Chapter 4: A Garden Walk and a Gentle Bond
The late afternoon sun bled gold and honey across the terrace stones when Lucien arrived. Seraphina saw him from the window, a lone figure of mauve and dove-gray walking up her garden path without the looming shadows of Cassian or Rhydian beside him. He carried a small basket over one arm. He looked, she had to admit, impossibly gentle. It did nothing to quiet the low, resonant hum that had taken up permanent residence in her sternum since yesterday.
She met him at the door. He wore simpler clothes than yesterday—a soft-looking linen shirt the color of twilight, dark trousers, boots scuffed from walking.
“You came,” she said, opening the door wider.
“I said I would.” His smile was effortless, unshadowed. He held up the basket. “A peace offering. Or a bribe. Depending on how the walk goes. Lemon curd tarts from the bakery near the east gate. I remembered you had a taste for citrus things yesterday.”
She blinked, disarmed. She’d barely touched the pear nectar, but she had taken an extra slice of lemon in her tea. He’d noticed. “That’s… oddly observant of you. And kind.”
He shrugged. “Easy observations to make when you’re paying attention.”
She led him back through the cottage to the rear French doors that opened onto her private garden. “The real tour is out here.”
Stepping outside was like entering another world. The air was thicker here, perfumed by jasmine clinging to the stone walls and the dry, peppery scent of lavender hedges. Late-blooming roses tumbled over wrought-iron arches, their petals a cascade of cream and blush and deep velvet red. A narrow gravel path, lined with smooth river stones, wound its way through the carefully orchestrated chaos.
“It’s beautiful,” Lucien breathed, his violet eyes sweeping the scene. “It feels like you.”
“How so?”
“Thoughtful.Full of color. Orderly, but with a wildness peeking through the seams.” He looked at her, his head tilted. “Am I wrong?”
She ducked her head, a reluctant smile touching her lips.“No. Not wrong. Come on.”
They started down the path. She pointed out things as they walked, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke of her domain. “These lavender hedges—I insisted on them. Everyone said they’d be too formal, but I like the structure. And the bees love them.” She gestured to a cluster of fat bumblebees bobbing from bloom to bloom. “The roses are mostly heirloom varieties. This pale pink one is called ‘Souvenir de la Malmaison.’ It has almost no thorns. Over here, this is my folly.” She led him to a small, clear pond dug into a hollow and lined with mossy stone. A few rust-and-white koi glided beneath the surface. “It’s a lot of work to keep it clean, but it’s worth it for the sound of the water. I come here to think.”
“What do you think about?” he asked, his gaze on the circling fish.
“Designs.Clients. How to make a gown that looks like it floats without using illusion magic. Whether I need to order more silk from the southern provinces before the tariffs change.” She leaned against a smooth rock. “Normal things.”
“Cassian could probably give you an insider’s tip on those tariffs,” Lucien said, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
She snorted. “I’d rather not trade fashion advice for political favors just yet, thanks.”
He laughed, a genuine, warm sound that seemed to blend with the garden’s hum. “Fair enough. Where next?”
She took him to the old oak at the garden’应该如何 far boundary. Its branches sprawled like a protective hand, dappling the ground beneath in shifting patterns of light and shadow. A simple wooden bench, its wood silvered with age, sat beneath it.
“This is my favorite spot,” she admitted, sitting down. He joined her, leaving a respectful foot of space between them. The tether in her chest seemed to coil, content with the proximity.
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the leaves rustle. It was easier than she’d expected, sitting quietly with him. The pressure to perform, to defend, was absent.
“You mentioned before,” she began, picking at a loose thread on her skirt, “that you once felt overwhelmed. By them.”
He nodded, staring out at the riot of flowers. “I did. It’s… not a linear story. I met Cassian first.It was intense, immediate. Like being struck by lightning and then asked to build a house from the smoldering ashes.” He glanced at her. “And then Rhydian. That was different—slower, a simmer rather than a blaze. But adding a third person into a dynamic that was just finding its footing… it was chaotic. I loved them both, fiercely, but making space, navigating the jealousy, the different needs… it was a lot.”
She watched his profile. He was so open about it. No shame, just recollection. “And then Alistair and Dorian?”
“Alistair was a storm. Dorian was a sunrise.” He smiled. “Sounds poetic, doesn’t it? It felt anything but poetic at the time. Alistair upended everything. His magic, his moods, his… everything. He challenged us, forced us to stretch in ways we didn’t know we could. Dorian brought a stability, a political and social grounding that we lacked. But with each addition, I had moments of sheer panic. Was I enough? Could my heart even hold this much? Would I be pulled apart by the different directions they all wanted to go?”
