"Sometimes behind silence lies noise, sometimes music, and sometimes, secrets best left undisturbed. Human curiosity, however, knows no bounds."
More than fifteen days had passed since our last visit to Liranis, and time as a guest flowed slowly but surely. The Holu estate lived by its usual measured rhythm: infrequent guests, familiar rituals, and a careful politeness.
Celeste was calm, Edward was silent, Heinrich seemed to be emerging from a deep depression, and as for Catherine… Catherine, as usual, came to me at night. A knock on the door, a look, a few phrases, sometimes amusing even to me. One could say something was troubling her—perhaps the very atmosphere of the house created an oppressive feeling, but it was possible the reason was something else entirely. In any case, I did not mind her company; she never bothered me.
These visits ceased to be an exception for me and became the familiar background of life at the Holu estate. It was a presence without imposition, and, strangest of all—I had adapted to them. Perhaps it was simply maintaining a common rhythm, or perhaps my structure, like other stable mechanisms, adjusts to constant variables.
Rising from bed with the first rays of light, I changed into a warm mantle. My gaze fell of its own accord upon the silver watch lying on the bedside table. Catherine's gift was a constant reminder of her, and its aetherial mechanism made no sound, yet I could almost physically feel its flawless, measured ticking.
Six in the morning, time to begin another day. I walked unhurriedly outside. The morning was cool, the air still, with a faint metallic scent—perhaps from the gardener's tools or from the smithing in a small forge in the far part of the estate. Movement was an excellent way to keep the body in working order: muscles worked, blood circulated, air filled the lungs, and the organism began to function as flawlessly as the aetherial watch, despite certain inconveniences of the female cycle that required additional hygiene. Yet even this did not cause irritation, merely a simple reminder of a biology that must be taken into account.
I walked along the gravel path, skirting the winter flowerbeds, when I noticed Heinrich. He stood by the gate in a traveling coat, holding a cup of hot pine needle infusion. His gaze was pensive, fixed on the forest. Perhaps he was contemplating something, or perhaps he had simply decided to take advantage of the hour of morning quiet.
"Good morning, Artalis," he said calmly. "You also dislike sitting still?"
"Good morning. I prefer to maintain my physical form," I replied. "It is not a matter of taste, but rather of necessity."
He smirked, brought the cup to his lips, then nodded in my direction. "Still as precise as a clock. Even at such an early hour, it is commendable."
I did not confirm or deny his opinion; after all, it had no effect on my structure. He took another sip and surveyed me with a gaze that was not intrusive, but measured.
"You know… I was sure you would run after that trip. But you stayed. Even longer than necessary." He paused briefly. "Perhaps you like it here?"
"I am here because I promised Catherine I would spend these holidays with her," I answered, without a second's hesitation.
"Is that so? And I thought the reason was different. But since you're being so evasive, tell me, Arta, what would you do if I made you an offer to stay here permanently?" He smiled mysteriously, though his hint was as transparent as could be. "Would you like to be my wife? You could be here literally every day."
His remark was like a joke, or a test of permissible boundaries. I did not look away from him and answered calmly, "Even if I wanted to, my father would never approve a marriage with a nobleman from outside the Tarvarian Empire. It is not part of the family's plans."
"Even if the nobleman is handsome, conscientious, the older brother of your roommate from the Academy, and also the main heir of the Holu house? Who, by the way, has been engaged in mutually beneficial trade with Tarvar for decades?" he smirked without the slightest pressure.
"Beauty, familial ties to my friend, even the extent of trade relations have no meaning in important political marriages," I replied coldly.
Heinrich laughed sincerely. "I see. Alright, you win. Or lose, I don't know. I just tested a hypothesis, and it yielded interesting results."
I remained silent, not wishing to comment on his ambiguous monologue. He finished his infusion and placed the cup on the edge of the railing. Then he stood for a moment, surveyed the Holu estate, and addressed me again.
"She has changed. After enrolling in the academy, she became completely different. Even before the injury, she did not have so much life in her." Heinrich shook his head slightly and continued, "You've noticed, haven't you? She looks different, speaks differently. Even Mother is surprised by her behavior."
"I do not know Catherine well enough to draw such deep conclusions about her." I deliberately paused and added, "After all, you are her family and have known her since her early years."
Heinrich fell silent; my comment had likely struck a nerve.
"That's not the point…" he began. "You remember the trip to Liranis, don't you?… Of course you remember—what foolishness I'm asking." Heinrich paused and sighed. "It's as if Catherine has found her meaning in life, you understand? And all these nightly visits to you… there's a certain strangeness in that too."
I did not answer, but not because I did not know what to say, but because I did. He looked at me a little longer than usual.
"Don't worry. I will not ask who you are to each other. That is her business. And yours. I just thought it should be said aloud, so it's clear how it looks from the outside."
"Unnecessary verbalization can create false causality," I replied calmly.
"Quite right," he smirked. "But sometimes even a lie can be useful." He nodded, about to leave.
I stopped him with a question that turned the situation on its head, "You must be well aware of the nightly routine in a room where you do not live?"
He stopped and, casting a glance at me, replied, "The walls of the house are not as thick as you think."
"Then it should be clarified. Catherine and I live in the same room at the academy. She trusts me, and it is difficult for her to be alone right now. Perhaps it is unusual for you that women discuss personal matters at night, and perhaps we should agree in advance which 'women's secrets' you would like to hear? So as not to disturb your fragile equilibrium, so to speak." I said this with the utmost politeness, but the tone was so precisely calibrated that it was impossible not to hear the irony.
Heinrich grunted. "Alright, I admit defeat. It all happened too quickly, even for me." He smirked slightly and continued, "But I will remember that you two seem to have a spy academy with a focus on psychology as well."
