration from their last meeting.
His brow furrowed. “What is your purpose here? Why so suddenly?”
Elara’s plump fingers wrung the fabric of her dress, her gaze darting about the humid space. “Ah, Master Lysander… I… I have something I wish to impart.”
“Speak it, then.” Lysander longed to depart. He wished no one to observe them alone. The whispers that such an encounter might spark could undermine his carefully cultivated image of quiet diligence. He maintained his precarious position through competence and an absolute avoidance of scandal.
Unaware of his mounting discomfort, Elara continued to chew at her lower lip, her eyes scanning the glass walls. Indecision warred with a fragile resolve on her face. Each time she seemed on the verge of speech, her mouth clamped shut again.
Silence stretched, heavy and cloying. A familiar irritation stirred within Lysander. He had never truly understood Elara, and her peculiar displays only deepened his discomfort. Her small, hesitant movements, which might appear endearing to another, struck him as unbearably vexing. He chided himself for his sensitivity.
“Forgive my haste, Elara,” Lysander said, his tone brittle. “My morning duties demand my attention. Can you not simply state your meaning?”
His temper, already frayed from the profound disturbance of their last encounter, felt dangerously thin. His head ached, a knot of frustration and confusion tightening behind his eyes. Perhaps his irritation was not truly aimed at Elara. Perhaps he simply sought an outlet for his own simmering anxieties.
Lost in these thoughts, Lysander watched Elara finally steel herself. Her voice, a small, stammering whisper, broke the stillness.
“Master Lysander… I… you see… I…”
“Yes?” Lysander’s reply was half-hearted. He scratched his neck, the collar of his tunic suddenly too tight. The window for his morning review was closing. He felt a perverse urge to pry the words from her reluctant lips himself.
Then, without warning, the conservatory’s heavy wooden doors burst open. Both Lysander and Elara turned, their eyes locking with Lord Valerius Thorne. Valerius stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving. His gaze fixed on Elara, not Lysander.
A ragged gasp escaped Valerius’s lips, revealing the exertion of a sprint. Lysander’s chest tightened with a suffocating premonition, picturing Valerius tearing through the estate in search of Elara.
Valerius released a long, sharp exhale, then strode into the conservatory, his boots echoing on the flagstones. Lysander’s hand, which had been rubbing his neck, dropped. Valerius’s fierce gaze flickered between Elara and Lysander. His jaw was set, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“Why are you in here with him?” His voice, though low, was a whip-crack of command. Lysander couldn’t discern who the question was addressed to.
Behind Lysander’s composed exterior, his insides churned. After a tense pause, Valerius finally looked at Lysander. That stare – it was unbearable.
“Valerius, cousin, there is naught—”
*Please, do not look at me so.* Lysander’s internal plea went unheard. *Blame Elara for her summons. Why stare at me, your loyal kinsman, with such resentment? I was merely drawn into this predicament.*
Valerius’s burning eyes remained fixed on Lysander. Those were not eyes alight with passion or fervor. They were eyes consumed by rage, by a possessive, unyielding madness. A face disfigured by something akin to ire, both contemptible and pitiable.
“Why are you with him!” The demand was sharper, edged with scorn.
*You appear pathetic, Valerius. So utterly pathetic.* Lysander met his gaze. Yet, a chilling thought stole into his mind: *The truly pathetic one is not you. It is I.*
Before Lysander could react, Valerius’s long strides carried him directly before Lysander. The moment Lysander registered the raw fury on his cousin’s face, the world tilted.
A sharp, stinging impact erupted across his cheek. Lysander stumbled, then crumpled to the cold stone floor. Only then did his mind register the impossible event.
*He struck me.*
Valerius Thorne had struck him. Lysander lay there, a trembling hand rising to his cheek. Disbelief warred with the throbbing ache. *How could you… How could you do this to me?*
“M-Master Lysander!” Elara rushed forward, her voice a desperate cry. Valerius roared, a feral sound. “You fool! Stay away from him! Damn you!”
Elara recoiled, her face draining of color. *No, she is not the one who should weep,* Lysander thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. *It is I.*
Tears welled in Lysander’s eyes, threatening to spill. Before he could surrender to them, Valerius swore a violent oath, then seized Elara roughly by the arm. He dragged her from the conservatory, leaving the doors swinging on their hinges. It happened with such brutal speed.
Lysander remained on the ground, staring at the half-open doors. Sunlight streamed through the gap, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something within him finally gave way. The dam holding back his humiliation burst, and tears flowed freely, though he made no sound.
He hated everything. Elara, who had drawn him into this predicament with her note. Valerius, who had subjected him to such a degrading assault. He wished them both to simply vanish. He felt wretched, reduced to a mere pawn in their convoluted affairs.
Lysander forced himself up. He skipped his morning review, making his way directly to his chambers. His swollen, reddened face made his excuse of sudden malaise believable. The old footman who saw him merely offered a sympathetic nod, no probing questions.
Later, confined to his chambers, Lysander collapsed onto his bed. He drifted into a troubled sleep. When he awoke, his cheek throbbed, visibly bruised and puffy. Out of habit, he checked his personal missive box – a small, locked compartment for confidential correspondence. A rolled parchment, sealed with the sigil of Sir Kaelen, lay nestled inside.
Kaelen, Valerius’s trusted aide, was not one Lysander exchanged pleasantries with often. His presence here could only be related to Valerius. *Damn them all.* Lysander usually ignored any messages not pertaining to his archival duties, but Kaelen was not just anyone. He wielded influence, a shadow cast by Valerius’s authority. Lysander could not afford to dismiss him.
