novelraw Chapter 80: Not Anymore
Chapter 80: Not Anymore
That evening, as the sun dipped low, Caelith returned carrying half a sack of rice.
Yvaine sat upon the threshold. At the sight of her, she rose quickly and stepped forward.
"Caelith..."
Caelith glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "What is it?"
Yvaine followed her inside, watching as Caelith set down the sack of rice. She hesitated for a long while before finally speaking, her voice uncertain:
"Caelith... why don’t you go to Duke Rhaegar Thorne?"
Caelith’s hands paused.
Encouraged by the silence, Yvaine pressed on, a little bolder now,
"I have long known there was something between you. The way he treated you—how he arranged everything for you in the prison... it was impossible not to see. I also heard that after the case was settled, His Majesty sent him away on another important matter. By now, he should be returning soon. You could go to him. If he knew how we are living now... surely he would not stand by and do nothing."
"Enough." Caelith cut her off with an icy voice.
Yvaine flinched slightly at the sharpness of her tone.
Caelith turned to face her, her voice calm, unwavering. "He is he. I am I. He has already done more than enough for us. I will not trouble him further. Now, help me prepare everything if you want to have a warm dinner tonight."
***
The next morning, Caelith left at first light.
Yvaine did not know where she had gone. She waited the better part of the day—until at last, as dusk began to fall, Caelith returned.
In her hands were bundles of thread, cloth, and embroidery frames.
"What is all this for?" Yvaine asked, startled.
Caelith set the items down and rolled up her sleeves, already beginning her work.
"I will embroider handkerchiefs and pouches," she said. "I learned before... I should be able to sell them at the market for some coin."
Yvaine watched her, her heart a tangled knot of emotions.
She remembered the past: in the Emberlyn household, Caelith had been the legitimate daughter, and she, a lesser relation. Yet their lives had not been so different then. Later, when Caelith’s family fell, Yvaine’s own branch had taken what remained—and she herself had looked down upon this once-proud cousin.
And now?
Now she lived because of her.
Everything she ate, everything she wore... came from Caelith’s own hands, stitch by stitch.
. . .
That night, Yvaine lay upon the hard wooden bed, staring up at the broken patch in the roof.
After a long silence, she spoke.
"Caelith."
"Mm?"
"...Do you hate me?"
Caelith was silent for a long moment.
"I did," she said at last. "Once."
Yvaine stilled.
"Not anymore."
Caelith turned over, her back now to her.
"Sleep. We must rise early tomorrow."
Yvaine watched her in silence. Something tightened in her chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Her eyes stung faintly; she sniffed once, then lay back, and before long, sleep claimed her.
At first light, Caelith set out once more.
The marketplace was crowded, alive with noise and motion. Her embroidery sold well—several handkerchiefs, two small pouches. In return, she earned only a handful of copper coins.
She stood for a long while outside a rouge shop, the small coins clenched in her palm.
The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman, leaned out and called, "Miss, are you buying something?"
Caelith shook her head and turned away.
She took a few steps—then stopped.
Rhaegar would be returning soon.
She had heard it—his case concluded, his journey back to the capital already underway. By now... it could be any day.
Her gaze dropped to her own reflection in a shop window.
Her clothes—washed pale with wear, the sleeves frayed at the edges. Her face—still thin from the prison days, a faint shadow lingering beneath her eyes.
She bit her lip.
Then turned back.
"Give me the cheapest rouge you have," she said quietly.
She placed her coins on the counter, received the small box, and held it tightly in her hand.
Her palm felt warm.
At the same time, on the bustling eastern street of the capital, Yvaine stood before a clothing shop, her gaze fixed upon a pale moon-white dress displayed within.
The fabric was simple cotton, the collar embroidered with a few modest blossoms—nothing extravagant, yet clean, gentle... far finer than the worn garment she wore now.
Her hand slipped into her sleeve, fingers brushing the few copper coins Caelith had given her that morning—for food.
A dozen coins.
The dress would cost no less than two hundred.
She stood there, her hand tightening and loosening, tightening again.
Inside, the shopkeeper glanced at her briefly, then looked away.
Yvaine bit her lip and turned to leave.
Then—
"Lady Emberlyn...?"
A rough, hoarse male voice sounded behind her.
She froze and turned.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood a few paces away. His apron was stained with grease, a butcher’s knife still in his hand. He stared at her, eyes wide, his face trembling with recognition.
It took her a moment.
Then she remembered.
William Laurel—the butcher from the neighboring street in years past. He had often come by the back gate of the Emberlyn residence, claiming to deliver meat...
But his eyes had always wandered elsewhere.
And she knew well—toward whom.
On the day Caelith was wed, it had been said that this very man did not open his stall for three days—lying at home as though stricken with affliction.
Yvaine’s eyes flickered, quick with thought.
"Mr. Laurel?" she said, forcing a smile. "What brings you here?"
William set his knife aside upon the butcher’s block and strode toward her. He was a large man, broad and imposing—when he stopped before her, he seemed to block out half the light.
"Lady Emberlyn... it truly is you?" His gaze swept over her from head to toe, his brow knitting tightly. "Why are you dressed like this?"
Yvaine lowered her head at once, raising her sleeve to veil part of her face. When she spoke, her voice trembled, touched with the hint of tears.
"Mr. Laurel... you do not know what has happened. The Emberlyn family has fallen. My sister and I only just came out of prison... we are living now in that old, broken house. We do not even have a single proper garment to wear."