"I would not ask what is wrong," Alaric tried again, voice low and careful, "but… come with me to the theatre?"
The reaction was instant.
A tiny flinch.
A blink.
Her head turned—slow, disbelieving—until her eyes met his. Wide. Startled. Almost offended that he knew the one thing capable of cracking her silence.
Alaric froze.
He… hadn't actually expected that to work.
He didn't even have a pass to the playhouse—he'd just say anything now, do anything now, to make her look at him.
Salviana's voice came brittle, scraped raw from disuse.
"I've never been to a theatre because of you."
He blinked. "Because of me?"
"That was part of your restriction." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her fingers trembled just slightly in her skirt. "Royal wives cannot attend without a husband present. And you always had… excuses."
Alaric inhaled sharply. That rule—he knew of it. He followed it carelessly, assuming she never cared for such things. He'd never thought she would want to go.
