Chapter 183: The Second Reading
Chapter 182: The Second Reading
Lyria’s POV
Jacinta smiled at me.
It was a tight, careful thing that did not reach her eyes at all.
I pretended not to notice.
I looked down at the parchment in my hands instead, as though composing myself before a task I found mildly challenging rather than one I was quietly terrified of.
The first word was home.
I knew that word. I knew its shape, the curve of the h, the way the rest of it followed. Patricia had made certain I knew that one early.
I read further, slowly, letting my eyes move across each line before I allowed my voice to follow.
The words were not difficult.
That was the first thing I noticed, and something loosened very slightly in my chest because of it.
They were plain words, plainly arranged, and yet they carried something underneath them that the plainness itself seemed almost deliberate about concealing.
I lifted my head.
And then I began.
Home.
Such a small word for so large a thing.
We speak it young, before we know its weight,
Before we understand what we are saying
When we say: I want to go home.
Every soul has used it.
The king upon his throne, the child upon the street,
The soldier far from everything he knows,
The fool who left and spent his years regretting it.
And yet, it is so much the more.
For home is not just hearth and flame,
Nor walls that stand against the cold,
Not merely doors that close at night,
Nor roofs that shelter from the fold.
It is the place where laughter stays,
Though sometimes tears may linger too—ugly ones.
It is a place where one may speak without a mask,
And still be seen as something true.
And oft, I think—if truth be told—
’Tis not a place we wander through,
But rather one who walks with us,
And makes the world feel less than it is.
A partner, perhaps—if one is blessed—
Who hears your thoughts before they’re said,
Who knows when you have lost your way
And drags you back (or so I’ve read).
A friend who stays when storms arrive,
Who laughs at things that are not wise,
Who tells you plainly when you’re wrong—
And yet will stand there at your side.
For what is home, if not a soul
Who sees you plain and does not flee?
Who finds no need for grand display,
Yet makes of life a constancy?
And so, though many speak the word
As though it rests in brick and stone,
I find it lies in simpler truth—
Home is the one who makes you known.
When the last line left my mouth, I lowered the parchment.
There was the sound of faint laughter in the hall, and even I had to admit that the Duke had placed his humour quite accurately in writing this piece.
I set the parchment down with as much composure as I could manage and folded my hands neatly in my lap.
Duke Thorncrest had a smirk on his face. It was obvious he had achieved what he wanted with this piece.
The Queen spoke then.
"Perhaps," she said, her tone pleasant and unhurried as she stared at me, "you would be so good as to explain what she understood from the poem."
I had just drawn a breath to respond when Duke Thorncrest spoke first.
"If I may."
His voice was courteous. Entirely so.
The Queen looked at him.
"Your Grace?" she said.
Duke Thorncrest inclined his head with perfect respect.
"I only wished to raise a small observation," he said. "When Princess Jacinta read Duke Aurelgrave’s poem, it was Princess Lyria who was asked to offer an explanation of its meaning."
There was a faint pause.
"I find myself wondering," he continued, in the same mild and entirely reasonable tone, "whether it might not be more consistent—more fitting, perhaps—for Princess Jacinta to be the one to explain on this occasion, since it was Princess Lyria who read the poem aloud."
He smiled as he said it, pleasantly too.
"It would seem the more natural arrangement. For every Moon candidate who reads, the other interprets. It is quite symmetrical, if Your Majesty will forgive my saying so."
The Queen looked at him for a moment.
Her expression did not change, but I could see a vein pulse in her neck, a sign she was displeased with the Duke.
Jacinta opened her mouth to speak just as the Queen turned toward her, a smile as false as her daughter’s on her face.
"The Duke raises a fair point," she said.
Her tone was warm. Gracious, even.
"It would not do for those watching to misinterpret the proceedings," she continued. "And there is a certain propriety to the arrangement His Grace has suggested. Consistency, after all, is its own form of fairness."
Her gaze remained on Jacinta.
"It is quite right," she said. "You shall explain, since Princess Lyria has read."
For a moment, nothing moved in Jacinta’s face.
Then she smiled.
It was an extraordinary performance.
Full and gracious and assembled with the speed of someone who had spent a lifetime constructing expressions on demand, and it looked—to anyone not watching closely—entirely genuine.
She rose from her seat.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "Your Majesty is quite right. It is the proper arrangement, and I am glad the Duke thought to raise it."
She inclined her head briefly toward Duke Thorncrest, who received this with another pleasant smile and said nothing further.
Jacinta turned to face the candidates then.
Her posture was, as always, without fault.
"The poem," she began, with easy confidence, "is quite easy to understand."
She paused, letting that land the way she intended it to—as an observation rather than a criticism, though I was fairly certain it had been both.
"At least," she added, with a small, composed smile, "to me."
My lips twitched, but I held the smile. Those were the words I had used before explaining what Lucian’s poem meant to me.
