Isabella did not trouble herself with subtlety. She set her teacup aside and spoke plainly, "Lady Caelith… did you and Rhae have a quarrel of some sort?"
Caelith's heart skipped—but her expression remained composed.
"My lady jests. I share no private acquaintance with His Grace. How could there be any quarrel?"
Isabella studied her with a long stare.
"You need not hide it from me," she said quietly. "I can see it. I have known him for many years—yet I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."
Caelith lowered her gaze. She did not answer.
They ended up finishing their tea in silence.
***
That night, long after the world had grown still, Caelith sat beneath the lamplight, turning page after page of her father's journal.
She had read it countless times. The edges of each page had worn soft with use.
And yet—each careful reading seemed to reveal something new.
Tonight, her eyes lingered on several names she had circled again and again:
