North Wing – Late Afternoon
Ashiza sat in the velvet armchair by her window, sleeves pulled long over her hands as she stared at the garden below. Fog draped over the hedges like a veil, dampening the late afternoon light until it pooled in dim silvers and ash-colored blue.
The roses were asleep again. Or maybe they were dead. She couldn't always tell. The garden was old enough to remember things she didn't — wars, winters, weddings — and sometimes it curled in on itself as if too tired to bloom again.
She traced a circle in the condensation on the glass with the edge of her sleeve.
She hadn't fed in three days, though she didn't feel hunger. Not quite. What she felt was quieter. Slower. Like a violin string pulled taut under silence. The ache lived behind her ribs, not in her stomach.
The maids — they were so gentle.
They left food and warm tea at her door, always in delicate porcelain. Sometimes it came with tiny handwritten notes:
"Cherry blossom picked from the south garden this morning. May it sweeten the room."
Or: "The Earl Grey is best with milk today. Weather says rain. Stay warm, miss."
Always kindly. Always anonymously.
They never knocked. Never intruded.
She still didn't trust them.
Not because of anything they'd done.
But because she didn't know how to be in a place this soft.
When you'd spent years hiding in darkness, kindness didn't feel safe. It felt like sunlight after too many days indoors — too bright. Too sudden. You flinched before you understood it wouldn't burn.
The house was like that too.
A quiet, haunted kindness. Velvet chairs and painted ceilings. Fireplaces that lit themselves if you entered the room barefoot. Ruka Rosier's ancestral home didn't just breathe — it remembered.
And in its North Wing, Ashiza Susame lived like a polite ghost who hadn't decided yet whether she deserved to haunt it.
Then came the footsteps.
Light. Rhythmic. Measured like a clock that had never lost a second.
She froze.
One hand hovered near her mouth. Just in case.
Then came the knock.
Not the usual kind. Not the polite double-tap of a maid delivering linens. Not the apologetic triple-tap of the girl who brought blood oranges for her breakfast tray.
Just one knock. Firm. Intentional. Final.
She didn't breathe.
Then came the voice.
"Susame-san," said the voice — calm, refined, male — like smoke through silk. "Would you take tea with me in the Blue Salon?"
Her heart stuttered.
Rosier.
She turned toward the door as if unsure it was real.
Lord Ruka Rosier did not knock often.
And when he did, it was never twice.
She rose slowly, sleeves still pulled far past her fingertips. Her steps to the door were nearly silent, save for the faint brush of her hair catching in the collar of her sweater. She didn't even realize she was holding her breath until she turned the handle.
Click.
She opened the door just a sliver, enough to peek through.
Golden eyes met hers — unreadable, unhurried, too calm for the moment.
He wore a dark vest over a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. The silver fox pin on his collar glinted faintly, as though amused.
She stared.
Then remembered herself and bowed.
"...Goshujin-sama," she breathed, voice soft as a prayer. Her eyes widened a beat later, horrified. "Ah! I-I mean — Lord Rosier, I— I deeply, sincerely— I would be… honored to… join you in… esteemed leaf-steeped water consumption—"
He raised an eyebrow.
She flinched. "Tea. I meant tea."
A long, polite pause followed.
Then: a smile. Faint, barely there — but real.
"I believe the term you're looking for is 'tea.'"
She nodded furiously, pink blooming across her cheeks.
"Tea. Of course. Goshujin-sama, you are wise beyond centuries…"
"Just Ruka will do," he said, as he always did. And as always, she ignored it.
He extended his hand toward her, palm open.
"Shall we?"
Ashiza blinked.
She hadn't been touched in a long time. She hadn't touched anyone willingly in longer. The sight of his hand — not commanding, just waiting — startled something quiet and small inside her.
Her eyes flicked up to his again, uncertain.
Then, slowly, like a rabbit testing a patch of snow, she slid her sleeve-covered fingers into his palm.
His hand was warm. Her own, cold.
He didn't flinch.
They walked side by side through the hall, neither speaking. The silence wasn't awkward — just… tentative. Like a candle in a draft.
The North Wing was quieter than the rest of the mansion. Ashiza liked it that way. The tapestries here were older, the wallpaper faded into softness. Even the chandeliers seemed to dim themselves when she passed.
But now — with him walking beside her — the space felt different. Larger. Like the walls were listening.
They passed by a stained-glass alcove where afternoon light filtered through rose-colored glass. Ashiza tilted her head slightly, watching how it caught Ruka's hair, giving it a coppery glow.
She didn't speak.
He didn't rush her.
That was the worst part. He never pushed. He never demanded. Just offered, calmly, like an open door. And somehow that made it harder to resist.
She kept glancing at his hand still lightly holding hers.
He'd let go if she pulled away.
She didn't.
As they turned the corridor toward the central hall, soft sounds stirred around them.
Rustle. Whispers. Footsteps too light to be coincidence.
Maids.
Not the clumsy kind. Not the nosy kind. These were the elite Rosier staff — trained in etiquette, discretion, and midair tea-tray rescues. But even they couldn't quite help themselves when their reclusive Master made a rare appearance with his elusive North Wing bride.
Behind the velvet curtains, two junior maids pressed their faces together against a tear in the seam.
"Is that her?" one whispered.
"Of course it's her. Look at the sleeves."
"She's so small."
"She's holding his hand."
"She's blushing."
"Do we tell Claudia-sama?"
"No. Let's see if she finds out on her own and explodes."
They giggled.
Ruka did not acknowledge them.
Ashiza didn't even seem to notice.
She was focused too intently on not tripping over the hem of her skirt, not saying anything stupid, and not letting her cold hands tremble inside his warm ones.
The Blue Salon was ahead — a room filled with late light, soft indigo wallpaper, and a harpsichord that no one ever played. The windows faced the west garden, where lilies bloomed under lamplight, and swallows danced in twilight.
But they weren't there yet.
Halfway down the grand staircase, Ashiza faltered.
Her steps slowed.
Her hand twitched.
Ruka stopped immediately. "Are you alright?"
She nodded. Then shook her head. Then looked at him with something close to panic.
"I… I don't know the rules."
He tilted his head slightly.
"For tea," she whispered. "With you. Like this. In… the nice room. With… porcelain and probably sugar cubes."
"Would you like me to tell you the rules?"
She nodded again.
He looked at her gently.
"There aren't any."
She stared.
"That's… that's worse!"
He blinked. "How so?"
"Because… then I have to guess them."
A beat passed.
And to her horror, he laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly.
Just a warm, unexpected sound like frost melting.
"You really are… very earnest."
Ashiza turned completely red.
"Goshujin-sama, I am trying to be serious—!"
"I know."
"Then why are you smiling like that?!"
"Because I'm glad you're here."
She forgot how to breathe.
He turned away before she could fall apart entirely, continuing down the stairs.
Ashiza followed, heart skipping like a broken phonograph.
She didn't notice the shadow retreating from the second-floor railing.
A figure in a crisp black uniform, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
Claudia.
Head maid of Rosier Mansion for thirty-nine years.
Certified menace.
Also possibly a little in love with her employer.
And now she had a mission.