“That,” Sera said softly, “is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
He turned to her fully then, his expression understanding. “I know you are. It’s why I’m telling you. I was the center of their world, and I still felt that fear. You’re being pulled into an already-established solar system. Of course you’re terrified.”
The validation loosened something tight behind her ribs. “I built this.” She gestured around the garden, back toward the cottage. “On my own. With my own hands and my own mind. The idea of… merging it with a pre-existing empire of five powerful men… it feels less like a merger and more like an annexation.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said simply. “That’s the thing about bonds. They’re not blueprints. They’re foundations. We built our home. You’ve built yours. The bond says we belong under the same roof, eventually. It doesn’t say whose furniture we keep, or what color we paint the walls.”
She let out a long breath. “Cassian didn’t seem like the ‘your furniture, your rules’ type yesterday.”
“Cassian,” Lucien said, a fond exasperation in his tone, “is a Grand Duke used to commanding armies and restructuring economies. His default setting is to assess, plan, and conquer. But beneath that, he is a man who has learned, through very hard experience, that love cannot be commanded. He will push, because it’ /")
The sun sank lower, casting long shadows from the lavender hedges like purple fingers stretching across the grass. A cool evening breeze stirred, carrying the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine.
Lucien reached into the basket and pulled out a small, linen-wrapped parcel. He unfolded the cloth to reveal two perfect tarts, their pastry golden and flaky, the lemon curd inside a vibrant, sunshiny yellow. He handed one to her.
She took it, the pastry still slightly warm. “You really did just come for a walk, didn’t you?”
“And the company,” he said, taking a bite of his own tart. He closed his eyes for a second. “Oh, that’s good. Perfect balance of sweet and tart.”
She bit into hers. The flavor exploded on her tongue—bright, sharp lemon cut by the buttery richness of the crust. It was, unequivocally, the best thing she’d eaten in weeks. A small, involuntary sound of pleasure escaped her.
Lucien’s eyes opened, and he smiled at her, a crumb at the corner of his mouth. “See? Some observations lead to excellent rewards.”
They ate in comfortable silence, the shared pleasure of simple food a new thread between them, fine and strong as spider-silk. When they were done, brushing crumbs from their laps, Sera felt a question bubble up, one she’d been avoiding.
“The others,” she began. “What are they… doing? While you’re here having a lovely garden stroll with the terrified interloper?”
He chuckled. “You’re not an interloper. And they’re… managing. Cassian is probably at his desk, writing terse letters and pretending he’s not counting the minutes until I return. Rhydian is likely training the new recruits at the knights’ yard, working out his frustration on practice dummies. Dorian is at the palace, charming some ambassador or another, and Alistair…” Lucien’s smile turned wry. “Alistair is probably conducting an unstable magical experiment in the west tower and giving the house staff nervous breakdowns.”
“They’re just going about their lives,” she mused. It was both reassuring and oddly discomfiting.
“The bond pulls, Sera, but it doesn’t halt the world. We have responsibilities, passions, lives. So do you. That’s what I meant about the foundation.” He leaned back on the bench. “Tell me about your designs. The ones that aren’t about tariffs.”
So she did. She told him about the winter cloak on her table, how she wanted it to feel like a safe embrace, using layers of silk-wool blend and a cleverly cut hood. She described a commission for a shy noblewoman who wanted a gown that made her feel powerful without being flashy. She found herself sketching shapes in the air, her hands moving with the same passion she put into her work.
He listened, rapt, asking insightful questions. “Do you ever work with magical fabrics? Self-cleaning silks? Threads woven with light?”
“Rarely,” she admitted. “They’re prohibitively expensive, and most of my clients want comfort and elegance, not parlor tricks. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “I enjoy the challenge of making magic without using any. Making a woman feel beautiful is a kind of spell, isn’t it?”
His violet eyes held hers. “Yes. I think it is.”
The light was fading from gold to a deep, velvety blue. Fireflies began to blink on and off in the lavender hedges, their cool light mimicking the first stars overhead.
“I should let you get back,” Lucien said, though he made no move to stand.
“And you should get back to your counting Grand Duke and your explosive Archmage,” she said, surprising herself with the tease.
He laughed.“See? You’re getting it already.” He stood, offering a hand to help her up.
