Chapter 224: The Gift
Chapter 223: The Gift
Lyria’s POV
I had been enjoying spending time with Lucian.
That was the truth of it, and I could admit it to myself even if I would never say it aloud. I had enjoyed dancing with him, even when I stumbled. I had enjoyed the way he counted the rhythm, the patience in his voice when I faltered, the quiet satisfaction in his expression when I finally stopped thinking and simply moved.
I had enjoyed it as much as I had enjoyed my date with Duke Thorncrest the previous day.
Perhaps more.
The thought unsettled me, so I set it aside and did not examine it further.
The maids were gone now. They had helped me undress in silence, their hands efficient but cold, their expressions carefully blank. Not once had any of them offered a word of assistance beyond what was strictly required. They had exchanged glances while I bathed—little looks of silent communication that I pretended not to notice.
Normally, if they were serious about their duties, they would have remained until I dismissed them. But these maids did not care. They had left as soon as my hair was brushed and my clothes fastened, muttering something about other responsibilities.
I was not surprised.
I was growing used to their behaviour. The coldness. The silent judgement. The way they looked at me as though I were a task to be endured rather than a person to be served.
I could deal with them.
I had dealt with worse.
But Lucian—
I pressed my lips together and sat down upon the edge of my bed.
Why had he been so angry?
It was not the first time the Queen had struck me. It would not be the last. I was an eyesore in her presence, a reminder of my mother’s existence, of the King’s infidelity, of everything she wished to forget. She had made that clear many times over the years.
She claimed my mother had seduced the King.
That was not the truth. My mother had never seduced anyone. She had been a victim, not a temptress. But the Queen did not wish to hear that. She did not wish to acknowledge that her husband was capable of such cruelty. So she blamed my mother instead.
And she blamed me.
I sighed.
I should not be thinking about this. It was not important. What mattered was the drawing for Patricia.
But how was I to finish it without colour pencils?
I rose from the bed and crossed to the hidden compartment beneath the loose floorboard. The wood came up easily, and I reached inside, drawing out the sketchbook. The drawing rested between the pages where I had left it.
I sat down again and studied it.
The sky was soft. The birds were in flight. The trees stood in silhouette against the pale clouds.
But it was incomplete.
It lacked warmth. Depth. The kind of richness that only colour could provide.
I frowned at the page, turning it this way and that in the light, as though a new angle might reveal something I had missed.
It did not.
I was still frowning when the knock came.
Three sharp raps against the door.
My heart lurched.
I set the sketchbook aside quickly, pushing it beneath the pillow, and rose to my feet. My mind raced through the possibilities. The Queen had rights over me. Perhaps she had decided to summon me. Perhaps Jacinta had sent for me.
I crossed to the door and opened it.
The young man standing in the corridor was not a maid.
He was tall, with dark hair brushed back from his face and a neat, precise manner about him. His clothing marked him as well-fitted but not ostentatious, the kind of attire worn by those who served nobility.
I knew him as well, though I did not know his name.
He bowed.
"Your Highness," he said. "I am Duke Aurelgrave’s valet, Oliver. His Grace sent me to deliver something to you."
I blinked in shock.
"Oh?"
He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small parcel, wrapped in fine leather and tied with a simple cord. Then he reached into his cloak once more and withdrew a second item—a pouch wrapped in linen, tied at the top with a ribbon.
He extended both toward me.
"The Duke asked me to convey that he hopes these shall be of use to you," he said. "He also asked me to say that he regrets any distress caused during your date today."
I stared at the parcels.
Then I looked at Oliver.
Then I looked at the parcels once again.
My fingers moved before my mind had fully decided what to do. I reached out and accepted them, cradling the leather-wrapped bundle in one hand and the linen pouch in the other.
The leather was soft and warm against my palm. The linen pouch was heavier than I expected.
I swallowed.
"T-thank you," I said. "Please t-thank His Grace for m-me."
Oliver bowed again.
"I shall convey your gratitude, Your Highness."
He straightened, inclined his head once more, and turned to leave.
I watched him walk down the corridor until he disappeared around the corner. Then I stepped back into my chambers and closed the door.
The parcels were still in my hands.
I carried them to the small table near the window and set them down carefully. The light caught the edge of the leather wrapping, and I could see that it had been stitched with fine thread, which told me it was expensive.
I untied the cord, and the leather fell open.
Inside lay colour pencils.
They rested nestled within a velvet lining, each one separate from the others, their tips sharpened to fine points. The colours ranged from pale cream to deep indigo, from soft rose to vibrant crimson. There were greens like new leaves and greens like pine forests. There were blues like the morning sky and blues like the deepest part of the lake.
I counted them.
Twenty-four.
I had never owned such beautiful pencils in my life. I had never even seen such beautiful pencils. The ones I had glimpsed in the market stalls near Mercer’s Row were blunt and uneven, their colours faded from too much sun and too many hands handling them.
These were different.
These had been made for an artist.
I set them aside carefully, my fingers trembling slightly, and reached for the linen pouch.
The ribbon came loose easily.
I unwrapped the linen, and the scent reached me immediately—warm and sweet, the unmistakable fragrance of cherry pie. The pastry was still slightly warm, as though it had been taken from the oven only recently and wrapped with care to preserve its heat.
I stared at it.
Then I noticed the paper.
It had been folded into a small square and wedged between the pie and the linen wrapping. I pulled it free and unfolded it carefully with trembling fingers.
