Chapter 485: To the tea party
Emma knelt by the side with a golden pitcher, pouring water over her hair until it gleamed like threads of sunlight. Sarah rubbed fragrant oils into her arms, while Thalia brushed through her long strands, untangling them carefully.
For a moment Salviana closed her eyes, letting herself be tended to, her thoughts drifting back to the fireflies, to the painting, to the mirror and the castle that still lingered in her mind’s eye.
Alaric always carries me through... even when I stumble, he sees the details I miss. I mustn’t forget that.
Her lips curved faintly, a quiet, secret smile. ’I love that man’ she declared mentally, but he was a vampire.
By the time Salviana stepped out of the bath, her skin glowed faintly from the rosewater and oils. Her maids wrapped her in soft linen, drying her carefully, then guided her to the cushioned stool before the great mirror.
The dressing chamber filled with the quiet hum of feminine voices, gentle laughter, and the delicate clink of jewelry boxes opening. Outside, daylight spilled through the tall windows, soft and golden, touching every polished surface until the room itself seemed gilded.
Emma lifted the gown with reverent hands. A rich shade of amber-orange, fading into sunlit gold along the skirts, it shimmered as though woven with the last rays of sunset. Tiny threads of metallic embroidery ran across the bodice in curling vine-like motifs, catching the light whenever the fabric shifted.
"My lady will look like fire given form," Emma whispered as she unfurled the gown.
Salviana smiled faintly. "More like a candle flame compared to some of the princesses here."
"Nonsense," Sarah said firmly, cinching the bodice. "You’re not competing with them—you’re outshining them."
Thalia, adjusting the skirts so they fell perfectly, added with a grin, "If His Highness sees you in this, he will want to keep you locked away from the whole court."
Salviana laughed softly, the sound light in the chamber.
The gown hugged her waist before spilling in soft, airy layers, the golden undertones giving her skin a warm, radiant glow. Around her throat they fastened a delicate necklace of amber and pearls, each bead glinting softly like drops of honey.
Her hair was pinned high, twisted into an elegant crown of braids and curls. Into it, the maids tucked fine combs of polished bronze set with topaz stones, catching glimmers of fire whenever she turned her head. A few tendrils were left loose, framing her face with just enough softness to temper the regal styling.
Sarah dusted a faint flush over her cheeks, enough to bring warmth without overpowering her natural pallor. Emma dabbed her lips with a subtle coral tint, before finishing with a gloss that left them gleaming like dew.
As the last pin was set into her hair, Salviana’s reflection stared back at her—a glowing figure draped in amber and gold. Yet beneath the shimmer and polish, her heart was restless.
She smoothed her palms against her skirts once more, not because they needed smoothing, but because her hands trembled.
If only Jean were here.
Her lady-in-waiting’s laughter, her gentle reminders, her presence like a shield—Salviana felt the ache of her absence sharply now. It had been days without word, and though she trusted Lucius to keep Jean safe, her thoughts gnawed at her like restless crows.
Jean would have known what to whisper to ease her nerves, what quiet joke to slip past her lips to make her smile. Now, Salviana had to face this alone.
"My lady," Sarah said softly, sensing the weight in her shoulders. "You are ready."
Ready. The word felt too sharp, too final.
And then came the final touch—perfume. Thalia lifted a crystal vial and held it to Salviana’s pulse points, dabbing the scent delicately at her wrists, throat, and behind her ears. A blend of orange blossom, sweet jasmine, and the faintest trace of sandalwood rose like a whisper of summer evenings, warm and intoxicating.
"My lady," Thalia murmured with satisfaction, stepping back, "you are radiant."
Salviana turned slightly in her chair, catching her reflection in the mirror. For a moment she hardly recognized herself. The gown glowed against her, the jewels caught every flicker of light, and her face seemed almost ethereal in its softness.
She exhaled slowly, a small, private smile forming. "I suppose... this will do for a tea party."
Emma and Sarah laughed lightly at her modesty, while Thalia clapped her hands together in delight.
The maids straightened the last of the skirts, smoothed invisible creases, and fussed with a curl until all three stood back, their eyes shining with pride.
Salviana rose gracefully, the gown shifting like molten light around her. She lifted her chin, the picture of quiet regality, but in her heart was a flutter—a mix of nerves and excitement for what awaited.
"Shall we, my lady?" Emma asked, bowing her head slightly.
"Yes," Salviana replied, her voice warm and unsteady. "I can face this."
She glided toward the door, her maids following close behind, the faint trail of her perfume lingering like a promise.
Salviana inhaled deeply, straightened, and prepared to step out when Emma rushed forward, her arms full. "Wait—before you go."
From the crook of her arm, she produced a small woven basket lined with white cloth and neatly tied with ribbons. Inside, Salviana glimpsed delicate pastries—sugared almonds, honey-glazed biscuits, and small cakes perfumed with orange blossom.
Her breath caught. "What is this?"
Emma lowered her eyes, smiling as though the gift weren’t extraordinary. "The Third Prince prepared it this morning, my lady. He said you might want to attend with something sweet."
For a moment, Salviana’s throat closed. She pressed her fingers lightly to her lips, then reached for the basket as though it were spun from glass.
"Alaric," she whispered under her breath, the name soft as a prayer.
It wasn’t just the gift—it was the thought, the anticipation of her nervousness, the tenderness of a husband who seemed to know her heart better than she knew it herself.
She clutched the basket to her chest, its faint warmth seeping into her palms, and smiled through the tears pricking her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured, more to herself than to the maids.