She looked at his outstretched hand. It was slender, but looked capable. Taking it would be an admission of something. A small acceptance of the connection that thrummed between them. She placed her hand in his. His skin was warm, his grasp firm but gentle as he pulled her to her feet. A jolt, not unpleasant but intensely vivid, traveled up her arm and settled deep in her core. The bond purred in approval.
He didn’t let go immediately. They stood like that under the oak, hands linked, the dusk settling around them.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.“For the walk. For the conversation.”
“Thank you for the tarts,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended. “And the… perspective.”
He finally released her hand, the absence of his touch leaving a faint, cool echo on her skin. He picked up the empty basket. “May I come again?”
She thought about the quiet cottage waiting for her, the solitude she had cherished that now felt, for the first time, potentially lonely. She thought of the hum in her chest that was quieter when he was near, not gone, but harmonized.
“Yes,” she said. “You may.”
His smile in the dim light was like a promise. He turned and walked back down the gravel path toward the cottage. She watched him go, his form becoming a silhouette against the lit windows. The tether stretched, but it didn’t ache. It felt… patient.
She didn’t follow him in. She stayed on the bench under the oak, listening to the night insects take up their song. She replayed the conversation in her head—his admissions of fear, his patient explanations, the easy way he had listened.
A soft noise came from the direction of the house, a door closing. He was gone. The garden was hers again, but it felt different. Not violated, but… expanded. As if the boundaries of her sanctuary had flexed to include the memory of a lavender-haired man eating a lemon tart on her favorite bench.
She hugged her arms around herself. The fear was still there, a cold, hard stone at the base of her spine. But layered on top of it was something else—a tentative curiosity, a flicker of warmth. Lucien was right. The bond was the foundation. And foundations could be built upon in countless ways.
She thought of Cassian’s commanding intensity, Rhydian’s watchful silence. She had set terms for them as a collective. But with Lucien… she had just spent an afternoon. No terms, just a walk.
Maybe that was the way forward. Not facing them as a monolithic entity, but as individuals. Meeting the storm, the sunrise, the rock, and the wildfire on her own terms, one at a time.
A firefly landed on her knee, its light pulsing softly. She watched it for a moment, then gently brushed it back into the air.
She stood, feeling the gravel shift under her shoes. The cottage was a warm, inviting silhouette. For the first time since the market, the thought of returning to her empty home didn’t bring a wave of relief. It brought a simple recognition: it was time to go in.
As she walked back, the final realization settled over her, as quiet and inevitable as the night. She could not outrun this. But perhaps, with careful steps and a clear vision of what she wanted to preserve, she could learn to walk alongside it. Starting with the one who had already shown her how.
Starting with the one who had already shown her how.
Her newfound resolve lasted three days.
She threw herself into her work with a frenetic energy, sketching until her wrist ached and draping fabric on her dress form until the lines were perfect. She ignored the constant, low-grade thrum of the bond. It was just background noise now, like the distant rush of the river beyond her garden. On the fourth morning, a different kind of disruption arrived. Not a gentle knock, but the sudden, crisp sound of a carriage wheel crunching to a halt on the gravel drive at the front of her cottage, where deliveries never came.
Her heart stuttered.Lucien would walk. Cassian would send a grim-faced messenger. This felt… performative.
Wiping her charcoal-dusted hands on her apron, she peered from her workroom window. The carriage was sleek, lacquered in deep forest green with gold filigree. The crest on the door—a stylized hawk perched atop a mountain peak—was unfamiliar to her. A footman in immaculate livery hopped down and opened the door.
Out stepped Dorian Ashbourne.
He was taller than she’d remembered from her panicked glance in the market, and the golden afternoon sun seemed to love him, catching the honeyed tones in his brown hair and turning his amber eyes to liquid gold. He wore riding clothes that were undoubtedly expensive but looked comfortable, fitted in a way that spoke of custom tailoring rather than ostentation. He didn’t approach the door. Instead, he leaned against the side of the carriage, crossing his arms, and looked directly at her window. He’d known she was there.
Caught.
She ducked back, her pulse rabbiting. Protocol, Cassian had said. They were following her lead, Lucien had promised. So what was this? A royal summoning? She breathed in, the scent of lavender soap and linen spray filling her lungs. Hiding would be childish. She untied her apron, tossed it over her chair, and smoothed her simple work dress. She was a business owner. She could handle a prince.
When she opened the front door, he was waiting on the path, having left his footman at the carriage.
