Married To Darkness-Chapter 507: Catching up with Jean Golliath

Two days later, the afternoon sun spilled gold across the balcony stones, warming the carved railings and the bench where Salviana sat alone, lost in thought.

The breeze stirred the loose strands of her hair, and for once the castle felt almost quiet.

Then a careful voice broke the stillness.

"Hello."

Salviana turned—and her eyes widened so suddenly it looked as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

"Jeanie!"

She sprang to her feet. "Oh my goodness—I’ve missed you!"

Before another word could be said, she crossed the distance and pulled Jean Goliath into a fierce embrace.

Jean melted into it at once, arms tightening around Salviana as though she had needed the contact more than she wished to admit. A soft sigh escaped her, long and quiet, carrying exhaustion that words had not yet explained.

For several moments neither of them spoke. The reunion itself said enough.

When they finally separated, Salviana kept hold of her arms and took a proper look at her friend.

Concern immediately sharpened her features.

"What happened, Jean?" she asked, brows drawing together. "What happened to you?"

Jean gave a short laugh—too light, too practiced. "Nothing."

Salviana blinked. "What do you mean nothing? You have been missing for what—"

Jean took a small step back, cutting her off before the worry could deepen.

"No," she said gently but firmly. "We are not talking about me today."

Her expression softened into something almost playful.

"In two sunsets, your marriage will be officiated again—with your demon husband, no less."

A small laugh slipped from her lips before she continued.

"And I want you to focus on yourself. On what you want."

Salviana swallowed. "Jeanie—"

Jean shook her head. "Please, my lovely friend. I am back now. Can we not speak of me just yet?"

She reached forward and took both of Salviana’s palms in hers, warm and persuasive.

The request landed heavier than it sounded.

Salviana studied her for a long moment, sensing the guardedness beneath the smile, sensing there was far more hidden than being offered.

"You are being unfair," Salviana said quietly, "but I will let you be."

Jean smiled, relieved. "Thank you."

They sat together on the bench, shoulders nearly touching.

"Now," Jean said, turning slightly toward her, "tell me—how do you feel about this great day approaching? Are any of your family invited?"

Salviana looked out across the gardens before answering. "That... I do not know." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Her voice lowered. "Our kingdom is not much for visiting, so..."

But the unfinished part stayed inside her. It was not tradition that restrained her hope—it was fear.

Fear of expecting footsteps that would never come. Fear of looking toward every carriage and finding none of them carried her blood.

Jean seemed to understand what she did not say, because she did not press.

Silence settled again, gentle at first. Then Jean sighed.

Once. Twice. A third time.

By the eighth, Salviana turned. "Why are you sighing?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "What are you thinking about?"

Jean immediately grinned. "I was just about to ask you that. You sighed at least eight times before I did."

Salviana closed her eyes dramatically, shoulders sinking. "It’s my husband..."

That alone made Jean sit straighter. "What did he do?"

Salviana opened one eye at her. "That tone suggests you were waiting for him to fail."

"Oh no, my lady, I simply trust men to be unpredictable."

Despite herself, Salviana smiled faintly. Then she began telling her everything—the painting room, the quiet morning, the ink, the needle, the way Alaric had sat before her with absolute trust.

And then the word. "Anne-Marie."

Jean’s teasing faded.

Salviana looked down at her own hands as she spoke, remembering the feel of writing each letter carefully into his skin.

"He said it immediately," she murmured. "Without hesitation. As though the name had been waiting inside him."

"And?"

"He said she would have been outraged if she knew he let someone mark him permanently."

Jean leaned back slowly. "So he knows her well enough to imagine her outrage," she said.

"Yes."

"But not as a mother?"

Salviana nodded.

"That is what unsettled me. It could not be his mother—not with the way he spoke."

Jean folded her arms thoughtfully. "And you didn’t ask?"

"I wanted to," Salviana admitted. "But he looked..." She searched for the word. "Elsewhere. Like he was speaking to someone absent."

Jean studied her friend.

Then asked the question already burning between them. "Who do you think Anne-Marie is?"

Salviana lifted her eyes slowly. "That," she said, quieter now, "is exactly what I cannot stop wondering."

The breeze moved between them again, gentler this time—but neither woman missed how the name now lingered there, like a door neither had yet opened.

They let the name drift away—not because the curiosity had vanished, but because some names, once spoken, seemed to gather too much weight if held for too long.

So Jean leaned back against the bench and lifted her face toward the afternoon sky.

"The light has changed," she said, glancing toward the gardens below. "Have you noticed?"

Salviana followed her gaze.

The sunlight was still warm, but not with the fullness of summer. It fell thinner now, stretched longer across the palace grounds, catching the hedges and marble paths in pale gold rather than bright fire.

"The mornings are colder," Salviana said. "Yesterday I could see mist near the east courtyard."

Jean nodded. "Winter is arriving quickly."

A breeze passed over them again, sharper this time, carrying the faint dry scent of leaves already surrendering to the season. Below them, servants were gathering flowering pots from the lower terrace before frost could claim them.

"In another week," Jean murmured, "the roses will be gone."

Salviana watched the gardeners move in careful rhythm. "I used to think winter felt cruel," she admitted. "As a child, I hated how everything beautiful disappeared."

"And now?"

"Now..." Salviana’s lips softened into thought. "Now I think it teaches patience. Things vanish, but not forever. And I should be open about change" it was why she hated her husband in the beginning, her hate for change.

Jean turned to look at her, amused. "That sounds suspiciously wise for someone who once cried because autumn took her favorite climbing flowers."

Salviana gasped. "I was ten– who told you that story!"

Jean Laughed, "You did, you were dramatic at ten."

Salviana smiled cheekily, "I remain dramatic."

"That part survived beautifully."