The seasons turned slowly after the day Élisabeth visited my home.
The leaves in the academy gardens began to lose their verdure, and the morning air grew sharper than was usual.
Students began to don sturdier coats as they traversed the long stone corridors.
Yet, one thing remained constant.
Élisabeth still found her way to me.
Sometimes in the library.
Sometimes in the small garden at the heart of the academy grounds. And occasionally, when classes concluded early, we would walk together through the narrow streets of the city before her carriage arrived to collect her.
I never truly understood when this habit began to feel natural.
Initially, I had felt a certain awkwardness walking beside her. Many turned their heads at the sight of us conversing—and some of those looks were clear enough to be understood without the need for words.
A noblewoman of Lady Élisabeth Armand's standing ought not to be seen so frequently in the company of one such as I.
Yet Élisabeth seemed never to pay heed to such matters.
One afternoon, we passed a small bookshop near the town market. It was not a place typically frequented by noble families.
Its shelves were laden with second-hand volumes, some with spines already failing, and the scent of aged paper filled the cramped space.
Yet, when Élisabeth saw the shop window, she paused.
"Have you ever entered this place?" she asked.
"A few times."
She opened the door without hesitation. A small bell above the entrance chimed softly as we stepped inside.
The shopkeeper—an elderly man with thick spectacles—lifted his head from his desk. He appeared somewhat startled to see a woman of noble bearing in his establishment, yet he said nothing.
Élisabeth walked slowly amongst the shelves with a genuine curiosity. Her hand occasionally brushed the spines of old books, reading titles that had almost faded into obscurity.
"This place is far more interesting than the grand bookshops in the northern district," she remarked.
I offered a thin smile. "The books there are newer."
"That is precisely the problem," she replied.
She stopped before a small shelf in the corner of the room.
After a few seconds of searching, she withdrew a slender volume from amongst the others.
"This."
She turned a few pages with care.
"What is it?" I enquired.
"Notes on the geometric patterns of nature." She gazed at me with an expression akin to someone who had just discovered something long-sought.
"Is this not something you would favour?"
I took the book from her hand. It was indeed fascinating—an old treatise on the relationship between natural forms and mathematics. Yet, when I saw the small price written upon the inner cover, I immediately shook my head.
"It is too costly."
Élisabeth appeared puzzled. "For a book?"
"There are many books I might read within the academy library."
She observed me for several seconds. Then, without another word, she walked to the counter and placed the book before the shopkeeper. A few minutes later, she returned with the volume in her hand.
She held it out to me. "For you."
I shook my head at once. "I cannot accept this."
"And why not?"
"Because—"
I stopped before finishing the sentence. Because the true reason was far too obvious to utter. Because I knew the distance between our worlds.
Yet Élisabeth seemed uninterested in such reasons.
She took the book again, opened the first page, and wrote something with the small pen she always carried. After doing so, she closed the volume and returned it to me.
"Now, you cannot refuse it," she said.
I opened the first page. There, in a neat hand, she had written: For Mr Laurent, that you may always remember that some beautiful things in this world also follow a pattern.
I stared at the inscription for a long while. Élisabeth watched me with an expression that was difficult to discern.
"Well?" she asked at last.
I closed the book with care. "Thank you."
She smiled.
As we stepped out of the bookshop, the sun had begun to descend behind the city buildings. We walked a few paces in silence. Finally, I said, "Wait here a moment."
I entered a small stall near the street. When I emerged a few minutes later, I carried something in my hand.
A simple pen. It was not expensive. It was not ornate like the belongings typically possessed by noble families. Yet, it was of a quality sufficient for writing.
I presented it to her. "I possess nothing of equal worth to the book you gave me," I said.
Élisabeth took the pen with care. "A gift need not be of equal worth."
She turned the pen in her hand, noting the small engraving upon the barrel. Then, she smiled.
"I shall use this to write letters one day."
I knew not why, but that sentence felt somewhat different from our previous conversations.
As though there were something she had not yet fully said.
A short while later, her family carriage arrived. The footman opened the door with a respectful bow. Before boarding, Élisabeth turned to me.
"Mr Laurent."
"Yes?"
She held the pen I had just given her.
"I believe this is the first gift I have ever received that I truly chose for myself."
I knew not what to say. She smiled once more before stepping into the carriage.
The carriage slowly drew away along the cobbled street. I stood there for a time thereafter. The small book she had given me was still in my hand. And for the first time since our acquaintance began, a thought I had previously sought to avoid finally manifested clearly in my mind.
I had perhaps ventured too far into something I could never truly possess.
Yet as I reopened the first page of that book and beheld her handwriting…
I realised something far more dangerous.
I was no longer certain if I wished to attempt a retreat.