Lance Illian stepped in from outside just in time to see the two sisters laughing together, their voices bright and unrestrained. He paused, momentarily taken aback. His gaze drifted—almost involuntarily—toward Yvaine’s face, lingering there for the briefest instant before he quietly looked away.

"Lady Emberlyn," he said, regaining his composure, "it seems there is nothing more requiring my attention here. I shall take my leave."

Yvaine rose at once.

"Sir Illian, you are leaving already? Why not stay and share a meal?"

He glanced at her, a faint flush rising to his face. "I still have duties to attend to."

"Then next time," she said with a bright, easy smile. "Next time, I will cook something for you myself. I meant to say it before—when you were keeping watch that night. You all worked so hard, and not even a hot meal passed your lips."

The color at his cheeks deepened slightly. He cupped his hands in farewell, then turned and left without another word.

Yvaine stood at the doorway, watching until his figure disappeared into the winding alley. The smile upon her lips lingered, impossible to suppress.

Caelith came to stand beside her. "What are you looking at?"

Yvaine started, as though caught in some private thought. "N—nothing!"

Caelith studied her expression for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Sir Lance Illian is a good man. An Imperial Knight and Lord Thorne’s first martial attendant."

At once, Yvaine’s face flushed crimson.

"Sister! What are you even saying!"

Caelith only laughed softly and turned back into the shop.

***

That evening, once Firefly Pavilion had closed its doors, the two sisters sat down to dine in the rear courtyard.

In truth, the "courtyard" was but an open space formed by joining two adjoining yards. At Caelith’s request, Rhaegar had arranged for a simple canopy to be erected, beneath which a table and stools were placed. On fair evenings, they would take their meals there.

Tonight, the moon shone clear and bright.

They carried their dishes outside.

Yvaine chattered ceaselessly as she ate, her words spilling forth like a bubbling brook, recounting all that had transpired throughout the day.

"...And Lady Brighton—such a kind woman! She bought three handkerchiefs at once. And old Lady Vinder said she wants to order a fan for her granddaughter—she specifically asked for the kind of butterfly you embroider..."

Caelith listened, offering the occasional response, a soft smile resting upon her lips.

Then, inevitably, Yvaine spoke of Lance Illian again.

"Sir Illian helped so much today. That plaque was so heavy—he lifted it all by himself. Sister, did you see?"

Caelith glanced at her, a smile tugging at her lips. "I did."

Yvaine’s cheeks tinged pink. She lowered her head and focused on her meal, suddenly quiet.

At that very moment, a sound came from the entrance.

Caelith looked up at once. For a fleeting instant, she thought it might be Rhaegar—her lips had already begun to curve into a smile.

But the man standing there was Lucas Ostenton.

Clad in a pale, moon-white attire, he held a food box in his hand. His expression bore that same gentle smile as always, composed and courteous.

Caelith paused, then rose. "Lord Ostenton?"

Lucas stepped inside and set the box upon the table. "I was passing by, and thought to stop in," he said lightly. His gaze flicked to the modest spread before them. "Is this all you are eating?"

Caelith glanced down—two dishes and a soup, all vegetarian.

"It is quite sufficient," she replied. "As you know, even noble ladies are modest in eating. I do not wish to make meals just to waste them."

Lucas smiled faintly and opened the food box.

Inside were several delicately prepared dishes—both meat and vegetables—still steaming with warmth.

"I had these prepared in my kitchen. Do give them a try."

Yvaine’s eyes lit up at once, yet she did not dare reach out, instead looking toward Caelith for permission.

Caelith fell silent for a brief moment—then smiled.

"You are too generous, Lord Ostenton. Please, sit and join us."

After they had eaten for a time, Caelith set down her chopsticks and looked at him, her expression brimming with unhidden curiosity.

"My lord... have you come to see whether our business prospers?"

Lucas seemed momentarily taken aback.

Caelith smiled faintly and continued, her tone light yet measured, "You need not worry. I have no intention of drawing customers away from Ostenton Embroidery. Those who come here are but neighbors from nearby streets—buying handkerchiefs, fans, and the like. It does not conflict with your vast trade."

"Lady Emberlyn, you have misunderstood," he replied. "I came not for that..."

He paused, as though choosing his words with care. "I came to bring you something."

From within his robe, he withdrew several bound booklets and placed them upon the table.

Caelith lowered her gaze. "These are...?"

"Records from when I first opened my shop," Lucas explained. "Sources of supply, the wages of embroiderers, which patterns customers favor, what materials to prepare for each season... it is all written here."

Caelith froze, genuinely surprised.

Lucas looked at her with a steady gaze.

"It is your first time managing a shop. There are bound to be things you are unfamiliar with. Take these—study them. They may help you avoid unnecessary detours."

She looked from the account books back to him, hesitation flickering in her eyes.

"My lord... this is far too valuable..."

"Valuable?" he interrupted gently. "They are but old things. Left with me, they would only gather dust. Better that they serve a purpose in your hands."

For a moment, Caelith did not know what to say.

Lucas merely smiled, then opened one of the ledgers and pointed to the densely written entries.

"Look here—these are the supply routes. The fabric shop in the south of the city offers fair prices and good quality. The one in the east is cheaper, but often runs out of stock. And this one..."

As he spoke, his words began to flow without pause.

At first, Caelith only listened—but before long, she found herself leaning closer, drawn in despite herself.

"This price—was it negotiated down?"

"Yes. Larger orders give you leverage. At the beginning, you may purchase in smaller quantities. Once your business stabilizes, you can negotiate better terms."

"And this one...?"

Their heads inclined toward one another over the open pages, their voices weaving into an easy rhythm of question and answer.

Yvaine, seated nearby, listened for a while. At first, she made a valiant effort to stay attentive, but gradually, her eyelids grew heavy.

At last, her head tipped to one side, resting against the back of her chair as sleep quietly claimed her.

The moon shone clear and luminous, casting its silver light across the courtyard. Their shadows stretched long upon the ground.

Lucas continued to trace the entries line by line, explaining each in careful detail—

which customers were difficult, which were accommodating, which designs sold well, which lingered unsold.

He spoke with such thoroughness that it seemed he wished to pour out every fragment of experience he had gathered over the years.

As Caelith listened, something within her stirred—complicated, unsettled.

She thought of the words Rhaegar had spoken before.

"Are the accounts of Ostenton Embroidery these past years truly clear?"

"In business, one must remain above reproach."

She knew what he suspected.

And yet, here sat Lucas, laying bare his own records before her, teaching her patiently, without reserve.

Could a man like this truly harbor wrongdoing?

She did not know.

But the faint wariness she had carried within her... softened, little by little.

Time passed unnoticed.

Then—suddenly—there was someone standing at the entrance.

Caelith remained bent over the ledger, unaware.

The figure stood there, unmoving.

Moonlight fell across his face, illuminating his eyes—bright, and coldly intent.