“Seraphina Valemont,” he said, his voice warm and smooth, like spiced mead. He didn’t smile, but his expression was open, assessing. “A pleasure, officially.”
“Your Highness,” she said, defaulting to formality. She didn’t curtsy. It felt disingenuous.
“Please, it’s Dorian. ‘Your Highness’ is for court, and my older brother gets the tedious ‘Crown Prince’ stuff.” He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over her, from her practical braid to her bare feet. There was appreciation there, but not lechery. It was more like he was inspecting a fine piece of art. Or a particularly interesting new horse. “I hear you’ve been surviving tours of the garden. I thought you might like a tour of something with a bit more… commerce.”
She crossed her arms, mirroring his stance. “Is that an invitation or a royal decree?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m the spare, not the heir. My decrees are limited to ‘fetch more wine’ and ‘stop arguing with the Archmage.’ It’s an invitation. To the market. The big one, southwest of the city gates. Not the tiny one you fled from last week.”
Her pride prickled. “I didn’t flee. I made a strategic withdrawal.”
“Of course you did.” He finally smiled, and it transformed his face. It was charming, disarming, and she could see exactly how he navigated palace politics. “Lucien said you were quick. Look, I’ve been ordered—advised,” he corrected with a roll of his eyes, “to move at your pace. I’m moving.This is my pace. I like markets. I like seeing people, hearing the noise, finding oddities. I thought you might like to see it without the… overwhelming metaphysical surprise. Consider it a do-over.”
She considered him. He wasn’t looming like Cassian or silently judging like Rhydian. He was just… there, a handsome, golden man offering a distraction. The bond wasn’t screaming; it was a curious murmur, a string plucked and vibrating gently. She thought of her empty morning, the winter cloak design that was stubbornly not right.
“What’s the catch?” she asked.“Lunch. You have to let me buy you lunch. And you have to promise not to bolt into the crowd. That would create a diplomatic incident. Rhydian would have to deploy knights. Cassian would draft sanctions against the fruit vendors for providing inadequate cover. It’d be a whole thing.”
Against her will, a laugh bubbled out of her. It was a short, surprised sound.He grinned, triumphant.
She looked down at her dress. “I’m not dressed for… an expedition with a prince.”
“You’re perfect.” He uncrossed his arms and gestured to the carriage. “We’re going to a market, not a ball. Unless you’d rather stay here and think about tariffs?”
It was the final nudge. The cloister of her cottage felt suddenly stifling. “Fine. A do-over.And lunch. But I pick the spot.”
“Deal,” he said, and offered his arm.
The carriage was as luxuriously comfortable inside as it looked outside, the seats upholstered in soft, butter-soft leather. It moved with a surprising silence, the suspension absorbing the ruts in the road. Dorian sat across from her, not crowding her.
“So,” he said as they passed through the city gates. “Lucien says you torture fabric into submission for a living.”
“He said that?”
“In more poetic terms. He said you make magic without spells. I’m fascinated. Tell me about your favorite fabric to ‘torture.’”
It was disorienting. One minute he was a prince, the next he was asking about textiles with genuine curiosity. She found herself explaining the difference between silk shantung and silk charmeuse, the way wool could be made gossamer-thin. He listened, asking sharp questions about supply chains and regional specialties, his knowledge of trade clearly deep.
The noise hit them first—a roar of voices, animals, and commerce. Then the smells: roasting meats, ripe fruit, the earthy scent of raw wool and leather, overlaid with the sweet perfume of pastries and spices. The Southwest Market was not a quaint affair. It was a sprawling, chaotic organism that covered several acres, tents and stalls crammed together in organized, seething rows.
Dorian helped her down from the carriage. “Stay close,” he said, his tone casual but his grip on her hand firm for a second. “It’s easy to get lost. My guards will hover, but they’ll try not to be obvious.”
She looked around. The crowd parted for him subtly, not with bows, but with nods and averted eyes. His presence was a current they moved around. She, with her pink hair and simple dress, earned curious stares. But walking beside Dorian, she felt oddly safe, not exposed.
“Right,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Mission parameters: acquire items of interest, eat something delicious, avoid political entanglements. Ready?”
“Lead on.”
He didn’t steer her toward the fine silks or jewelers. He veered into the chaos. They passed a stall selling intricate clockwork birds that sang when wound. Another had pots of glowing mosses from the northern magical forests. He haggled cheerfully with a leatherworker over a pair of riding gloves, not for himself, but pointing out their merits to Seraphina.