“*Lysander, where did you disappear to this morning? Your duties awaited.*”
Lysander’s tongue clicked against his teeth. He penned a brief, almost dismissive reply to the three-hour-old query.
“*A momentary indisposition, good Sir. My apologies.*”
He kept his tone deliberately light. He could not, *would not*, have anyone discover the truth of Valerius’s assault. The thought of such humiliation was unbearable. And all, he cursed, because of Elara.
“*Are you well enough?*” Kaelen’s follow-up missive arrived swiftly, an unexpected note of concern. *What trickery is this?* The strange feeling made Lysander snap the missive box shut.
Hours later, a wave of profound isolation washed over him. Even Kaelen’s perfunctory concern felt suffocating. Other, more distant, acquaintances had sent routine messages regarding minor estate matters, but none offered the solace Lysander craved. No one, he realized with a bitter twist, was looking for him out of genuine care. And Valerius… Valerius had not sent a single word. *I must be deranged.* Still, he offered himself a cold comfort: this was the fate of one entangled in maddening power dynamics.
Even knowing this harsh truth, Lysander lay like an idiot, doing what he did best – closing his eyes and turning a blind eye to reality.
*…I am not the only one.* The thought, strange and twisted, persisted. *Perhaps Elara and I share a common plight.* A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring at the intricately carved ceiling, another message arrived. It was unsigned, sealed with a common wax stamp, devoid of a crest.
“*Master Lysander, are you gravely unwell?*”
Lysander frowned. Who among the estate staff would address him so intimately? Kaelen? But this was not Kaelen’s usual method. Before he could ponder further, a second, relentless missive arrived.
“*I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is entirely my fault.*”
“*I am sorry.*”
“*Please, forgive me.*”
Whether three words or four, the sentiments made Lysander want to scream. He crushed the parchment in his fist, throwing it across the room in frustration. *How did this imbecile obtain my private missive method? She has no right!*
Then it struck him. *Oh.* He had given her a specific code, a means to send a message to him through the staff, during one of her more lucid, less obsessive periods, when she had sought guidance on an archival matter. He had not anticipated this misuse.
He cursed his own foolish leniency and let out an angry sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against his plush mattress until exhaustion claimed him. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last message lingered from the torn scraps on the floor.
“*Please, do not despise me.*”
*Amusing,* he thought. *I have despised you for months.*
The next morning, Lysander awoke, his face swollen and bruised like an overripe fruit.
He skipped his morning duties once more. No matter how diligently he performed, he possessed too much self-awareness to appear among the household with such a disfigurement.
His old governess, now housekeeper, prepared a light breakfast for him. As he ate, she could not resist offering a gentle scolding, urging him to be more careful. The meal itself was simple – a thin gruel, bland vegetables. He swallowed it without much chewing, his throat tight.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a glass of spiced water, the housekeeper entered to clear the dishes. With a plate in one hand, she said, “Master Lysander, you have a caller.”
“What?” Lysander’s voice was hoarse.
“Shall I admit him?”
A caller. His heart fluttered, a strange, unwelcome sensation. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind began to conjure images of who might be standing at the antechamber door.
*Could it be… Valerius?*
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few outside the immediate household ever called upon him. Among those who knew his chambers, only a handful. If it were Valerius, he must have come to apologize, perhaps finally assailed by guilt. Valerius had never, not once, laid a hand on him before. Yes, he must be worried, upset.
“Yes,” Lysander said, his voice regaining its composure. “Please, admit him.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Though he chastised himself for such naiveté, he could not help but feel a small, perverse sense of satisfaction. Despite everything, he remained significant enough to Valerius in some way. That thought filled him with an inexplicable, bitter warmth. He quickly rose, turning toward the antechamber door, his pace quickening with a flicker of anticipatory dread.
But the person awaiting him was not who he had so foolishly expected.
“Good morrow, Lysander.”
Sir Kaelen, his sharp features arranged in a practiced, deferential smirk, stood holding a small leather satchel. As soon as his eyes fell upon Lysander’s face, however, his pleasantry faltered. His expression tightened into an unusually serious mien.
“What, by the Ancestors, happened to your face?”
Lysander’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. *How does Kaelen even know where my private chambers are?*
“…An unfortunate stumble,” Lysander replied, his voice flat.
Kaelen’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that familiar prelude to a barbed remark. “You truly are an accident waiting to happen, aren’t you?”
Lysander offered no argument. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the embarrassment surging through him. He was an utter fool. Valerius viewed him as nothing but a nuisance, a means to an end. And here he was, wagging his tail like a hopeful dog – like a complete imbecile.
“Here, this might help.” Kaelen held out a small, chilled ceramic pot. Lysander accepted it, immediately lifting the lid to inspect its contents.
“…It is chilled calendula cream.”
“Is it? I merely procured what was available.”
“Figures. Why would you exert further thought?”
“Damn, that is harsh, Lysander.” Kaelen chuckled, though his eyes remained watchful. “What do you suppose I am doing here?”
“I imagine you came to further your cousin’s interests,” Lysander countered, his tone clipped. “You are not invited to enter further.”
Without hesitation, Kaelen’s long legs carried him across the threshold into Lysander’s private space. “Where are your private archives?”
“Kaelen, I forbid it!”
“Where else would I go in your chambers? There is nowhere else of interest.”
Lysander had no retort. Kaelen was correct. His chambers were sparse, containing only his modest bed, a small desk, and the locked cabinets containing his personal archival projects. Lysander, feeling awkward and utterly powerless, followed Kaelen, who seemed intent on inspecting the interior of his private sanctuary.