Beatrice took her time with her reply to the Earl.
The question of where to meet had required more thought than the letter itself. A public venue was too exposed — the wrong eyes in the wrong place at the wrong time. A neutral location felt impersonal for what the meeting actually was. She turned it over for the better part of an hour before settling on the obvious answer.
The Cornwell Estate.
On the surface, the invitation read simply — it would mean a great deal, she wrote, for her parents' closest friend to visit their resting place. The kind of sentiment nobody could take issue with. Underneath that, the reasoning was more practical. On her own ground she controlled the setting, the staff, the atmosphere. There would be no stewards appearing at inconvenient moments, no Empress's summons pulling him away mid-sentence.
She sealed the letter and handed it to Lisa without reading it again.
After sending the letter, Beatrice did not have anything major to do for the day.
Maybe I should visit a cafeteria, she thought. An image of butterscotch mousse pastry popped inside her head. Without delaying any further, she asked for a carriage to be prepared and stepped out with Lisa.
Lilac Street was narrow and well kept, the kind of street that hadn't changed much in decades and didn't intend to. The buildings on either side were close together, their stone fronts worn smooth, window boxes trailing late season flowers. It smelled of butter and warm sugar before you even turned the corner.
Helaine's sat midway down the street, announced by nothing more than a small painted sign and a window displaying an arrangement of tarts and cream pastries that had always been enough. Beatrice had been coming here long enough that the girl at the counter recognised her without needing to be reminded of her order.
Inside, the bakery was warm and unhurried. Small round tables, mismatched chairs, the kind of place that had clearly never tried to be fashionable and had accidentally become beloved because of it. The smell of brown butter and vanilla was immediate and specific — not the generic sweetness of cheaper shops but something richer that made Beatrice involuntarily take a lungful sweetened air.
Beatrice settled into her usual table near the window while Lisa took the seat across from her. She ordered the butterscotch mousse pastry without looking at the menu, along with a pot of chamomile tea and a small almond cake for Lisa, who always said she wasn't hungry and always ate whatever was put in front of her.
The pastry arrived quickly. She took the first bite and felt her shoulders drop slightly — not from relief exactly, just from the particular ease of being somewhere familiar with nothing immediately required of her.
She was halfway through it when a voice came from just behind her.
"Lady Cornwell."
She recognised it before she turned.
Aldric Bachour stood a few feet away, his coat still carrying the chill from outside, a small paper bag in one hand. He looked different in the bakery's warm light than he had at the banquet. She had remembered his face well enough, but not like this. There was a quiet sharpness to his features she hadn't noticed before, subtle enough that she couldn't immediately say what had changed. As she looked closer, her attention caught on a faint scar tracing the edge of his jaw—old, cleanly healed, and clearly not recent.
His eyes had already found her before she had fully turned around, and showed no particular surprise at having done so.
"Young Lord Bachour." Beatrice said, with just enough surprise in her voice. "What a coincidence."
"A pleasant one, I hope." Aldric smiled — polite, unhurried. "I was on my way to Minmoore. My footman suggested stopping at Helaine's to rest." A brief pause. "I was just about to leave when I noticed Lady Cornwell."
"Please, don't let me keep you from your journey," Beatrice said pleasantly.
"You aren't." He glanced at the empty chair across from Lisa, then back at her. "May I?"
It was asked lightly enough that refusing would have required more effort than agreeing. Beatrice gestured to the chair with a small nod.
He sat down, his movements graceful, set the paper bag on the table, and signalled the counter girl for a coffee.
"I didn't know Lady Cornwell frequented Lilac Street," he said.
"Helaine's specifically," Beatrice said. "I have been coming here since I was quite young. The butterscotch mousse is difficult to find elsewhere."
"I'll have to try it." He glanced at her plate. "Is it worth the detour?"
"I think so. Though I may be biased."
"Bias usually means it's worth trusting," he said. A small smile. "I'll order one before I leave."
The conversation moved at an easy, unhurried pace after that — the banquet, the weather turning, something brief about the road to Minmoore that he had mentioned in passing. She answered where answers were expected and asked the right questions in return. He was good company in the way that people who never said anything wrong tended to be.
Lisa kept her eyes on her almond cake.
It was when the conversation had run its natural course and a brief silence had settled that Aldric tilted his head slightly, as though something had just occurred to him.
"I almost forgot — the Hunting Festival is starting next month." He looked at her with that unhurried attention of his. "Does Lady Cornwell have a partner for it yet?"
"Not yet," Beatrice said. "I had thought to go with my brother, but nothing has been decided."
"Then perhaps Lady Cornwell would consider going with me." He said it the same way he said everything — quietly, without pressure, his eyes steady on her face.
Beatrice held her cup for a moment without drinking from it.
She looked at him. He looked back. There was nothing technically wrong with the offer. He was presentable, well mannered, and the invitation was appropriate in every social sense. None of that was the point.
"I appreciate your interest, Mr. Bachour," she said finally, setting her cup down. "I would like to give you a proper answer rather than a hasty one. Would you mind if I wrote to you?"
"Not at all." He inclined his head, the same small precise bow as always. "I look forward to your letter, Lady Cornwell."
He gathered his paper bag, settled his bill at the counter, and left without lingering. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Beatrice remained at the table a moment longer, finishing the last of her pastry.
She set her fork down and looked at the empty plate in front of her.
It was a strange thing to sit with. Men her age had always kept a polite distance — not unkindly, just consistently. The mana situation made some of them uncomfortable, and those it didn't simply never showed any particular interest in her as a woman. She had never thought much of it. It had just been the way things were.
And yet since the banquet, something had shifted. Aldric's invitation. The ladies at the tea party. Even the Earl's letter. She wasn't sure what to make of it.
Maybe it was pity — the kind that dressed itself up as attention after a loss. Or maybe she had spent so long assuming she was being deliberately overlooked that she had never considered the simpler explanation. That people had just been indifferent, or waiting for a reason. And attending the banquet had simply given them one.
She wasn't sure which possibility unsettled her more.
Then, without particularly meaning to, she thought of the letter that had arrived weeks ago. The velvet textured envelope, no signature on the front. She had shoved it into her drawer without opening it and had not thought of it since. It had almost certainly been a courting letter — the kind that had apparently been in fashion lately, as her brother had so pleasantly pointed out.
She had forgotten it entirely until now.
---
On the carriage ride back to the estate, she watched Lilac Street give way to wider roads.
The Bachour family were known to Herrace — that much she hadn't forgotten. A coincidence at a bakery was one thing. An invitation to the Hunting Festival was another entirely. If Herrace had even the slightest hand in this, the intention would be obvious enough — a partner became a suitor, a suitor became a candidate, and before long she would find herself being quietly steered toward a marriage that suited everyone except her.
Whether that was what this was, she couldn't say yet.
The anonymous letter was still sitting in her drawer, unopened.
She turned to the window and watched the road.
What she could say was that she wanted to attend the festival. That part, at least, had nothing to do with Aldric Bachour.