The silver bell above the door chid softly, a delicate, crystalline note that danced through the air as Mikhailis stepped inside Lumine Étoile. The sound lingered for a heartbeat, then lted into the shop's music—a lilting harp arpeggio that seed to float on scented air. The warmth inside contrasted with the brisk spring morning outside, and for an instant Mikhailis let the change settle over him like a cloak.
The perfud atmosphere wrapped him in layers: first rose, then vanilla, then a final, elusive breath of sandalwood that made him think of distant caravans winding through desert passes. He drew it in slowly, savoring the welco. If heaven sells perfu, it probably slls like this, he mused, lips twitching beneath his hood.
Soft, ethereal harp notes curled around the steady hum of rchant chatter. Two noblewon in dove-grey cloaks murmured over a glass case near the entry, their eyes bright with anticipation. An elderly gentleman in scholar's robes bent close to an enchanted mirror, studying how a dusting of gold shimr powder softened the lines around his eyes. No one paid Mikhailis more than a passing glance; travelers were common in the capital's root-streets, and his cloak—charcoal wool trimd in unremarkable thread—made him blend into the sea of custors.
He kept the hood low, shadows veiling his silver-blue gaze. Not that he feared recognition—few expected the prince consort to slip through crowded markets alone—but caution was habit. Besides, part of him delighted in observing unnoticed, like a child pressing a shell to his ear to hear secrets of the sea.
Silken drapes the color of blushing dawn and deep twilight cascaded from the rafters far above, shifting whenever a hidden breeze spell stirred them. Each fold caught slivers of lamp-light, creating ribbons of pink and sapphire that rippled like water. Beneath those drapes, the shop floor unfolded in gentle curves. Rather than strict aisles, rounded islands of display cases ford intimate alcoves, inviting shoppers to ander.
Every case was a work of art. So were carved from crystal, facets scattering rainbow shards across polished teak floors. Others were wrought of brass filigree, delicate vines spiraling around panes of flawless glass. Inside, powders lay in neat rows—rose-dust pinks, moon-glow silvers, sun-touched ambers. When he leaned closer, the powders seed to breathe, as though each grain was eager to et skin.
In one corner, a trio of enchanted mirrors hung at different heights. Their surfaces weren't static silver; instead they rippled like calm ponds disturbed by a single pebble. When a custor stepped near, the mirror brightened, overlaying tiny, glowing glyphs that suggested complentary shades.
Apprentices in soft pastel robes glided between stations. A girl with frizzy chestnut hair levitated a tray of perfu vials, carefully nudging each bottle into line with a whispered spell. A boy—freckles dusting his nose—marked tallies in a ledger, his quill scratching like a cricket amid the music. Despite their focus, smiles appeared whenever their eyes t a patron's; the friendliness felt genuine, not forced.
Mikhailis's shoulders relaxed. Culture of kindness, he noted. Estella would insist on that. It pleased him more than the profit margins.
Rodion's calm voice vibrated against the tiny charm hidden in Mikhailis's collar. The construct's tones remained low, only for him.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Always one step ahead, aren't they?" he whispered, barely moving his lips.
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