Chapter 35 – A Quiet Interrogation
He said nothing.
Not at the next morning's breakfast, when the Grand Duke spoke of border patrols and winter maneuvers. Not when the Grand Duchess quietly sipped her tea, her gaze never once meeting his across the table.
He sat with perfect posture, the very image of nobility—the cold, prodigious son of the Empire's greatest sword.
But his mind was elsewhere. Sharpened. Searching.
When the servants poured his tea, he watched their hands. He waited for hesitation, for the twitch of guilt or unease. Nothing. The maids didn't meet his eyes, but they never had.
He let the silence stretch longer than necessary. Measured. Unnerving.
No one moved until he did.
After the meal, he left wordlessly. Not to the training grounds. Not to the library. But to the eastern balcony—the one overlooking the servants' path. He stood in stillness, watching who passed, who lingered. A boy hesitated beneath the window. Sirius narrowed his eyes. The boy moved on.
Later, in the corridor, he spoke to one of the guards.
Not a question. A statement. Calm. Testing.
"There's a painting missing from the far end of the gallery."
The guard straightened. "I'll look into it, my lord."
"There's no need," Sirius replied, coolly. "I moved it myself."
The man relaxed—just slightly.
Sirius watched. One tick of the jaw. One muscle too tense. Interesting.
By midafternoon, he entered the greenhouse, where his mother often spent her time among the orchids. She wasn't there—but a cushion on the bench was out of place. A tea cup rested on the table. Still faintly warm.
She had been there recently.
He trailed a finger along the porcelain rim.
Then, from behind him—her voice.
"I thought you disliked flowers."
He turned.
The Grand Duchess stood at the entrance, calm and elegant as ever. But she was holding her gloves too tightly.
"I dislike pretending they're anything more than ornaments," he replied without emotion. "But I do find the behavior of gardeners... fascinating."
Her lips thinned. "And what have you learned?"
"That some plants bloom only under pressure," he said softly. "While others rot the moment they're touched."
Their eyes locked.
The silence between them wasn't just cold—it was cautious. She didn't speak again. Neither did he.
She left first.
Sirius remained.
And in the reflection of the glass, he watched her walk away—her spine a little too stiff, her steps a little too quick.
One answer. Not spoken.
But clear.