“Look at this stitching,” he said, holding one up. “Indestructible. You could climb a mountain in these.”
“I don’t climb mountains,” she said.
“You might,” he replied, eyes twinkling. “You don’t know yet.”
He bought the gloves. He didn’t hand them to her, just tucked the package under his arm. They wandered past a fortune teller’s tent with shimmering beads for a door. “No,” Dorian said, pulling her past it. “Alistair would be insufferable if you got a prophecy. He’d try to decode it for weeks.”
She laughed again. It was easier this time.
He stopped at a stall selling spices from the far eastern deserts, great burlap sacks full of vibrant powders. He chatted with the merchant in a fluid, rolling tongue she didn’t recognize. The merchant beamed, scooping samples into tiny parchment cones for them. Dorian handed her one labeled “Fire-Sun Blend.”
“For stews,” he said. “Or, if you’re Cassian, to rub on his meat before he fights a practice dummy. He claims it focuses the mind.”
The image of the imposing Grand Duke doing something as mundane as seasoning his dinner made her snort.They walked on. Dorian pointed out things: the best baker for sourdough, the old woman who sold remedies that actually worked, the stall where Cassian had once, famously, lost a bet and had to wear a ridiculous feathered hat for a full day. “Lucien has a painting of it,” Dorian confided, his voice low with glee. “He threatens to display it whenever Cassian gets too pompous.”
She was laughing freely now, the sound lost in the market din. The terror was a distant memory. This was just… fun.He was fun. The bond was quiet, a satisfied hum in the background, content with this easy companionship.
After an hour, the smells from the food quarter became irresistible. “Lunch,” Dorian declared. “You’re picking. But I veto anything on a stick, unless it’s extraordinary. Bad palace childhood memories.”
She led him to a stall she’d spotted earlier, tucked under a broad awning with makeshift tables. It was run by two sisters, their faces flushed from the heat of a massive, sizzling griddle. They served savory stuffed flatbreads, the dough rolled thin and filled with spiced vegetables, cheese, and shredded meat, then cooked until crispy.
“Here,” Sera said decisively.
“Excellent choice,” Dorian approved. He ordered three different kinds, and two earthenware mugs of fizzy, fermented ginger brew.
They found a spot at the end of a communal table, somewhat removed from the bustle. The food was messy and delicious, the ginger brew sharp and refreshing. She ate with her fingers, savoring the flavors. Dorian did the same, unselfconscious, a prince with grease on his chin.
“Okay,” he said after a few bites, wiping his mouth. “My turn for questions. You’ve seen our market.Seen me. You’ve spent time with Lucien. You must be building a picture. What’s the big unanswered question?”
She licked a bit of spice from her thumb, thinking. The easy question would be about the bond, about logistics. But Lucien had handled the emotional landscape. Dorian, with his practical charm and trade knowledge, seemed suited for a different map.
“Housing,” she said.He blinked. “Housing?”
“Yes. You all live together, right? In some grand… something. But I live here. My work is here. My family is nearby, unfortunately. So when we talk about ‘pace’ and ‘foundations,’ I need to know the geography. What am I eventually, potentially, commuting to?”
He leaned back, his amber eyes thoughtful. “Practical. I like it.” He took a long sip of his drink. “We don’t live in one place. We have several.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do.”
“Cassian’s primary seat is Valerius Keep, about three days north by carriage. It’s all gray stone and strategic overlooks.Windswept. Beautiful in a brutal way. Rhydian is stationed at the Knights’ Citadel, which is two days east, a fortress built into a mountain pass. All training yards and roaring fires. Drafty.”
“And you?”
“The palace, obviously. But I have a private residence in the capital as well, a townhouse. It’s the most… civilized. Lucien and Alistair float between them all, but they’ve claimed a kind of home-base at Everwood Manor. It’s Alistair’s family estate, a day’s ride from here, actually. Closest to your cottage, now that I think of it.”
He paused, watching her absorb the information. “Everwood is… different. Ancient woods, a manor house that’s more library and laboratory than fortress. Magic’s thick in the air there. Alistair’s experiments make the chandeliers rattle sometimes. But it’s where we all end up most often. It’s the only place big enough, and strange enough, to contain us all.”
She imagined it. A manor house vibrating with chaotic magic, a grand duke stalking the halls, a knight polishing his sword by a fire, a prince studying trade ledgers, and Lucien moving among them, a calming presence. And now… a pink-haired woman with a bag of fabric swatches.
