In the wake of our conversation with Lord Beaumont in the academy gardens, a shift began to manifest.
It was not within Élisabeth.
She continued to speak with me as she always had. She still waited for me after lectures, still occupied the same table in the library, and still walked beside me through the narrow city streets when her carriage had yet to arrive.
Yet within myself, I began to take heed of things I had previously sought to ignore.
Whenever we walked together across the academy grounds, I could feel the gaze of others. Some were merely curious. Others betrayed a clear disapproval. And the more frequently this occurred, the more difficult it became for me to forget what I had known from the very beginning.
That Élisabeth's world and my own were never truly one and the same.
One cold afternoon, we walked in the small garden behind the astronomy building. The place was seldom visited by other students, particularly towards dusk when the air began to feel too sharp for a leisurely stroll.
Élisabeth seemed to favour the spot.
"You always appear more at ease here," she remarked, walking slowly by my side.
"Astronomy demands a great deal of silence," I replied.
She offered a slight smile. "Mathematics too, I should think."
We walked a few paces without speaking. Then, from a distance,
I observed two noble-born students standing near the garden gate. One of them waved a hand towards Élisabeth.
"Lady Armand!"
Élisabeth paused briefly. The two men approached with the confident stride of those who belonged. One of them carried a small flower, seemingly plucked just then from the academy gardens.
"Do you intend to join us this evening?" the man enquired. "A few of our circle are gathering at the Beaumont estate."
Élisabeth offered a polite smile. "I am grateful for the invitation."
I could divine what was to follow. She would decline. Yet before she could utter her response, the second man added, "Several noble families shall be in attendance as well."
There was something in the way he spoke those words that made me feel as though they were not truly intended for Élisabeth. Rather, they were meant for me.
Élisabeth looked at them for a moment. Then, she spoke in a tone that was soft yet resolute. "I already have arrangements for this evening."
The two men eventually nodded and departed, though it was clear they were not altogether pleased with her answer.
Once they had vanished along the garden path, I said quietly, "It seems they were quite certain you would accept their invitation."
Élisabeth turned her gaze to me.
"They are always certain."
"And you always refuse."
She did not answer immediately. Instead, she walked a few paces ahead before finally asking, "Does that surprise you?"
I reflected for a moment. "Slightly."
"Why?"
I looked at the small path before us. "There are many within this academy who are far more... suited to your world."
Élisabeth stopped in her tracks. When I turned to her, I saw something upon her face that had rarely appeared before. It was not a smile. Nor was it curiosity. It was something far more grave.
"Adrian," she said softly.
The tone of her voice left me momentarily startled. She almost never used my name in such a manner.
"Do you truly believe that a person's world is defined by their family name?"
I did not answer at once. For within my mind, the answer was far too plain. Yet I also knew it was not the answer she wished to hear. Finally, I said, "The world often functions in such a manner."
Élisabeth gazed at me for a long while. Then, she said something that made my heart feel a fraction heavier.
"The world may function so," she said quietly. "But that does not mean I must like it."
A cold wind stirred amongst the garden trees. We stood there for several seconds in silence. Then Élisabeth spoke in a much gentler voice.
"Adrian... has it ever occurred to you that perhaps I speak with you not by mere chance?"
I looked at her. The question felt far more dangerous than any of our previous conversations.
"I do not know."
She offered a small smile. Yet this time, it felt different. More fragile.
"I think you do."
I wished to say something. Anything at all. Yet the words that ought to have been simple were the most difficult to utter. Finally, I only said, "Élisabeth..."
She waited. But the sentence that should have followed her name never truly left my lips. After a few seconds, she gave a quiet sigh.
"At times," she said, "I feel you are more afraid of the world than I."
I knew not if that were true. Yet as we walked out of the garden a few minutes later, I realised something I had never truly wished to admit.
That perhaps she was right.
And that fear was beginning to dictate every decision I would subsequently make.
Including the decision that would, one day, lead to me losing her.