I laughed softly, waving my free hand as if to dismiss the very idea. “Of course. Completely better,” I lied, hoping my expression didn’t betray me.
Sylum’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, but his eyes searched mine, probing for cracks.
With a slow, expert movement, he reached behind me and plucked the jar from my grasp. “If you want tea,” he commented, tone curious yet unsettlingly mild, “you could ask your maid.”
“Oh… erm…” I floundered. “I—I didn’t want to bother anyone. They’re all so busy.” The words tripped from my lips, clumsy and unconvincing.
His gaze lingered a second too long. “Mm, I see,” he frowned, his tone skeptical. He turned the jar over in his hand, then without breaking eye contact, he returned it to the counter—precisely where I had taken it from.
The silence settled. I shifted uneasily as Poe made small chattering sounds.
Sylum’s attention returned to me then. “Are you sure nothing is bothering you?”
I laughed again, too quickly. “I’m fine, Sylum. Truly.”
He held my gaze a moment longer, then relented with a nod. “Very well. If it is tea you wish for, you can have tea with me, then. I have already requested some.”
“Tea?” I echoed, the word catching in my throat and sending a tremor of dread up my spine.
He chuckled. “Yes, tea. Is that not what you wanted? Surely you can’t object to sharing it with your husband.”
“Of course,” I agreed, smiling faintly. “How could I refuse?”
He led the way down the hall to his study, his stride long and unhurried. Poe ruffled his feathers from my shoulder and gave a soft chirp, but said nothing.
The moment I crossed the threshold, my heart gave an odd stutter.
The fire in the hearth had already been lit, casting long golden blades of light along the bookshelves and oak-paneled walls. A small table had been set near the fire, and upon it was a porcelain teapot and two delicate cups, already filled.
Standing in the corner of the room, as if to fade into the shadows, was Lydia.
She curtsied low and demure when we entered, her eyes downcast, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her hair was braided today, her dress modest, her expression blank. And yet something in the tilt of her head, the deliberate stillness of her frame, made the hair on my neck rise.
Poe’s talons dug lightly into my shoulder.
Sylum glanced between us and I saw the flicker of calculation in his eyes. He was watching for something.
A reaction. A truth.
I swallowed hard, fixing the brightest smile I could manage onto my face.
“Lydia,” Sylum said finally, apparently pleased with my reaction, “thank you. That will be all.”
She dipped again. “Your Grace.” Her voice was soft and pleasant as a lullaby. Without a sound, she moved to the door and vanished behind it.
Only once the latch clicked closed did I exhale.
Sylum gestured toward the chairs before the fire. “Please. Sit.”
I did so, careful and composed, while Poe climbed from my shoulder to the mantel, where he settled with a low, dissatisfied rustle.
The cup sat waiting, white and fine as bone, the steam rising in elegant, curling tendrils. A subtle floral scent laced the air. My throat tightened.
Sylum raised his cup and took a sip.
I did not.
Instead, I smiled again and reached for mine with deliberate slowness, stalling under the guise of civility. My mind whirled behind my pleasant mask. Had Lydia brewed it? Was it the same blend as before? And why was Sylum watching me so closely now, his gaze unreadable behind the curve of his teacup?
