[R]ippling through the marquis's office, Ionia's entrance unfolded silently and as uneventful as a whisper. Her expression, a canvas of blankness, betrayed no emotions, leaving the Marquis uneasy.
He gestured for her to sit, a routine that once invited lively conversations, but now it felt like an awkward ritual between strangers.
"Sit," he repeated, and Ionia obeyed with an almost mechanical precision, her movements devoid of the usual vivacity that characterized her presence.
The marquis scrutinized his daughter, searching for signs of what might have caused this change. Lately, he had grown accustomed to this emotionless face, convincing himself that it was merely a phase, a part of her maturation. Yet, a grisly stir lingered in the depths of his gut.
The usual spark in Ionia's eyes, the one that hinted at curiosity and mischief, was noticeably absent. Her gaze, once vibrant, now seemed distant, like a window into a realm he couldn't access.
He cleared his throat, attempting to cut through the heavy silence that settled between them.
"Is there something on your mind, Ionia?" he asked, his voice blunt yet tinged with a hint of curiosity.
No response. Ionia's lips remained sealed, her silence echoing louder than any words she might have uttered. The marquis licked his lips, grappling with the unfamiliarity of this situation.
"Usually, you'd be bombarding me with questions or suggesting tea," he remarked, trying to inject a hint of lightness into the atmosphere. "What happened to that spirited girl who never ran out of things to say?"
Ionia's gaze shifted, meeting her father's eyes for the first time since entering the room. But even in that glance, there was an emptiness, as if the connection she once shared with him had become a distant memory.
The marquis sighed, "Ionia, you can speak to me. Whatever it is."
"And why do you care?" her response, though blunt, carried a tinge of perplexity.
Given the marquis's history of not being there when she needed him, his concern didn't seem relevant now.
"When have I—"
"Let's cut to why you called me here." Her tone remained level, hinting at a reluctance to engage. His presence felt like a nuisance, and the solitude of the room only intensified the awkward tension.
With a sigh, the marquis rubbed his face before gently placing a white envelope on the table before Ionia. Initially, her gaze showed confusion as she frowned at it.
Anticipating a question, the marquis waited, but when she stayed silent, he released a weary sigh and admitted, "it's a letter from your maternal uncle."
For the first time after what felt like ages, Ionia's eyes flashed with a mysterious expression. Her hand moved on its own accord and picked up the letter, inspecting it.
"This one was specifically addressed to you," said the marquis as he watched her examine the letter rather than reading it.
"This one?" she asked simply.
It seemed bizarre and almost out of place, akin to having a peculiar conversation with a complete stranger. She felt different, strangely so.
"There was one addressed to me directly," he convinced before moving to serve his daughter tea.
The act was undeniably awkward since they had never shared an exchange close to normal. Moreover, the marquis directly serving her tea was an impossibility in their usual dynamic.
She realized, pushing the thought aside, that she had always been the problem in this house.
Deciding to focus on the issue at hand, she asked, "What for?"
It was a minor question, almost as if she was purposefully wasting time to avoid delving into more concerning matters. Yet, this situation was important in its own right.
"He said he's visiting in a few days." Answering truthfully, the marquis pushed the cup gently toward her, then took a sip of his own.
"I understand." She murmured thoughtfully; her gaze fixed on the envelope in her hands.
Her demeanor mirrored someone wearied and done with life, like a survivor in a world that drained the vitality out of them.
Once again, he struggled to articulate the entire atmosphere surrounding her. The tension lingered, more atmospheric than palpable.
"I'll be on my way then." Ionia rose, leaving the tea untouched on the table, served by her father.
His eyes followed from the cup to his daughter as she stood. The marquis released another sigh and inquired, "Ionia, do you feel uneasy staying in the Lysander house?"
His words briefly halted her, her demeanor stiffening. This was the most reaction he'd garnered from her during her time there.
"What do you mean?" She glanced down at him, brows narrowed with mistrust.
Had he caught wind of her intentions?
"I'm just asking." The marquis set the teacup on the coffee table, resting his arms on the couch's armrest. "He's never bothered looking for you in the last few years. But now, strangely, he wishes to meet you."
"What are you insinuating?"
"Ionia Lysander," a severe scowl etched onto the marquis's brows as he frowned. "I'm asking if you harbor any grievances against the Lysander house. Why else would your uncle personally come here to see you?"
"Marquis." She hissed, treating his question as an intrusive bother. "Are you suggesting I've complained to my uncle about the mistreatment last time?"
Her eyes narrowed, displaying the most reaction he'd seen from her lately, as if any warmth for the Lysander house had evaporated.
"I haven't claimed you did."
"And even if I did," she blurted out bluntly, "I fail to comprehend why you'd feel aggrieved. It's not like any of you cared about the treatment I endure in this house."
With another weary sigh, the marquis retorted, "I am well aware that whatever that servant Anna did wasn't... appropriate. But we made sure nothing of the likes ever happens again. It would be wise for you not to throw mud on the Lysander name over such a minor issue."
"Hah?" Ionia sneered mockingly, her eyes locked with the man who contributed to her birth, yet felt like a father in name only. "Marquis, is this the closest to an apology I'll get from you for your pathetic failure to keep your servants in check?"
"Ionia," her father chided, "What kind of disrespect is thi—"
"It's no use," she interrupted him cuttingly. "It would be wise of you to stop pretending to care or take on the role of a dutiful father after all those years of neglect. I'll give you that. The world hailed your name as a hero, but looking at this side of you, I doubt they'll still think the same."
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
"Nothing," she answered firmly, her gaze turning cold again. "I've long lost faith in you and this house. There's nothing you can do to make me change my mind."
A tense pause hung in the air, an austere frown etched across the marquis's face. He wasn't sure how to respond. What had he done to warrant such a reaction from his own daughter?
Did he not ensure she was well-fed, clothed, and granted access to the training ground at her convenience? How had he let her down? The answers eluded him.
"If we're done here, Marquis," she uttered with a tone that made the title sound almost like an insult.
Noticing she rarely addressed him as 'father' these days, he straightened himself, attempting to stand up and halting her exit, a desire to talk hanging in the air.
With a frown, she stated, "I shall be on my way," leaving him with little time to react or say anything before she exited the study room.