Theodore did not leave right away.
He remained outside Selene's door, his shadow looming across the polished floor as the morning light shone. The hyacinths she had taken from him earlier now lay on the writing desk inside, their petals beginning to curl at the edges. Not wilted—just tired. Like her.
Inside, Selene moved slowly. She poured water into a basin and dipped a cloth into it, pressing it against her face as if the coolness could erase the ache behind her eyes. It didn't. But she welcomed the silence that followed.
She didn't expect him to knock again.
He did though,
Just once was enough.
She opened the door—not fully, just enough to see him. His posture was straighter now, but his eyes were still heavy with sorrow.
"I asked the Grand Duchess to release Alice from her duties," he said.
Selene blinked. "And she agreed?"
"No," he replied. "But I asked."
She studied him, her gaze sharp and unreadable. "That's not the same as doing."
"I know." A pause. The kind that irks between two people who have shared too much and too little all at once.
"I didn't come to ask for forgiveness," he added. "I came to ask for your truth."
Selene tilted her head slightly. "My truth?"
"Yes. Not the one they wrote for you. Not the one they whisper behind closed doors...Just yours."
She stepped back, allowing the door to open wider. It was not an invitation but just a gesture.
He entered quietly, his steps slow and careful, as if afraid the floor might break on him.
Selene walked to the desk and picked up the hyacinths. "Do you know what these mean?"
He shook his head.
"Constancy," she said. "But also sorrow. They bloom early, and fade quickly. Like promises made in spring."
Selene's expression was melancholic, as if to express her few words with heavy burden laced between.
He looked at her then, really looked. "I didn't mean for it to be a promise."
"But it felt like one," she said, her voice soft. "And when you let her take your arm, it felt like you broke it."
Theodore could not read her at all. It was like he was seeing a new person—not the Selene that he knew.
Theodore's jaw clenched. "I didn't know how to stop her."
"You didn't try." He didn't argue. He couldn't. This dialogue somehow became familiar to him, it made him realise that their conversations were never really a transaction.
They were talking in circles because of his excuses.
Selene placed the flowers back down, arranging them with a kind of reverence. "I don't need grand gestures, Theodore. I never did. I just needed to know I wasn't alone in the fight."
He stepped closer, an attempt to show that he cared truly— "You're not."
She looked at him, eyes steady and sad,
"Then prove it. Not with flowers. Not with walks. Show me with your choices."
Outside, the garden stirred again— leaves shifting in the breeze, the scent of flowers reached the tip of their noses.
----
Alice Eugenia stood before the mirror in her chamber, the lavender ribbons still trailing from her sleeves.
She had not changed out of the dress. She wanted to be seen in it again—wanted the color to linger in memory, like perfume on skin.
The room was quiet, except for the soft ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. She hated that sound. It reminded her that time was not hers to command.
She reached for the silver brush on her vanity and began to smooth her hair, each stroke careful, slow. Her reflection stared back—composed, radiant. But she knew better than anyone how much effort it took to maintain that illusion.
There had been a moment in the garden—just a flicker—when she thought Theodore might let her stay beside him. When his silence felt like surrender. But then he had stepped away, and the air between them had turned awry.
She had smiled through it, of course. She always did.
But now, alone, her fingers trembled slightly as she set the brush down.
A knock came at her door.
She didn't answer immediately. 'Let them wait.' she thought.
Then, with a practiced grace, she turned and called out, "Enter."
It was the Grand Duchess.
Alice straightened, smoothing her skirts. "Your Grace."
The older woman stepped inside, her presence commanding even in stillness. She wore deep navy, her hair pinned in a crown of silver coils. Her eyes, like a fox', calculating.
"You disappointed me this morning." She glared.
Alice's smile faltered. "I did as you asked."
"You performed," the Grand Duchess said coolly. "But you did not win."
Alice lowered her gaze. "He's still… attached to her."
"Then sever the attachment," the Grand Duchess said, walking slowly toward the window. "You have one month. That was the arrangement."
Alice hesitated. "She's a stronger opponent than I expected."
The Grand Duchess turned, her expression unreadable. "Then break it."
Alice's breath caught. "How?" She did not expect to hear such words from the Grand Duchess.
"Find the fault line," the older woman said. "Everyone has one. A secret. A shame. A memory they cannot bear to revisit."
Alice nodded slowly. "And if I find it?" He brows arching, her expression turning mischievous.
"Exploit it," the Grand Duchess said. "But do it quietly. We are not barbarians."
She moved to leave, then paused at the door. "And Alice?"
"Yes, Your Grace?" Alice promptly replied, like it was muscle memory.
"Do not mistake proximity for power. You may stand beside him, but that does not mean he sees you."
The door closed behind her.
Alice stood still for a long time.
Then she walked to her writing desk and opened the drawer where she kept her letters. Among them was one she had never sent—addressed to Selene, written in a moment of weakness years ago. A letter of apology, of regret.
She stared at it, her fingers hovering.
Then she tore it in half.
Outside, the lavender hour had begun—when the sky turned soft and the world looked almost kind.
Alice Eugenia was preparing to wage war.