Celia and I decided to put our etiquette lessons into practice with a proper tea session, a chance for her to refine the intricacies that Viscountess Rivelle had been drilling into her. I sat across from her in the garden, the afternoon sun casting dappled light through the leafy canopy above. The scent of roses hung in the air, mingling with the warm breeze, as I sipped my tea and gently pointed out her small missteps.
Celia, ever the spirited one, pouted each time I corrected her, only for her face to brighten again in seconds. It was as if the mere act of sharing tea erased any sting from criticism, her eyes sparkling with the same lively energy that seemed to animate her every movement. I couldn't help but smile, enjoying not just the tea but the company of my sister, whose laughter came as easily as breathing.
The tea itself was a delight—light and fragrant, brewed from rare blue roses that, in this world, bloomed naturally. Their petals were as rare as they were beautiful, a curious twist of nature that had surprised me when I first discovered them. Unlike the roses of Earth, these held a subtle sweetness, a taste that seemed to catch the essence of a clear morning sky.
Celia chattered on, her words bubbling like a brook, touching on everything from the antics of the estate's cats to her struggle with Rivelle's insistence on gliding across a room like a swan. I offered a nod or an amused hum when the flow of her stories quickened, leaning back in my chair as the blue-tinged tea swirled in my cup, its fragrance filling the space between us.
'Strange,' I thought, glancing at her as she animatedly recounted a moment from the morning. 'I used to think having a twin sister would be a tiresome burden.' The idea of sharing my days with someone so much younger in spirit, someone who would demand my patience, had seemed like a test of endurance more than anything else.
But I had been wrong.
Celia, with her boundless joy and tireless voice, filled the silence in a way that softened the edges of my days. There was a simple magic in her chatter, a light that drew out laughter from places I'd thought long buried. Even now, as she exaggerated the way Viscountess Rivelle pursed her lips, I found myself smiling wider than I had in years.
Tea cooled in our cups as the sun began to lower, the sky shifting to hues that mirrored the roses in our drink. And while Celia's voice continued to weave tales and complaints with equal fervor, I sat content, warmed by more than just the tea. In that moment, the world seemed softer, more forgiving—a place shared, not endured.
Tea time soon drew to a close, and Celia and I parted ways to prepare for dinner. I walked toward my room, my personal maid, Lyra, at my side. As we strolled through the quiet corridors, the murmurs of staff carried through the air, their conversations soft but distinct to my ears—ears that were now finely attuned to the currents of mana, poised at the threshold between the Orange and Yellow Stages.
"Doesn't Miss Celia speak of swordsmanship much?" I heard a maid whisper, the words almost making me pause mid-step.
Curiosity, tinged with a flicker of concern, stirred within me. I cast a sideways glance at Lyra, who met my eyes with her usual poised readiness.
"Lyra," I said, my voice low but resolute, "bring that maid to my room."
"Understood, Young Master," Lyra replied, bowing with a grace that spoke of her unwavering loyalty. In many ways, Lyra was the ideal attendant—perceptive, dependable, and perhaps most importantly, she never questioned my peculiar habits or my maturity, which far outpaced that of a typical six-year-old boy.
The walk back to my room felt longer than usual, the echo of that whispered question following me like a shadow. Once I settled into the familiar space of my chamber, adorned with dark woods and subtle tapestries, Lyra reappeared with the maid in question, who entered with visible trepidation.
"I am honored that the Young Master has summoned me," she said, her head bowed low, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
I studied her, noting the slight tremble in her fingers and the way her eyes darted nervously. "You needn't be so anxious," I said, allowing my tone to soften. "You are not being reprimanded. I only wish to understand what you meant when you spoke of Celia."
The maid's face paled further, and she swallowed hard before responding, her voice quivering. "I-I did not mean any disrespect, my Lord. Truly, I—"
I raised a hand to forestall her stammering. "Calm yourself. There's no punishment awaiting you. I merely wish for clarity."
Relief seeped into her expression, though her shoulders remained tense. "Thank you, my Lord. It's just that… it's been noted among the staff that while Lady Celia takes to her sword lessons with great enthusiasm, she often speaks less of them outside of practice. Some of us wondered if… if it weighed on her more than she lets on."
The room seemed to grow still as her words settled in the air. I glanced at Lyra, who stood silent, eyes keenly observing as always.
'Come to think of it... Celia didn't bring up swordsmanship at all during our tea time,' I thought.
"I see," I said after a moment, more to myself than to her. A thoughtful pause followed, and then I met the maid's eyes again, this time with a softer expression. "You've done nothing wrong by voicing this, but be mindful of where your words carry, understood?"
The maid nodded fervently, the color returning to her cheeks. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you for your kindness."
"You may go," I said, and she bowed deeply before exiting the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Lyra shifted slightly, her dark eyes meeting mine with an almost imperceptible question. "Shall I prepare anything, my Lord?"
"No," I said after a pause, my gaze drifting to the evening sky beyond the window, streaked with hues of violet and gold.
Left alone, I leaned back in my chair, the maid's words looping in my mind. Celia, with her boundless energy and unwavering grin—could she truly be hiding some shadow of doubt behind that bright facade? The idea unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
"I'll speak with Celia after dinner," I resolved aloud, and Lyra acknowledged with a quiet nod, understanding unspoken between us.
Dinner that evening passed in its usual fashion, filled with the soft clatter of silverware and the warm exchange of small talk. Celia chattered about everything and nothing, a bright presence that filled the room as naturally as sunlight. Yet beneath her cheerful demeanor, a question gnawed at me, refusing to be silenced.
Once the meal ended and the plates were cleared, I found Celia in the hallway, her silvery hair catching the warm glow of the sconces. She looked up at me, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Celia," I began, taking her hand gently in mine, "is there anything that's troubling you?"
Her face lit up with an instinctive smile, bright and unwavering. "No, nothing at all, Lance! Swordsmanship is harder than I thought it'd be," she admitted with a little laugh, "but it's worth it, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," I said, exhaling softly as if the breath carried away some hidden worry. I reached out, ruffling her hair. She pulled back with a playful pout, her cheeks puffing out like a tiny storm cloud—yet she didn't move far enough to hide the flicker of delight that passed through her eyes.
"All right then, do well, Celia," I said, my voice softer now, laden with both affection and the faint weight of lingering doubts.
She turned away with a huff, but not before I caught the hint of a grin tugging at her lips. It was as if, for all her protests, she relished these moments, the small assurances between siblings.
As she skipped down the corridor, her laughter echoing faintly behind her, I let out a sigh, watching her go. Perhaps it was only my overcautious nature, but at least for now, it seemed there was nothing amiss. The tutor my mother had chosen for her, despite my initial wariness, appeared to be fulfilling his role well enough.