"It is simple observation," I clarified. "In Tarvar, this is taught before the basics of magic."
He smirked and nodded in farewell. "Alright. You are too difficult. I think I will go find a simpler conversationalist."
"Then start with a mirror. It does not object," I replied ironically after him.
***
Heinrich left, leaving behind only the scent of pine and an unspoken tension. I remained alone and, as was my habit, went out onto the road to simply run and stretch my muscles. Forty minutes later, I finished my exercises and returned to the estate, knowing that I needed to take a bath.
Finding the butler, who was standing in the central hall polishing the already gleaming silver candlesticks, I addressed him, "Pardon me, I require a bath. With hot water." My voice was polite and respectful.
"Of course, Miss Nox. I will see to it at once. It will take some time; the water must be heated in the boilers."
"I will wait. It is no problem," I nodded.
The hot bath was prepared thirty-seven minutes later, and I went to the east wing of the mansion to attend to my hygiene. The time passed unnoticed. As soon as I had resolved all hygienic tasks, I dressed in a simple robe over my chemise and was about to return to my room, but I noticed an open door from which the unhurried rhythm of footsteps could be heard.
I approached almost silently to see what was happening inside. The ballroom was submerged in the morning twilight. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and only thin rays of light, like sharp blades, pierced the gloom, picking out of the darkness the outlines of furniture covered in white, ghostly sheets, and huge, dimly gleaming mirrors along the walls.
And in the midst of this frozen, sleeping space, before one of the mirrors, Catherine was dancing. She was dressed in a white house dress, with comfortable leather shoes on her feet, and she was slowly spinning, like water that has found its course in a silent dance. She was not just studying her body; she was reveling in it, in every movement, every turn. Her reflection in the mirror was her silent, perfect partner.
I watched with an impassive, cold gaze, analyzing the rhythm of her steps and movements, which, surprisingly, was harmonious and synchronized with the basic rhythm of this morning. She stopped, breathing heavily, and looked at her reflection. And she smiled. Not at me, not at the world—at herself. At the person she had finally seen. In that smile, there was so much carefree joy, so much quiet, hard-won victory, that the "itch" that had been constantly pursuing me arose again, but there was no discomfort in it.
I quietly entered the hall, and a floorboard creaked under my foot.
She flinched and turned. The smile did not fade but was replaced by a blush—not of embarrassment, but of excitement.
"Arta… I…"
"You are dancing," I finished for her. My voice sounded softer than I expected.
She nodded, her gaze becoming bold. "This hall…" she swept a hand around it, "used to be a kind of prison for me. I would look at these mirrors and see only my own ugliness. And now… now I see freedom." She took a step toward me, her movements smooth and confident. "You did not dance at the ball. You only played. And I… I want to dance. With you." She stopped directly in front of me, her eyes shining with a challenge and something else for which I could not find a name. "Teach me how they do it in Tarvar. Without the extra curtsies. Just… movement." She held out her hand.
Her proposal was not about a dance. It was a challenge. An attempt to draw me into her world, into her joy. I looked at her outstretched hand, at her radiant face, and could not agree to such a thing. To agree was to yield to an irrational impulse. To refuse…
And then the organism, this imperfect biological mechanism, provided me with a perfect, irrefutable excuse.
"I am sorry, I cannot," I said in an even, almost apologetic tone. "My… stomach hurts."
Catherine froze. Her outstretched hand hung in the air for a moment. The challenge in her eyes was replaced by surprise. She blinked several times, processing this simple, utterly human phrase. Then her lips trembled, and she slowly lowered her hand.
"O-o-oh…" she drew out the sound quietly, and on her face, surprise was replaced by a flash of warm, conspiratorial understanding.
"I see." She was not offended. She did not insist. She stepped back, restoring the distance, and her gaze filled with a soft, teasing irony. "So this is it, your only vulnerability?" she whispered with a sly smirk. "Once a Veytra, even the perfect structure of Arta Nox fails?"
She shook her head, and her laugh, quiet and warm, broke the morning silence of the hall.
"Alright, I understand. No dancing." She went to a chair, on the back of which hung her mantle. "Listen… in that case… are our training sessions for today canceled?"
I just nodded; it was the price of the lie. Small, but palpable. The cancellation of necessary structural practice for the sake of maintaining an illusion.
"Alright," she said, and concern appeared in her voice. "Then you definitely need to rest. And some hot herbal tea. I will ask the servants now." She turned and, throwing on her mantle, headed for the exit. At the very door, she turned back. "Rest, Arta. And next time…" she smiled again, and in this smile, there was no longer a challenge, only warmth, "…next time, I will make you dance after all."
She left, leaving me alone in the huge, empty hall. Alone, with the feeling of a strange, almost painful victory of logic over something that logic could not grasp. I returned to my room. The silence here was different—dense, almost ringing. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the straight shadows cast by the furniture. Everything was in its place. Everything except me.
A few minutes later, a quiet knock sounded at the door. Catherine entered without a word. In her hands, she held something wrapped in a thick linen towel. A faint steam rose from the bundle. She approached and handed it to me. It was a clay hot water bottle, filled with hot water.
"I thought… this might help," she said quietly, avoiding my gaze. "Just… put it on your stomach."
I took it silently; the ceramic was pleasantly heavy, and the warmth penetrating through the fabric seemed alive, yet alien.
"Thank you," I said, and the word sounded unfamiliar in the silence of my room.
She just nodded and smiled softly.
"Rest," she said and, without waiting for an answer, left, quietly closing the door behind her.
I remained sitting on the bed, holding this simple, warm object in my hands. This was not an investment. It was not a strategic move. It was an irrational, senseless act of care, directed toward me…