Chapter 100: Messages in Silence and Matters of the Heart
Chapter 99: Messages in Silence and Matters of the Heart
Edmund stood before his master with brows faintly drawn, the question still hanging in the air like an unsolved riddle.
Julian, for his part, adjusted his spectacles with a measured motion, though the slight colour at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
At length, Edmund cleared his throat.
"My lord," he began cautiously, "I fear I do not entirely understand the nature of your inquiry."
Julian exhaled softly, as though bracing himself.
"You need not understand it," he replied, his tone composed, though a hint of impatience crept in. "Only answer it."
Edmund inclined his head.
"As you wish."
He paused, considering his words with care befitting his station.
"I may have... some understanding of love, yes," he admitted. "Though I would hesitate to claim mastery over it. It is not a discipline one perfects, I think."
Julian’s gaze sharpened slightly.
"You have been married for five years."
"Yes, my lord."
"And yet you claim uncertainty?"
Edmund allowed himself the faintest smile.
"Marriage, my lord, is not certainty. It is... continual learning."
Julian fell quiet at that.
There was something in the phrasing that lingered longer than expected.
After a moment, he cleared his throat once more.
"Then tell me," he said, more deliberately now, "how do you apologise when you are in the wrong?"
Edmund blinked.
That, at least, was a clearer question.
His head tilted ever so slightly.
"My lord... have you offended the Princess?"
Julian’s gaze flicked sharply toward him.
"That is not your concern," he said coolly. "Answer the question."
Edmund bowed his head at once.
"Of course."
He folded his hands neatly before him, settling into the explanation with quiet ease.
"It depends upon the person," he said. "Apologies are not... universal things. What soothes one may do little for another."
Julian listened intently.
"My wife," Edmund continued, "is not particularly moved by words alone. She prefers to see sincerity in action."
A faint warmth touched his voice as he spoke of her.
"When I have offended her, I endeavour to ease her burdens. I take on more of the household tasks, ensure she rests, and assist where I may—even in the kitchen—though I confess my skills there are... modest."
Julian’s lips twitched faintly.
Edmund went on, undeterred.
"I attend to her comfort. I rub her feet when she is weary. I accompany her when she wishes to walk—or run, as is more often the case."
A brief note of amusement coloured his tone.
"And, on occasion, I spar with her."
Julian arched a brow.
"Really?" he asked. "I had no idea you could hold your own against your wife."
Edmund coughed lightly.
"Well... she insists upon it."
He paused before adding,
"She wins every time."
Julian huffed a quiet breath, something just short of a laugh escaping him.
"I recall," he said. "She once trained with the guard, did she not?"
"Yes, my lord," Edmund replied. "Before her injury. She still finds ways to keep her skill."
Julian nodded slowly.
His gaze drifted briefly, thoughtful once more.
"So," he said after a moment, "what you are telling me... is that one must understand the person they have wronged in order to apologise properly."
Edmund inclined his head.
"Yes, my lord."
Silence settled again.
But this time, it was heavier.
More contemplative.
Julian turned back toward the window, his hands once more clasped behind him.
Understand the person.
It sounded simple enough.
He had already resolved to learn more of her—to understand her better.
But the difficulty remained.
How?
A man in his position could not simply seek out a servant girl without drawing attention.
And attention, in this palace, was a dangerous thing.
His jaw tightened faintly.
There had to be a way.
There was always a way.
Behind him, Edmund remained silent, though his gaze lingered thoughtfully upon his master.
He did not ask further questions.
But he understood enough to know—
Something, or someone, had unsettled the ever-composed Baron of Stoneford.
—
In another wing of the palace, far removed from careful conversations and quiet introspection, a very different resolve was taking shape.
Patricia sat upon the edge of her narrow bed, her thin frame still and composed.
The weight of what she had witnessed in Lyria’s eyes earlier that day pressed heavily upon her heart. For a girl as sweet and determined as Lyria, such suffering was unjust—especially when her rightful position had been stolen by an imposter.
Patricia had never understood the King’s obsession with keeping Lyria and her mother within the palace walls. She had begged him once, years ago, to let the child go free, pointing out that his favoured daughter already posed as the Moon foretold in the prophecy. Her pleas had earned her nothing but punishment. The King had complained that even after he had ordered her tongue removed, he had still not been able to silence her completely. He had raged that she still found ways to annoy him.
Now, Lyria—sweet, resilient Lyria—was willing to endure anything to escape the walls of this palace, which were nothing more than a prison to her.
Though the King and his foolish wife, blinded by love and cruelty—and perhaps by eyes that could not see straight—refused to let the girl and her mother leave.
And if the King would not release her, then Patricia would ensure the girl at least had a chance to claim her true place as the Moon of the Empire.
With steady hands, Patricia picked up the quill she had hidden and began writing carefully upon a thin wooden spoon she had saved for this purpose. The message was short but clear. Soon the maids would come to collect the plates and linens. They came irregularly—once a week, sometimes every three weeks, occasionally once a month—but it was enough. One of them was an ally to Patricia.
When the maids finally entered, Patricia pretended to be asleep, her breathing even and deep. They moved about the room with quiet efficiency, gathering soiled plates and linen. Patricia’s ally, a woman with kind eyes, gave her the faintest nod as she took the spoon, pocketing it expertly while exchanging it with another. The message would reach the right people.
Only after she was certain her words would travel did Patricia allow herself to fall into true sleep, the weight on her heart slightly lighter.