“So it’s not a single castle,” she mused. “It’s a… network.”
“Exactly. We’re not a hive. We’re a… traveling circus.” He grinned. “It works because we’re all busy. Cassian has his duchy to run. Rhydian has his knights. I have my brother’s endless political errands. We converge when we can. Sometimes it’s all five of us for a week. Sometimes it’s two of us in one place, three in another.”
A flicker of hope ignited in her chest. “So… if this bond progresses…”
“If?” he interjected gently.
“When,” she conceded, the word feeling less like a trap than before. “When it progresses… I wouldn’t necessarily have to give up my cottage. Or my work.”
He shook his head.“Gods, no. That would be a terrible strategy. We’d have a mutiny. Lucien was right—you think in foundations. Your cottage is your foundation. So is your studio.” He gestured with his flatbread. “We’d add you to the circuit. You’d come to Everwood, or Valerius, or the townhouse, for visits. For however long you wanted. A week. A month.A season. And we’d come here. Maybe not all at once, unless you asked. Maybe just Lucien for a few days while you work, and I’ll pop by for market trips and to annoy you. Cassian would probably turn his visits into inspections of the local grain yields.”
She could picture it. It was so mundane, so reasonable. Lucien curled on her sofa with a book while she sketched. Dorian dragging her out for more exploratory lunches. Even Cassian, standing silently in her garden, assessing the property lines. It wouldn’t be an annexation. It would be an expansion. Her world, and theirs, overlapping in a Venn diagram with significant, negotiated shared space.
“A back and forth,” she said softly.
“Exactly. A back and forth.” He finished his flatbread. “We have the means to make travel trivial. Carriages, horses, in Alistair’s more stable moments, teleportation circles. Your life doesn’t end. It just… acquires more ports of call.”
She looked down at her hands, at the stray threads and charcoal stains that were always under her nails. They were the marks of her life, her real life. He wasn’t asking her to scrub them clean.
“That sounds… manageable,” she admitted.
“It is. It has to be.” His tone shifted, the charming prince giving way to something more grounded. “The bond gives us the ‘why.’ We have to build the ‘how.’ And the ‘how’ should make everyone happy, or at least not resentful. You building a happy, separate life and welcoming us into pieces of it… that works for me. I think it’ll work for the others. Even Cassian, once he gets over the novelty of not being able to issue a decree to make you appear.”
They finished their meal in comfortable silence, watching the market flow around them. The sun was high and hot. For the first time, the future didn’t feel like a cliff edge. It felt like a complicated, but potentially rewarding, itinerary.
Dorian insisted on one more stop on the way back to the carriage. It was a small stall tucked away, selling hand-dyed yarns and ribbons. The colors were extraordinary, shades she’d never seen: a blue like a deep twilight, a green like moss in shadow, a pink more vibrant than her own hair.
“For your torture chamber,” he said, gesturing grandly.
She ran her fingers through the silken ribbons. “They’re beautiful.”
“Pick some. All of them. Whatever you like.”
She selected a few skeens of yarn in subtle, elegant colors and a length of the twilight-blue ribbon. Dorian paid without even asking the price, tucking the package with her gloves.
The ride back to her cottage was quieter, but not strained. She felt pleasantly tired, full of good food and new perspectives.
When the carriage stopped at her gate, he helped her down again. He handed her the packages.
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it for more than the presents. “For the do-over.”
“My pleasure.” He leaned against the carriage door. “I’ll report back to the committee that no knights were required, and that you have a solid grasp of logistics. That’ll impress Cassian. Annoy Rhydian, probably. He loves deploying knights.”
She smiled.
“I’d like to do it again,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze intent. “Not just markets. Maybe the opera. Or a terrible tavern that has the best pies in the kingdom. At your pace, of course.”
“I’ll consider it,” she said. And found she already was.
He nodded, satisfied, and climbed back into the carriage. As it pulled away, he gave her a parting wave through the window.
She stood on her gravel drive, the packages in her arms, the scents of spice and market still clinging to her clothes. The bond was a quiet, steady pulse, not a demand, but a satisfied echo of the day’s laughter.
Looking at her cottage, her sanctuary, she didn’t see a fortress under siege anymore. She saw a home base. A place to return to. A point on a map that was now connected to others: a windswept keep, a mountain citadel, a chaotic manor house.
She could work with that.
She turned and walked inside, already thinking about what dress she might design using that twilight-blue ribbon. A gown for traveling, perhaps. Something comfortable, elegant, and ready for anything.