novelraw Chapter 88: Is This Your Affection?
Chapter 88: Is This Your Affection?
. . .
True to his word, Lucas was waiting at the entrance, a lantern held in his hand. Its warm glow flickered softly against the gathering dark.
This time, Caelith did not refuse.
Lucas walked ahead, carrying the lantern; its amber light swayed gently, casting rippling shadows across the worn stone path. Caelith followed behind him, her head lowered, her thoughts a tangled storm she could scarcely untangle.
She had stepped upon a loose stone. In an instant, her balance faltered, and she pitched forward.
Lucas reacted at once, swift as instinct. He caught her by the arm, steadying her before she could fall. The lantern swung wildly, nearly slipping from his grasp, but he caught it with his other hand.
"Thank you, my lord..."
He looked down at her, his gaze warm, touched with concern. "Are you hurt? Did you twist your ankle?"
And then, a chill ran down her spine. It was sudden, sharp, and unmistakable—the instinctive dread of being watched.
There, standing in the darkness, unmoving, was Rhaegar.
His gaze fell upon the hand with which Lucas held her.
Almost instinctively, she stepped back, slipping free from Lucas’s grasp.
In the stillness of the night, the two men regarded one another. One, gentle as pearl. The other, cold as drawn steel.
Rhaegar approached.
His gaze swept over Caelith’s face, pausing for the briefest instant upon her pallor—before shifting to Lucas.
Lucas met his gaze without flinching, composed and courteous. "Lady Caelith is an artisan of my atelier. She finished late, seeing her home is only proper."
There was a chill in that look—one that made even Caelith’s heart tremble.
"Since we have crossed paths, why not share a meal?" he said. "My treat."
"Very well," he said with an easy smile. "Lord Rhaegar’s generosity would be discourteous to decline."
At the mouth of the alley stood a small tavern. At this hour, it was sparsely occupied.
The three of them entered.
Wine was brought. A few simple dishes. The attendant withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Rhaegar did not speak.
Lucas, for his part, seemed wholly unaffected by the pressure. He poured himself tea, then another cup, which he offered to Caelith.
She accepted it. Their fingers brushed briefly—then parted.
"What did you embroider today?" Lucas asked, his tone as natural as though they sat in the quiet comfort of the atelier.
"A fine choice." He smiled faintly. "The last one you made—my father praised it greatly. Said it seemed almost alive. He asked whether you might craft a larger one—he wishes to hang it in his chamber."
"He favors shades of blue—he once saw a rare butterfly in the Kingdom of Miaelin, long ago..."
A question. An answer. Back and forth, as they had done in the atelier.
It burned. It cut. It rested upon her like a blade poised at her throat.
Lucas, as though oblivious, poured her another cup of tea. As he handed it to her, his fingers brushed hers once more.
A trivial thing.
Crack.
Caelith froze.
"Lord Rhaegar," he said lightly, "has your hand slipped?"
"Lord Ostenton shows Lady Caelith... considerable attentiveness."
"Kindness?" Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. "What kindness?"
As he spoke, his eyes remained upon her—soft, unwavering.
Rhaegar listened.
"I see," he said at last, his tone indifferent. "So Lord Ostenton has come to repay a debt."
The words fell too plainly.
Caelith’s heart tightened. She was about to interrupt, but Rhaegar had already risen.
"Lord Ostenton," he said, "do you know to whom she belongs?"
"To whom she belongs is hers to decide," he answered, neither deferential nor defiant. "Lord Rhaegar—if you truly care for her, then you should not allow her to be slandered as she is now."
"What did you say?"
The air seemed to freeze.
Rhaegar’s expression shifted.