Lucille's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "Off to the library? Searching for another distraction while your husband causes chaos wherever he goes?"
Salviana froze briefly, her composure slipping for a moment. "What do you want?"
"Oh, surely everyone has heard," Lucille continued with a saccharine tone. "How Your husband slaughtered my dogs the other day, harmless, innocent creatures! The poor thing did nothing to deserve such a gruesome end."
Audrey joined in, her voice colder. "He's nothing but a sadistic, pet-killing demon. Is this the kind of man who represents Wyfn-garde?"
Salviana inhaled sharply, the urge to apologize rising instinctively. She opened her mouth but stopped herself. She couldn't apologize—not when they'd been in the wrong.
Alaric had told her why he'd killed the hound: it had attacked one of the stable boys after being let loose on purpose by Lucille's maids.
And worst of all the hounds had attacked her!
Alaric could've lied that he'd avenged the boy, and not acted out of malice but she knew it was for her and they had a big fight she never want to remember. Because of these women.
Steeling herself, Salviana lifted her chin. "They deserved it," she said, her voice firm and even. "Besides, those dogs were more of a pest than a pet perhaps they're just like their owners?"
Jean stifled a laugh, glancing sideways at Salviana with admiration.
Lucille's face twisted in outrage. "How dare you!"
"How dare I?" Salviana retorted, her tone icy. "If I remember correctly, your 'harmless' hounds were notorious for snapping at servants and children. Perhaps you should be more concerned about raising a proper pet than accusing my husband of wrongdoing." She couldn't believe this.
"You had a guest and instead of coming down to see me, you released your hounds on me!" Salviana added her voice wobbling a bit.
Audrey's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're as insolent as he is. No wonder you're a perfect match."
Salviana gave a thin smile. "Thank you for the compliment, Lady Audrey. My husband and I are a perfect match, aren't we? Unlike the two old ladies I know"
The concubines gasped in unison wide eyed and pale.
Jean stepped closer to Salviana, her smirk unrepentant. "If you'll excuse us, we have a library to get to. Unlike some, we prefer to spend our time productively."
Before the concubines could reply, Salviana turned gracefully and continued down the hall, her head held high.
As they walked away, Jean murmured under her breath, "You, my lady, are my new hero."
Salviana let out a small laugh, though her heart still raced from the confrontation. "I just said what needed to be said."
"And you said it brilliantly," Jean replied, her grin widening. "That was one for the books. Now, let's actually get to those books."
The two women made their way to the library, leaving the concubines behind to stew in their indignation.
Salviana and Jean reached the castle's grand library. Its towering shelves, filled with centuries of knowledge, stretched endlessly before them.
The soft scent of parchment and ink wrapped around Salviana like a warm hug, calming her nerves after the tense hallway exchange.
Jean darted ahead, her natural curiosity leading her to inspect a dusty corner filled with ancient texts. "Embroidery… embroidery," she mumbled, scanning the spines.
"Found one!" Salviana called softly, holding up a modestly bound book titled The Art of the Needle: A Beginner's Guide.
Jean grinned. "Perfect. Let's hope it's as simple as it looks."
They returned to Salviana's chambers, where she set up her embroidery hoop again, this time with the book open beside her.
The first hour was a disaster.
Salviana pricked her fingers several times, the small punctures stinging as she winced and muttered under her breath.
The thread tangled, knotted, and broke in frustrating patterns. At one point, Jean peered over her shoulder, chuckling softly.
"Are you embroidering, or are you fighting a duel with that needle?" Jean teased.
"Both, apparently," Salviana replied, sighing as she undid yet another mistake.
Still, she refused to quit. Her brows furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a determined line.
The book's instructions were clear, but her hands were not yet accustomed to the delicate movements.
"Slow and steady," she whispered to herself, her tone encouraging.
Jean, sensing that Salviana needed space, leaned back in her chair and began flipping through another book she'd picked up. She occasionally glanced at Salviana, offering a quick smile or comment, but mostly stayed quiet, respecting her friend's focus.
By the third hour, something miraculous began to happen. Salviana's stitches, while still imperfect, started to form recognizable patterns.
A simple flower emerged on the fabric, its petals uneven but undeniably charming.
Her fingers ached from holding the needle for so long, her shoulders stiff from leaning forward. She paused, flexing her hands and rolling her shoulders, feeling the satisfying ache of hard work.
Jean looked up and raised an eyebrow. "That actually looks… good."
Salviana smiled, her cheeks tinged with a bit of pride. "It's not perfect, but it's mine. I made this."
Jean grinned. "At this rate, you'll be designing royal tapestries in no time."
Salviana laughed, setting the hoop down and examining her work. The flower wasn't just a stitch on fabric—it was a small symbol of her perseverance.
As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow into the room, Salviana leaned back in her chair, exhaustion washing over her.
Despite her aching shoulders and sore fingers, she felt content.
Her thoughts drifted as she stared at her embroidery.
I'll show this to the queen tomorrow, she thought. Maybe she'll see I'm not completely useless at this. Maybe… she'll even smile.
The idea filled her with a quiet excitement. But then another thought crept in, soft and bittersweet.
Or maybe I'll make something for Alaric instead. Something he can carry with him when he's away.
She imagined his reaction—his brows arching in surprise, his lips curving into the faint smile he reserved for rare moments of sincerity. It wasn't much, just a stitched flower, but it was hers.
A small laugh escaped her lips. "Look at me, imagining him cherishing a piece of fabric," she murmured.
Jean, who had been watching her silently, chimed in, "He might surprise you. Men like him—they can be sentimental when you least expect it."
Salviana glanced at her, the corners of her lips lifting. "Maybe. But for now, I'll just enjoy the quiet satisfaction of learning something new."
Jean nodded, leaning back with a content sigh. "And you did it all without asking the queen for help. That's something to be proud of."
Salviana smiled faintly, her gaze drifting back to the embroidery. She ran her fingers over the stitches, feeling the texture of the thread against the fabric. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.
As the afternoon stretched into evening, Salviana set the hoop aside, deciding to rest. She wasn't hungry—her focus had been so sharp that she'd forgotten all about lunch.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, she allowed herself to bask in the small triumph of creating something with her own hands.
And maybe, just maybe, this would be the start of something more.