Elaria sat by the long table near the eastern window, her papers arranged in careful layers before her.
The past ten days had been consumed by work.
What had begun as a single idea spoken in the council had now taken the form of a structured plan. It was no longer something she could describe loosely. It required precision, sequence, and accountability.
She leaned forward slightly and reviewed her notes again.
“The fair will be for three days,” she said clearly, reinforcing the decision in her own mind.
She wrote it again in a separate column to organize the flow.
“Three days are enough to create movement without exhausting resources.”
Her thoughts moved methodically.
“The first day will focus on textiles,” she continued. “Cloth, weaving, embroidery, trade fabrics.”
“This day must feel active and engaging. People should be drawn into it.”
She added two elements beneath it.
Acrobatics. Musical performance.
“These will maintain energy and ensure that people remain present throughout the day.”
She moved to the next.
“The second day will focus on luxury goods.”
Jewelry. Spices. Perfumes.
“These are items people associate with value, refinement, and aspiration.”
She thought carefully before adding the next detail.
“This day must feel slower and more immersive.”
She wrote it down.
Puppet show.
“It will allow people to stay without constant movement.”
“The third day will include flowers, furniture, and antiques.”
She paused only to correct herself clearly.
“Livestock cannot be included. It is not practical for this setting.”
She drew a line beneath that decision.
“These items will complete the fair with stability and aesthetic value.”
She leaned back slightly and read through what she had written.
It was no longer scattered. It was layered.
Her attention shifted to accommodation.
This part could not be handled casually.
“We cannot ask people to arrange their own stay,” she said firmly. “The town is still recovering. That would place unnecessary pressure on households.”
She did not hesitate further.
“Elvaris.”
The decision settled immediately.
The manor had not been unoccupied for years. It had been closed for about a year and a half.
“It is large, structured, and complete,” she said.
She wrote down the details.
“Thirty-five rooms.”
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“That is sufficient for primary guests.”
She continued.
“It carries historical value. It will create a strong impression.”
The architecture, the furniture, the layout—all of it supported her plan.
“It will serve as both accommodation and representation.
She underlined that line.
Her thoughts moved ahead.
“Food stalls must be present on all three days.”
That was not negotiable.
“Herbal medicine stalls and modern medicine stalls must also be included.”
She did not separate them.
“People must feel secure in their needs.”
She turned the page.
“Visits must be organized.”
Girls’ college.
Horse riding grounds.
Western pond.
“These places will give visitors a reason to stay longer and engage beyond trade.”
She wrote them down one by one.
Then she reached the next point.
“Flower garden.”
Her hand paused.
The words remained unfinished for a moment.
Her mind did not remain with the plan.
It moved elsewhere.
To a memory she had not intended to revisit.
The garden.
The quiet.
The way the air had felt lighter that day.
The way she had not felt the need to measure herself.
Lucien standing beside her.
Not speaking unnecessarily.
Not demanding attention.
Just present.
She inhaled slowly.
“No.”
She straightened her posture and continued writing.
“The flower garden is suitable for visitors.”
Her tone became deliberate.
“It will add to the experience of the fair.”
She completed the line without allowing the memory to linger.
Her attention returned to the remaining tasks.
“Costing.”
This part required clarity.
She began listing.
Food.
Servants.
Supplies.
Visitor preferences.
Invitations.
She wrote down neighboring towns.
Estimated travel times.
Delivery timelines.
“Deliveries must be calculated in advance,” she said.
“Pricing must be consistent and fair.”
She continued writing without pause.
“Volunteers will be required.”
She stopped briefly, then wrote with certainty.
“The children.”
“Our little stars.”
“They are eager, disciplined, and willing to learn.”
She nodded slightly to herself.
"This will also serve as their exposure.”
She moved forward.
“Dates must align with weather.”
“Spring is the best season.”
She wrote the reasoning clearly.
“Flowers will be in bloom.”
“Travel conditions will be favorable.”
