Chapter 221: No cherry Pie
Chapter 220: No Cherry Pie
Lucian leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed upon her face.
"What is it you wish to ask of me?" he said.
Lyria hesitated.
Her fingers twisted together in her lap, a small unconscious gesture that betrayed her uncertainty. She looked down at her hands for a moment, then back up at him.
"I am c-certain you know," she said slowly, "that I draw s-sometimes."
Lucian nodded.
"Quite well too. I have seen your work," he said.
Her cheeks warmed slightly at that.
"Yes," she said. "Well. I am t-trying to acquire c-colour pencils for a drawing I am working on. I wish to give it m-more colour."
She paused.
"But given my s-situation, I cannot s-simply leave the palace. I c-cannot send my maids to fetch them for me."
Her gaze met his.
"I wondered if p-perhaps you might be able to assist me in acquiring s-some."
Lucian stared at her for a moment.
Then he chuckled.
Lyria’s brows drew together.
"Why are y-you laughing?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of affront. "I have n-not done anything to w-warrant being laughed at."
He shook his head, still smiling.
"It is not that," he said. "I simply never imagined this would be your request."
He paused.
"I thought perhaps you might ask for something else. Something more... significant."
Her frown deepened.
"What could b-be more significant than art?"
He laughed again at that, softer this time.
"Nothing, I suppose," he said. "You need not trouble yourself over the colour pencils. I shall see to it."
Her eyes brightened immediately.
"T-truly?"
He nodded.
"You need not concern yourself further. I will acquire them for you."
She nodded, excitement flickering across her features. The tightness in her shoulders eased, and a small smile curved her lips.
"Thank y-you," she said quietly.
Just then, the door opened.
The maids returned.
But this time, they were not alone.
Diana entered first, her expression carefully neutral. Behind her came two additional servants, unfamiliar to Lucian, carrying a large tray laden with covered dishes. Theresa followed with a silver teapot, and Sally brought up the rear with a three-tiered stand of sandwiches and pastries.
Behind them walked two more maids, their arms full of linens and plates.
The room filled with quiet movement. The servants arranged the refreshments upon the table near the window, unfolding linen cloths, setting out porcelain plates, and arranging silverware. Steam rose from the teapot. The scent of fresh bread and something sweet drifted through the air.
Lucian watched them in silence.
When the last dish had been set in place, the servants bowed and withdrew. Diana, Theresa, and Sally retreated to their usual positions near the door, their hands folded and their expressions watchful.
Lucian turned his attention toward the table.
He scanned the offerings.
Pastries. Sandwiches. Small tarts glazed with fruit. A selection of cheeses. Fresh bread with butter.
Then he frowned.
"Is there no cherry pie?" he asked.
The maids exchanged glances.
"No, Your Grace," Sally said. "The kitchens did not have any prepared."
Lucian’s expression held clear disappointment. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lyria spoke first.
"Cherry pie is n-not the only thing I c-can eat," she said.
She leaned forward and selected a small tart from the tray, placing it upon a plate before her.
Lucian watched her.
"That is true," he said with a soft chuckle. "But you love it."
She looked up at him then, and a small smile appeared upon her lips.
"I r-really do," she said with a laugh.
They ate in comfortable silence after that.
Lyria reached for another tart.
The frosting was soft, and a small dollop clung to her cheek just beside her mouth. But she was so occupied with eating that she did not notice it.
She was still chewing when Lucian leaned forward.
Her eyes widened as he closed the distance between them, though he said nothing.
He merely raised his hand and wiped the frosting from her skin with the tip of his finger.
Then he placed his finger into his mouth and licked it clean.
Lyria’s cheeks flushed crimson at the sight.
She opened her mouth to speak—to say something, though she was not certain what—but the words died in her throat.
Because Lucian was no longer looking at her indulgently.
His expression had shifted entirely.
His blue eyes had gone cold. His gaze was fixed upon her cheek, though not where the frosting had been.
He leaned forward again, his hand rising slowly, and brushed his fingers against her skin, making her wince.
The touch was gentle, but the skin beneath was still tender.
"Pardon me," he said, his voice quiet and controlled.
His thumb swept across her cheekbone once more.
And Lyria paused because he had noticed the bruise.
Lucian’s jaw tightened, his gaze growing even colder.
"Who hurt you?" he asked.
---
Meanwhile, back at the capital
The morning had drawn people from their homes, from the narrow alleys and cramped flats, from the shops and taverns and stalls that lined the winding streets. They gathered in the square where the scrying veil had been erected, their faces turned upward toward the empty glass.
But today, the veil was not the main attraction.
A table had been set up in the centre of the square.
It was a simple thing—wooden and unadorned, with a slit cut into its surface and a stack of paper slips beside it. A sign had been propped against its front leg, bearing words many could not read but whose meaning had been explained by those who could.
VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITE CANDIDATE.
A woman stood at the table with her daughter, a girl of perhaps seven or eight, her brown hair tied back in two thick braids.
"I want to vote for the princesses," the girl said.
The man behind the table shook his head.
"You cannot vote for the princesses, little one. Only the suitor candidates."
The girl frowned.
"But they are candidates too," she said. "Are they not?"
The man shrugged.
"The rules are the rules."
Olly, who had been standing nearby, moved then.
"Hold on there," he said.
The man behind the table looked up.
"Yes?"
Olly gestured toward the girl.
"Why cannae they vote for the princesses?" he asked. "It makes no sense."
The man frowned.
"The rules—"
"I do not care about the bloody rules," Olly said. "I came here to vote for me favourite candidates too. And I thought we could vote for the Moon candidates as well. After all, are the Moon candidates not candidates? Even if they are princesses?"
Just then, a woman stepped forward from the crowd.
She was old. Her hair was white as snow, and her skin was creased with years upon years of living. She leaned upon a walking stick carved with intricate patterns that had been worn smooth by her grip over time.
Everyone in the capital knew her.
Baba May.
She had lived longer than anyone could remember. She had seen kings come and go. She had buried a husband and two children. She had outlived them all.
And when Baba May spoke, people listened.
"Olly speaks the truth," she said.
Her voice was thin with age, but it carried.
"I came here to vote," she continued. "Not only for me favourite suitor candidate, but for me favourite princess."
She tapped her walking stick against the cobblestones.
"And I want to know why I cannae."
