Chapter 25: A Question Too Close for Comfort

Lyria’s POV

The moment his voice reached me, I knew I had made a mistake by lingering.

I lowered my head at once.

My gaze followed suit, dropping to the polished marble beneath my shoes as though the floor itself were far more deserving of my attention than the man who stood before me.

"Good morning, s-sir," I said softly.

He did not answer.

The silence stretched just long enough to become awkward.

I dared, foolishly, to lift my eyes.

He stood a little apart from the tall reading table near the eastern shelves, his posture rigid in a way that reminded me faintly of soldiers on ceremonial duty. His forest-green hair was gathered neatly at the nape of his neck with a dark ribbon, the length of it falling in a smooth, carefully brushed ponytail against the back of his tailored coat. There was nothing careless about him. Not in the cut of his deep charcoal waistcoat, nor in the perfectly aligned buttons, nor even in the narrow leather gloves folded in his hand.

A pair of thin-framed spectacles rested upon the bridge of his nose.

And his face—his face was drawn into a deep frown.

He had the tight, pinched expression of a man who disapproved of something and had not yet decided whether to say so aloud.

I recognised him, just as I had recognized the others I had seen recently. I saw him as he walked in the previous evening.

Baron Julian Redwick of Stoneford, well known for his love of books and intellectual conversations.

There were numerous pieces written by him that had sold out. I had to admit, I was also interested in those pieces, and one day, when I could finally read well, I would get them.

I curtsied.

"My pardon, sir," I said again, because etiquette demanded acknowledgement even when one received none in return.

His eyes flicked down to me at last.

They were a cool, steady green, just like the colour of his hair, sharp and assessing behind the glass lenses.

"This is the royal library," he said.

"Yes, sir," I replied quietly.

My hands tightened instinctively around the thin little book I had taken from the shelf moments earlier.

He studied the towering bookcases lining the circular walls, the tall ladders resting against their rails, the long tables set beneath the high arched windows.

Then he looked back at me.

"If this is the royal library," he continued, "what, precisely, are you doing here?"

I swallowed.

"I—I am a s–servant, s–sir. I work here."

"In the library?" he asked me.

"No, just within the palace," I told him with a shake of my head.

He regarded me with open scepticism.

"A servant," he repeated.

"Yes."

His gaze drifted slowly—deliberately—over my plain gown, the hem that had been repaired more times than I cared to count.

His brow furrowed deeper.

"And are servants usually allowed to remove books from the shelves?" he asked me.

What—

I paused when I realized the book I had taken was cradled firmly against my chest.

Heat rushed to my face before I could stop it.

"I—I was s–sent," I said quickly. "My mistress s–sent me to fetch it."

His lips pressed together.

"Your mistress," he echoed.

"Yes, sir."

He tilted his head slightly.

Just enough to be noticeable.

"And does your mistress," he asked coolly, "require a primer meant for a child who has not yet mastered the alphabet?"

The sting of it reached me before I could properly understand why.

My cheeks burned, but I kept my composure. This wasn’t as bad as Lucian telling me to call him by his name.

And really, why were the suitor candidates just moving about? Were they not supposed to be having breakfast with Jacinta?

"I am not at liberty to say what my m–mistress intends to d–do with it, sir," I said in reply.

I wondered if that was enough to let me go.

For a brief moment, he seemed surprised.

Then his mouth tightened again. A thin line of restrained disapproval.

"I see."

I inclined my head.

"And I am already late," I added, forcing calm into my voice. "I beg your p–pardon, sir, but I must take my l–leave."

I did not wait for his consent.

I stepped to the side.

Then around him.

The distance between us was scarcely more than an arm’s length.

I could almost feel the faint brush of his sleeve as I passed.

My heart beat faster as I walked, hoping that he wouldn’t catch on to the fact that I was lying. I kept my head bowed as I moved to the tall double doors of the library, gleaming invitingly.

Only a few steps more. I am almost there.

"Wait."

His hand closed around my wrist firmly, and I halted mid-stride.

"S-sir?" I asked him.

His face had twisted into something sharper now. He looked concentrated, but his frown was filled with... confusion.

He released my wrist at once—as though he had not meant to touch me at all.

Then hesitated.

"Forgive me," he said abruptly, his tone stiff with formality, "but... what perfume are you wearing?"

I blinked in shock.

The question struck me so strangely that for a moment I could only stare at him.

"I—I beg your p–pardon, s–sir?"

"What fragrance," he clarified, impatience creeping faintly into his voice. "What scent do you use?"

I frowned despite myself.

"I d–do not u–understand, s–sir."

His gaze sharpened.

"You are wearing perfume."

"I—I am n–not," I replied at once.

I could not even afford it, after all, and only nobles and rich merchants could wear perfume.

He studied my face closely.

"You are quite certain?"

"Yes, s–sir," I told him. "I do not w–wear p–perfume."

He frowned again.

For a terrible second, I feared he might say more or ask more of me, but then he stepped back.

"Very well," he said stiffly. "I’m sorry for distracting you from your errand. You may go."

I nodded and did not wait for him to change his mind.

I dipped into a hurried curtsy.

"Th–thank you, s–sir."

And I fled.

My skirts whispered sharply as I crossed the marble floor.

The doors loomed before me.

I pushed through them without slowing.

The library vanished behind my back.

And I ran out into the corridor, my breath uneven, my thoughts tangled and racing, confused by what had just happened.