"I didn't want to seem… odd," Jean admitted with a chuckle, guiding her lady to sit on the cushioned stool before the mirror. "But tonight seemed like the right moment."
As Jean began to comb Salviana's long, fiery locks, the room fell into a tranquil silence. The comb moved gently through the strands, each stroke deliberate and careful, as if Jean were handling the most precious silk.
"You're good at this," Salviana murmured, her eyes growing heavy. The repetitive motion and the soft sound of the comb gliding through her hair were enough to make her drowsy.
Jean smirked, keeping her gaze on the task. "Years of practice, Your Grace. It's oddly calming, isn't it?"
"Very," Salviana admitted, leaning back slightly. "You could make a career of this if you ever tire of waiting on me."
Jean laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. Though I can't imagine leaving your side. Who else would make sure you survive the chaos you attract?"
Salviana smiled thinly, closing her eyes for a moment. "Fair point."
As Jean finished, she admired her work for a moment, the fiery locks cascading neatly down Salviana's back.
She set the comb aside and gently gathered a few stray hairs, her movements practiced and subtle.
"All done," Jean announced, stepping back.
Salviana blinked herself awake, running a hand over her hair. "That was… oddly relaxing. Thank you, Jean."
"It was my pleasure," Jean replied, her voice steady though her heart raced. She slipped the gathered hairs into a small pouch at her side, unnoticed by anyone, including Salviana.
"Let's get you into your gown," Jean said quickly, steering the moment back to routine.
As she helped Salviana prepare for dinner, she kept her composure, all the while knowing she had taken the first step toward unlocking the secrets of the mysterious book.
Salviana sat at the long dining table, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows on her face.
The spread before her was lavish, as always—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, vibrant vegetables, and a sweet custard for dessert.
Yet, as the silver utensils clinked faintly against the porcelain plates, her appetite felt nonexistent.
She stared blankly at the food, picking at it mechanically. A pang of sorrow welled up in her chest, unbidden and unstoppable.
Her thoughts drifted, as they had so often lately, to Alaric.
Where is he now? Is he eating? Is he… hungry?
She swallowed hard, her vision blurring with tears she hadn't realized were falling.
Her husband, with his vampiric nature, was likely struggling to feed properly among the others. He'd have to hide his hunger, his instincts, and his very nature.
He must be suffering…
The thought pierced her heart. Salviana sniffed quietly, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. But the tears came faster now, dripping onto her untouched plate.
Her fork slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering softly against the plate.
She clenched her fists, feeling an unbearable sadness. "He's out there, fighting for them," she whispered to herself, her voice shaky. "Fighting for me. Alone, even when surrounded by others."
Her shoulders trembled with silent sobs. Outside the doors, two maids exchanged glances as they stood guard.
They had heard her quiet crying, and their faces softened with pity.
"She misses him," one whispered.
"She's overwhelmed. It's too much," the other replied, shaking her head. "What can we do? Nothing but let her grieve."
Inside, Salviana wiped her tears roughly and tried to focus on her meal. She forced herself to eat, bite after robotic bite, though the taste felt like ash in her mouth.
She chewed and swallowed mechanically, her gaze distant.
When she finally pushed her plate away, she stood and wandered aimlessly through the chambers, the silence of the evening amplifying her every step.
Her feet carried her to Alaric's office, a room he had always claimed as his own.
The moment she stepped inside, she paused. His scent—rich, deep, and familiar—lingered strongly in the air. It enveloped her like a comforting embrace, and for a fleeting moment, she felt close to him again.
Her fingers brushed against the edge of his desk, her lips curving into a faint, melancholic smile.
She trailed her hand over the smooth wood, imagining him seated there, pouring over maps or writing letters with his sharp concentration.
Sinking into the plush couch by the corner, Salviana sighed deeply, exhaustion tugging at her body and heart.
She pulled a throw blanket over herself, her mind swirling with thoughts of him.
I hope you're safe, she thought, closing her eyes. I hope you're not alone… or in pain.
The soft warmth of the room and Alaric's lingering scent soon lulled her to sleep.
Her breathing evened out, though her expression remained troubled, her dreams tangled with images of her husband fighting battles far away, both visible and hidden.
And outside, the maids watched the door, their faces etched with quiet concern, wishing they could somehow ease the ache in her heart.
!
Meanwhile,
Jean slipped into her chambers, her movements careful until she closed the door softly behind her.
She exhaled and leaned against the wood, a victorious gleam in her eyes as she whispered to the empty room, "I got the hair."
The faint hum of energy in the space made her skin tingle, and she straightened. "Lucius?" she called, scanning the dimly lit room. "Lucius, are you here?!"
No answer. Frustrated, she frowned and raised her voice, "Come here!"
"That's not how you summon me," came a smooth, mocking voice from the corner, startling her.
"And yet here you are."
"Aren't you scared," she heard his whisper almost right on her neck startling her.
Jean spun around, clutching her chest. "You—! I wasn't scared," she lied, her heartbeat betraying her.
Lucius chuckled, his disembodied voice drifting closer. "Dearest Pumpkin,"
"You were ignoring me earlier, weren't you?" Jean accused, narrowing her eyes at the unseen figure.
"Perhaps," Lucius replied airily, avoiding the question. "But I was waiting for you." He declared.