In Firefly Lane, Rhaegar waited.
Three days passed.
Then another three.
She never ca.
Those he had sent in secret to watch over her returned with word—she had claid illness, and had not stepped beyond her courtyard even once.
"My lord... perhaps Lady Caelith truly is unwell," Lance offered carefully.
Unwell?
Then why had she sent no ssage? Why not even a single word?
Rhaegar sat alone in his study, his gaze fixed upon the pear tree beyond the window.
Its blossoms had long since fallen. Bare branches swayed faintly in the night wind, stripped of their forr grace.
His thoughts drifted to the letter he had sent—and, for the first ti, regret stirred.
He had ant to force her hand, to compel her to co.
Yet now, it seed she had resolved not to see him at all.
What had happened?
Had she grown angry with him?
That day... what had Iasabella Tanmin said to her?
He remained there through the night, never once closing his eyes.
Before dawn broke, Rhaegar stood in the back alley of the Valehart estate.
Old Steward Milton had been roused abruptly from his bed. Seeing the expression on Rhaegar’s face, he dared not question him, recounting all that had occurred over the past days in careful detail.
"Lady Caelith has indeed claid illness and has not left her quarters," the old steward said. "Yet... her complexion appears well enough. She does not seem gravely ill. Only..." He hesitated. "It appears to this old servant that she is... deliberately avoiding sothing. Or soone..."
Avoiding soone?
Avoiding him?
Rhaegar stood in the dim alley, his gaze lifting toward the high walls of the estate.
He was silent for a long while.
Then, at last, he turned and left.
If she would not co, then he would go to her.
He would see for himself... what it was she was hiding from.
Two days later, a formal calling card bearing Rhaegar’s na was delivered to the Valehart estate.
His reason was clear and proper—he had co to discuss important matters with Dorian.
Openly. Without concealnt.
Dorian, naturally, received him with great enthusiasm, ordering tea and wine prepared, personally welcoming him into the main hall.
"My dear Rhaegar," he said with a smile, "what brings you here today?"
"For matters of duty," Rhaegar replied evenly, his gaze sweeping once across the hall—searching.
She was not there.
Dorian smiled. "Caelith has taken ill these past days and rests in her courtyard. She cannot co to receive guests—pray do not take offense."
Rhaegar’s fingers stilled, ever so slightly.
So—she had indeed claid illness.
When word reached Caelith’s courtyard, she sat by the window, her father’s journal open in her hands.
Dolly rushed in, breathless. "My lady! Lord Rhaegar Thorne has co—he is in the main hall, speaking with the heir!"
Caelith’s heart lurched. The page beneath her fingers crumpled faintly.
He had co.
So quickly.
"My lady... will you go to see him?"
She was silent for a mont. Then she closed the journal and rose.
"Help dress. My husband has received an honored guest—how could I, as his wife, fail to attend and serve tea?"
When Caelith entered the main hall, Rhaegar was seated, a teacup in hand, listening as Dorian spoke.
She wore plain garnts that day, her hair adorned with nothing more than a simple gold pin. Her complexion was pale—convincingly so, as though she had only just risen from illness.
She stepped to Dorian’s side and dipped in a graceful bow.
"My lord, I have co to serve tea for your guest."
Dorian looked surprised. "You are unwell—why have you co out?"
She smiled gently, her voice soft and composed. "Lord Rhaegar is your honored guest. How could I neglect proper courtesy?"
She poured the tea herself.
Then, with both hands, she offered the cup to Rhaegar.
"Your Grace, please."
He looked at her hands.
Those hands... He had held them countless tis. Tended them, traced them, clasped them in the quiet of the night.
And now, they offered him tea as though he were no more than a stranger.
He accepted the cup.
"Thank you... my lady."
Her expression did not change.
She turned, poured another cup for Dorian—and then, to Rhaegar’s astonishnt, seated herself beside her husband.
Leaning ever so slightly toward him, her voice softened further.
"My lord, His Grace seldom visits. Why not invite him to stay for the evening al? I shall have the kitchen prepare several dishes."
Dorian was visibly pleased.
It had been long since Caelith had shown him such gentleness.
"Yes—yes, of course," he said quickly. "We must."
Across from them, Rhaegar’s grip tightened around his cup.
***
The evening al was set in the flower hall.
Caelith attended to Dorian personally—placing food upon his plate, speaking to him in low, gentle tones, pouring his wine with careful grace.
It was a vision of harmony.
A devoted wife.
A courteous hostess.
Dorian, buoyed by her attention and eager to impress before Rhaegar, grew increasingly animated. Even his tone toward her softened.
"Caelith, this fish is well prepared. You should try it." He placed a piece into her bowl.
She lowered her gaze, took a delicate bite, then looked up with a faint smile. "Thank you, my lord."
Rhaegar sat opposite them.
Silent.
His eyes drifted to her again and again.
Yet from beginning to end, she never once looked at him.
She smiled.
She spoke.
She served.
Every gesture flawless. Every expression asured.
And not one of them... was for him.
Rhaegar’s fingers tightened slowly around his wine cup.
The knuckles paled.
Dorian raised his cup cheerfully. "Co, Rhaegar—I offer you a toast!"
Rhaegar lifted his cup.
But his gaze had fallen upon Caelith’s hand, as she placed food into Dorian’s bowl.
A sharp sound split the air.
Crack.
The cup shattered in his grasp.
The thin porcelain broke beneath the force of his hand, shards biting into his palm. Blood welled instantly, slipping through his fingers and dripping onto the pale tablecloth below—
blossoming into a stark, vivid red.
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