Lucien's study smelled of aetheril ink and parchment, that comforting perfume of thought and order. Arcane lamps cast a cool glow over the room, haloing the neat rows of scrolls and the occasional half-collapsed stack of books. The air hummed softly with residual magic from wards that kept dust and clumsy hands at bay.
Lytavis lingered at the threshold, braid slightly askew, boots still damp from the garden. Her fingers twisted the end of her sleeve before she spoke.
"An'da?"
Lucien looked up, quill still poised above a sheet of elegant script. "Yes, Little Star?"
She hesitated, then squared her shoulders like a soldier marching into battle. "Do you have any books or scrolls about… marital relations?"
Lucien blinked. Once. Twice. Then he made a small choking sound as the quill blotched ink across the page. "About what?"
"Marital relations," she repeated, perfectly sincere. "I thought I should understand them properly if I'm to advise expectant mothers."
His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He set the quill down very, very carefully - as though sudden movement might make the situation worse.
"I- ah- I study leyline currents and arcane structure, not…" He gestured vaguely, mortification creeping into his voice, "…domestic phenomena."
Lytavis blinked innocently. "So that's a no?"
Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elune preserve me." Then, louder: "Zoya!"
From the kitchen came her mother's familiar voice. "What is it, love?"
"Your daughter has… questions."
"About what?"
Lucien coughed into his sleeve. "Marital. Relations."
There was a brief silence - and then, laughter. Warm, musical, entirely unhelpful. Zoya appeared in the doorway, still holding a bundle of herbs, her eyes bright with amusement.
"Min'da!" Lytavis protested, laughing now.
"Oh, hush," Zoya said gently, coming to rest a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "It's a fair question. I have a few old Temple scrolls that speak plainly but respectfully about such things. You may read them after supper."
Lucien groaned quietly, rubbing his temples. "After supper. Wonderful. A perfect accompaniment to roast and bread."
Zoya patted his shoulder. "You could use some reviewing yourself."
Lytavis bit her lip, torn between laughter and horror. "Please don't start."
"Very well," Zoya said, smiling. "But remember, child - wisdom is not indecent. Knowledge is how we care for others properly."
Lytavis nodded, her embarrassment fading into quiet gratitude. "Thank you, Min'da."
Lucien sighed and looked skyward. "And thus," he muttered, "begins the chapter of my life no scroll ever prepared me for."
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
The study still smells faintly of aetheril ink and embarrassment.
Today my Little Star asked me for texts on marital relations. I am a scholar of leyline theory, not anatomy of affection, yet she looked at me as though it were the most natural request in the world. Perhaps it was.
I sputtered. I called for Zoya. (A tactical retreat, though I maintain it was strategic.) She, of course, laughed and handled the matter with her usual grace, reminding us both that knowledge, even of delicate things, is never shameful when sought in kindness.
Still, I find myself unsettled - not by the question, but by what it means. That she has stepped past the narrow doorway of childhood into the larger house of the world, where curiosity touches even the tender, human mysteries I once wished to keep far from her.
Lytavis seeks understanding not for vanity, but for service. To advise mothers, to protect them, to ease their fears. There is nothing indecent in that - only compassion wrapped in courage.
And yet… tonight, when the lamps dimmed and the house grew still, I caught myself glancing toward her door, remembering the child who once hid beneath my desk to steal parchment scraps. Now she borrows scrolls about lovemaking.
I will write no conclusion to this entry. I am still learning how to hold such changes with grace.