A sudden, unspoken sensation stirred within Caelith’s heart.

She lifted her head, and her eyes widened in surprise.

Rhaegar stood at the entrance, his figure half-veiled in moonlight, his gaze fixed firmly upon her.

There was no telling how long he had been there.

Her heartbeat faltered, skipping a beat.

"Rhaegar...?"

Lucas, too, looked up. Upon seeing him, he rose and bowed his head in greeting.

"Lord Thorne."

Rhaegar gave no reply.

He stepped forward, his movements slow, until he finally reached the table. His gaze swept once over the open account books, then briefly toward the sleeping Yvaine, before finally settling upon Caelith’s face.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was calm—so calm that no trace of emotion could be discerned behind it.

Caelith rose to her feet. "Lord Ostenton was teaching me some matters of running a shop."

Lucas nodded and smiled lightly. "Lord Thorne, please do not misunderstand. I merely came to lend a helping hand. Lady Emberlyn is opening her shop for the first time—there are many things unfamiliar to her."

Rhaegar said nothing in reply. Yet it was precisely this silence that unsettled Caelith all the more.

"Rhaegar..."

"Very well," he cut in suddenly.

He looked at her—and there was even the faintest hint of a smile upon his lips.

It was a slight smile, but as Caelith met it, an inexplicable chill crept through her.

"Continue," he said. "I shall wait here."

He moved aside and seated himself upon a stone stool. And there he remained, simply watching them in silence.

Caelith stood where she was, suddenly at a loss for words.

Lucas glanced at Rhaegar, then seemed to come to a quiet decision.

"Lady Emberlyn, let us stop here for today. Keep these records. If there is anything you do not understand, you may come and ask me."

He bowed his head once more, then turned and departed.

Caelith remained still, watching his figure disappear beyond the doorway. Then she turned back to Rhaegar.

He was still seated there, unmoving. Moonlight fell across his face, deepening the shadows in his eyes until they seemed fathomless.

"Rhaegar"

He raised his head to look at her. "How long did he teach you?"

"A little over an hour..."

He regarded her in silence, his gaze dark and heavy. "I do not like the way he looks at you."

"What way?"

Behind them, Yvaine shifted in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent before settling once more into silence.

Rhaegar cast her a brief glance, and then, without warning, reached out and gave Caelith a quick pinch at her hip.

She nearly cried out, startled, hastily stifling the sound as she nodded in flustered acknowledgment.

***

From that day forth, the business of Firefly Pavilion flourished with each passing day.

Each day, Caelith sat by the window, her embroidery frame before her, sunlight spilling softly across her hands. Her fingers moved with quiet grace, swift and precise, and under their touch, butterflies seemed to take flight one after another, as though life itself were being coaxed into silk.

Outside, Yvaine attended to the guests, her voice sweet as though dipped in honey. With laughter and gentle words, she charmed the visiting matrons until their hearts were light and pleased; when they departed, each carried in her hand a freshly purchased handkerchief, reluctant to leave empty-handed.

Lance Illian had been visiting often these past days.

He claimed, each time, that he was merely "passing by"—yet upon arriving, he would linger for half the day. When Yvaine poured him tea, he accepted; when she offered him pastries, he accepted; when she asked for help moving something, he rolled up his sleeves without hesitation.

Yvaine would steal glances at him, and after each glance, her cheeks would flush.

And when they flushed, she would lower her head at once, pretending to busy herself with whatever task lay nearest.

Caelith saw all of this.

The faint curve of her lips betrayed her quiet amusement, yet she said nothing.

That afternoon, an unexpected visitor arrived.

It was Paulina Thorne, Rhaegar’s mother.

She was dressed in the plain attire of simple colors, a single gold decoration adorning her hair. She bore little resemblance to the dignified lady Caelith had once seen at the marquis’s residence. Two maids followed behind her, likewise modestly dressed.

Caelith set aside her embroidery and rose.

"Madam—"

Rhaegar’s mother waved her hand lightly, stopping her from bowing.

She walked inside, her gaze drifting over the embroidered pieces displayed throughout the shop. She picked up a handkerchief, examined it closely, then set it back in place.

"You made all these?"

"Yes."

She nodded, then looked at Caelith once more. Her gaze this time was different—no longer measuring, no longer weighing. It was gentle... as though she were looking upon her own child.

"You have grown thinner," she noted. "Is running the shop tiring?"

Caelith hesitated, then shook her head. "It is not."

Paulina smiled and took her hand, guiding her to sit.

"The Old Madam speaks of you every day," she continued. "She urged me to come and see how you are faring."

At those words, a sudden warmth welled in Caelith’s chest—so sudden that it stung at her eyes.

A soft pat came upon her hand.

"His father," the older woman continued with a faint sigh, "is a stubborn man. His words are harsh, but his heart is not without care. Only a few days ago, he asked me, ’Where has that girl opened her shop? How fares her business?’"

Caelith found herself at a loss for words.

Paulina smiled at her, her eyes filled with quiet concern. "Good child... whatever happens, do not bear it alone. Rhaegar is distancing both of you because he thinks we are cruel, but he is wrong. We want nothing more than to be of help."

After she left, Caelith remained seated for a long while, lost in thought.

Toward late afternoon, as the shop neared closing, another visitor arrived.

This time, it was a maid.

She was neatly dressed, her bearing refined—clearly not from an ordinary household. She paused at the entrance, peering inside before stepping forward.

"May I ask... is this Miss Caelith Emberlyn?"

Caelith rose to her feet. "I am Caelith Emberlyn."

The maid drew a letter from her purse and presented it with both hands.

"This was sent by my mistress, Her Highness Princess Isabella Tanmin."

Caelith stilled, her eyebrows raised.

Isabella?