“Goods will not spoil easily.”
“It supports the structure of the entire plan.”
She placed the pen down for a moment.
Her eyes moved across the pages.
Everything had been covered.
And yet—
She asked herself again.
“What am I missing?”
She did not find an immediate answer.
“I will discuss this with Isolde tomorrow,” she said.
That would bring refinement.
But as she leaned back, her thoughts did not remain with the plan.
They shifted.
Gradually.
But persistently.
To Lucien.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“This is not required,” she said to herself.
But the thought did not leave.
Over the past few days, she had begun to notice a change.
Her mind returned to him without effort.
Without intention.
She tried to explain it.
“It is because of the council,” she said. “He was always there.”
Seated at the center.
Holding authority without needing to assert it.
“A cruel czar,” she muttered, out of habit.
But the word did not carry the same certainty anymore.
Her tone softened.
“It has been long since that chair has been unoccupied.”
She opened her eyes slowly.
“How must he be now,” she thought, “in a place far from here.”
“He did not take Paul.”
“He did not take the Price twins.”
“He is handling everything alone.”
The thought settled differently this time.
“And it is because of me.”
She did not deny it.
“I asked him to step away.”
The memory was clear.
“I asked him for distance because I could not decide.”
Her hands rested still on the table.
“I should not have done that.”
The admission came without resistance.
“I placed my confusion on him.”
“And he accepted it without question.”
She lowered her gaze.
“That was not fair.”
Her thoughts moved further.
“In these days, something has changed.”
She did not avoid it.
“What I felt for Julian…”
She paused, then completed the thought clearly.
“It is not the same anymore.”
The intensity had weakened.
The urgency had reduced.
“It does not hold me the way it used to.”
That realization did not come with relief.
It came with clarity.
“And my thoughts…”
She did not hesitate now.
“They return to Lucien.”
Not once.
Not occasionally.
Repeatedly.
Without effort.
Selene had noticed.
Elinor had noticed.
Even without being told.
Elinor had already given instructions.
Selene no longer followed her closely.
“She will not wander now.”
Elaria understood why.
Her direction had changed.
Two days ago, another letter had arrived.
From Lucien.
She had recognized the seal immediately.
And she had felt the disappointment just as quickly.
“Another letter means he is not returning within the next fifteen days.”
The thought had been immediate.
She had still opened it.
Three pages.
Blank.
As always.
She knew why.
He sent these letters to maintain appearances.
To ensure no one questioned their engagement.
To protect her position.
She understood it fully.
And yet—
She had stared at the pages for a long time.
She had turned them once.
Then again.
As if something might appear.
As if words might emerge if she looked long enough.
But nothing changed.
“They are empty.”
She said it quietly.
Not with confusion.
But with disappointment.
"He did not write anything for me.”
The thought settled heavily.
“He writes for the world to see. Not for me to read.”
She tightened her fingers slightly.
“He says he loves me.”
Her thoughts moved in contradiction.
“He does not write.”
“He does not ask how I am.”
“This does not feel like love.”
She paused.
Then corrected herself.
“No. That is not correct.”
She inhaled slowly.
"He is not careless.”
“He is not indifferent.”
“He is protecting me in the only way he can from a distance.”
Her tone softened without effort.
“This is not emptiness.”
“This is restraint.”
Her thoughts settled more gently now.
"He is sincere.”
“He is careful.”
“He does not impose.”
“He treats me as an equal.”
The realization stayed.
“And I…”
She did not avoid it.
“I used him.”
The words did not come easily.
But they remained once spoken.
“I asked him to carry what I could not face.”
Her gaze lowered.
“That was wrong.
The room had grown quieter around her.
Her plan remained before her.
Structured.
Complete.
Moving forward.
But within her—
Something else had begun to change.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
But steadily.
And this time—
A single thought surfaced.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
“Should I write to him?”
She did not answer it.
She could not.
But it did not leave.
And this time—
She did not push it away.
She did not push it away.