"Let it go… let it go," Lady Arriane whispered.
But her hand would not release the rolled paper she held. Arriane kept the playbill of Tristan's debut in good condition, placing it inside a dry canister to prevent mold. It was her only souvenir.
That night had been golden. The boy had stood beneath the chandeliers with a violin in hand and his bow poised. He filled the grand hall with music so pure it silenced even the most talkative lords. She remembered how his face glowed under the light—fragile, proud, untamed.
And she remembered, too, the sting that followed. Her gifts and gentlest advances were met with nothing more than polite nods. Tristan never returned her interest. He turned from her without hesitation.
