Sapphire and Fletcher stepped out of the old library, coughing lightly as they dusted off the cobwebs clinging to their clothes. Dust danced in the afternoon light, clinging to their hair and sleeves. Fletcher sneezed once, then quickly reached for her hand, gripping it tighter than usual.
"Don't say a word about this," he whispered, glancing around .
"Lord Typhon forbade anyone from entering. He'd have my ears if he found out."
Sapphire blinked, startled. "Why?"
Fletcher shook his head.
"Some doors are locked for a reason. Just… promise me."
She nodded slowly, glancing back at the library door now closed behind them, a chill still trailing her spine.
"I promise," she whispered with a small smile, brushing a bit of cobweb from his hair.
Fletcher looked at her, a little too smug for a boy his age.
"Thanks for showing me," she added sincerely.
But the boy only smirked, puffing his chest slightly as he released her hand.
"Don't thank me yet, milady. You're excellent company. Most people are as dull as boiled roots."
She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You'll be a charmer once you grow up."
He tilted his head, grinning. "Grow up? I was born charming."
Sapphire gave a playful sigh. "Oh stars help us all."
They walked down the corridor, the dusty air still clinging faintly to their clothes.
***
The night air bit into her skin as Lady Rosella fled from the manor, her cloak half-draped over her shoulders, the hem of her nightgown dragging through the dew-wet grass. Her hair was unbrushed, falling in tangles down her back, her pinson barely holding as she stumbled through the moonlit paths.
She didn't care.
The shame. The yelling. Her father's rage. Her mother's bitter silence. The letter.
Only one person could make it right. Only Albert.
The guards at the estate barely raised their heads when she banged softly on the iron gates. A shadow moved behind the door — then the entrance creaked open.
It wasn't Albert.
It was Abigail, his niece, dressed in a robe, her face pale with surprise as she took in Rosella's flushed cheeks, wild hair, and trembling lips.
"My Lady..." Abigail said carefully, stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind her. "You shouldn't be here."
"I need to speak with him," Rosella whispered, trying to peer behind her into the dimly lit hall.
Abigail's face softened, but her words were firm. "He said... he's not receiving guests tonight."
Rosella blinked, stunned. "Guests?" Her voice cracked.
"Does he think I'm a guest ?"
Silence.
"I know he's in there," she said, her voice rising. "Tell him it's me."
"I did," Abigail said softly. "And he said you should return home."
A beat of silence passed before Rosella's knees nearly buckled. Abigail caught her arm gently, her voice hushed, almost sympathetic.
"Please, my lady... don't let them see you like this."
Rosella stepped back, her throat tightening, eyes stinging with tears. The door closed quietly.
And she was left alone, disheveled, heartbroken, and very, very alone.