After breakfast, he took her on a tour of the estate.
The gardens were lush and wild at the edges, carefully tended closer to the house — winding paths lined with sea lavender and salt-tolerant roses, stone benches placed to catch the best views of the cliffs. The greenhouse was a glass-and-iron marvel filled with rare tropical plants his mother had collected, humid air thick with the scent of orchids and citrus. The indoor pool was carved into the rock itself, fed by a natural spring, its surface reflecting the sky through a latticed ceiling. The library was vast, shelves reaching two stories high, filled with first editions and handwritten journals, some bearing his mother’s elegant script.
Everywhere felt luxurious yet lived-in — heavy velvet drapes, polished dark wood, art and artefacts chosen with quiet taste. Yet Lyra noticed something strange: there were no portraits. No familypictures. No paintings of his mother, his father, or even a young Caelum. The walls were bare of faces, as though the estate had deliberately erased them.
She paused at a narrow, locked door at the end of a quiet corridor, fingers brushing the ornate handle.
Caelum’s hand closed gently over hers before she could turn it.
“That one’s not for you,” he said quietly, voice calm but final.
Lyra looked up at him, confused. “Why not?”
He steered her gently away, arm slipping around her waist, guiding her back toward the light of the main hall.
“It’s just storage,” he said smoothly. “Old things. Nothing important.”
She let him lead her, the confusion lingering for only a moment before the warmth of his touch and the potion smoothed it away.
The estate wrapped around them both — quiet, beautiful, and entirely theirs.
And for now, that was enough.
* * *
They sat together on a wide, flat rock, the wind whipping around them, carrying the cry of distant seabirds. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, dark and restless, waves crashing against the base of the cliffs in a constant, hypnotic rhythm. Lyra leaned into Caelum’s side, the warmth of his body a steady anchor against the sharp sea air.
After a long, comfortable silence, he rose and offered her his hand.
“I have work to attend to in my study,” he said, voice calm and measured. “You’re free to move around the house as you like. This is your home now too. Explore. Make yourself comfortable.”
Lyra smiled softly, squeezing his fingers. “Thank you.”
He kissed her forehead once, lingering for a moment, then left her at the top of the cliff path. She watched his tall figure disappear back toward the main house before turning her attention to the estate grounds.
She felt most drawn to the greenhouse. Something about the lush, enclosed space called to her — a pocket of life and color amid the stark cliffs and stone. She wandered the winding stone paths until she reached it, a grand glass-and-iron structure nestled against the southern wall of the estate, catching the full warmth of the morning sun.
Inside, the air was humid and fragrant, thick with the scent of damp earth, blooming flowers, and ripening fruit. Exotic plants lined the shelves and hanging baskets — vibrant orchids with petals like silk, strange succulents with jewel-toned leaves, climbing vines heavy with clusters of unfamiliar berries. Rows of vegetables grew in neat beds: heirloom tomatoes in deep reds and golds, fragrant herbs, crisp lettuces, and unusual root vegetables she had never seen before. The glass roof filtered the sunlight into soft, dappled patterns across the flagstone floor.
Lyra moved slowly between the rows, fingers brushing leaves, breathing in the rich, living scent. She felt peaceful here — curious, almost childlike in her wonder.
She rounded a corner and nearly collided with one of the housekeepers — a middle-aged woman with neatly pinned graying hair and a simple gray uniform. The woman carried a small basket of freshly cut herbs.
“Oh — I’m sorry,” Lyra said quickly, stepping back with a shy smile. “Good morning.”
The housekeeper froze for a second, eyes widening slightly. Then,hesitantly, she dipped her head.
“Good morning, miss,” she replied, voice quiet and careful, as though testing the words.
Lyra’s face lit up. This was the first time any of the staff had spoken to her directly.
“I’m Lyra,” she said warmly, trying to keep her tone light and friendly. “I hope I’m not in the way. I was just admiring the plants. Everything here is so beautiful… I’ve never seen half of these before.”
The woman hesitated again, then offered a small, tentative smile.
“Eleanor,” she said softly. “I tend the greenhouse most days.”
The conversation started slowly, halting at first, but Lyra’s gentle persistence coaxed the woman out of her shell. They talked about the plants — which herbs grew best in the salty air, how the tomatoes needed extra care in the wind, which exotic flowers had come from Caelum’s mother’s personal collection. Eleanor’s answers grew longer, her shoulders relaxing, until the exchange flowed smoothly, almost companionably.
