CHAPTER 47: CLARITY

The morning light slanted through the glass, catching on the loose strands of her hair. Ilaria licked the crumbs from her lips and tilted her head, studying her husband as if his silence might shift if she smiled brightly enough.

He did not.

Still, she took a bite of the bun while humming under her breath, pretending not to notice the weight of his gaze when he opened his eyes. It was easier that way, to act as though he was not tired, or angry, or carrying shadows she could not reach else she would find him far away from her again.

Her chest squeezed, but she pushed it aside and swung her legs idly from her perch on the branch. He looked tired, she thought. Moody, even. But maybe if I tried again tomorrow, he’ll finally smile.

The idea made her grin despite herself, and in her heart bloomed the tiniest flicker of determination. Because after the care she received last night, she had quietly promised herself; that she would no longer walk away just because he had said something mean.

She could feel Levan watching her, and she glanced back up with a smile of her own, mouth full with sweet as if the brooding way he was sitting there was the most fascinating thing in the world. She did not noticed it when she looked at the bun and took another bite, but the familiar stillness of his face had softened slightly.

To dispel it, or maybe to ease whatever weight knotted at his own ribs, he asked, in a tone that tried for casual and landed somewhere gentler instead, "Are you comfortable sitting there?"

Her eyes lit up at once, as if the simple question itself had been a gift. She patted the branch beside her with her free hand, the bark rough beneath her fingertips.

"Mhm," she hummed. "It’s strong, see? Nature always knows how to make space where no one else thinks to look." Her gaze flitted back to him, bright and earnest. "So yes, I’m very comfortable."

Levan’s gaze drifted to the two untouched cups of coffee on the table, their steam fading into the citrus-scented air. He had always come here alone, his silence shared only with the ghost of his mother. Kathryn lingered only long enough to tend the place, never intruding upon what was unspoken between him and memory.

But now, here sat his wife on a branch that had split the floor, her skirts gathered neatly as though it had been carved just for her. She did not belong in this quiet, not in the shadowed corners he had reserved for grief. And yet, for reasons he could not untangle, he found he did not want to chase her away either.

"You’ll get your gown dirty," he found himself saying.

Ilaria paused mid-bite, glancing down at her gathered hem before looking back up at him with a smile. "It’s just a gown. I can wash it."

He exhaled slowly, almost weary. "That’s not the point."

Her smile widened as if she had caught the faintest thread of care tangled in his tone. "Then what is?"

Levan looked away, fingers drumming once against the table. "...Never mind." He rose from the chair, pushing it neatly on the table.

For one panicked heartbeat, Ilaria thought he was going to leave. She already braced herself for the polite click of his heels retreating and the familiar coolness of an empty room. But then he walked over with the same deliberate calm he wore like armour, and without hesitation, sat down on the branch beside her.

She stared, the bun left hanging in the air. "H-husband?"

"You said it was comfortable," he replied flatly, folding himself as neatly as he could on the gnarled wood. He grimaced a fraction as the branch complained under him. "It’s not."

Her face fell into a grin so big it threatened to split. "Because you sit wrong! You should—" she began, but her voice melted into a delighted squeak when he shifted closer.

Ilaria could feel the warmth from his side and smell the faint, clean scent of him. The morning light gilded his jaw as he kept his expression carefully neutral.

"Watch your crumbs. You’ll turn my solarium into a pastry graveyard."

Ilaria huffed, brushing the skirt across her lap. "It’s just a few crumbs. Nature will take care of it." She tapped the branch with her free hand. "See? Even this tree thinks pastries belong here."

He gave her a flat, sidelong look. "Trees don’t eat sweets."

"They would if they could," she shot back without missing a beat, lifting the half-eaten bun like proof. Then, with a little tilt of her head and a mock gasp, she added, "You’re the only one in here who have the heart to reject them."

Levan said nothing, only let his gaze slide back to the bun she was holding as if it had personally offended him. Without warning, he plucked it from her hands.

Ilaria blinked at the sudden theft, her mouth still forming the start of a protest when he bit into it with unhurried calm. He chewed twice, and gave a quiet hum of thought as he swallowed. "...Not bad."

Her eyes widened. Then, slowly, her lips stretched into the most radiant smile, as if he had just declared her the victor of some unspoken war.

Levan did not linger on the subject further. "You’re well?" he asked, his voice low but clearer this time, not the brusque question of duty, but something weighted with quiet intent. "After last night."

Ilaria nodded. "Mm," she hummed. "I rested well. Better than I expected, actually. Thanks to you."

Her cheeks flushed when the memory crept up in her head. "I was embarrassed, though," she admitted in a rush, twisting a thread at her sleeve. "I kept thinking you must have found it ridiculous that me, of all people, needing to be fussed over like that."

Levan regarded her quietly. "I didn’t," he said simply. "You were unwell, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about."

Unwell? They both know she was not unwell. But Ilaria decided not to press.

Instead she leaned forward, resting her cheek on her clasped hands atop her knees. She studied him for a moment, her voice dropping into something warmer. "You look moody," she said, not accusing but concerned. "Did something happen?"

Levan shook his head. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Her eyes softened. "But I am concerned," she said, almost like a whisper, as though she might frighten him into silence if she pressed too hard. "That’s what wives are supposed to do, isn’t it? Worry when their husbands look like the sky is too heavy for them to hold up."

That earned her a glance, golden eyes narrowing faintly, as if debating whether to scold her or surrender. In the end, he sighed, the sound low and frayed at the edges.

"Palace matters," he said at last, each syllable sounding like it had been dragged out of him. "Annoyances that should’ve been dealt with years ago. And yet, they still find ways to sit at my table."

Ilaria lifted her head from her hands, studying him more carefully now. She wanted to ask, but the set of his shoulders warned her away. So instead she smiled. "Then I’ll just have to sit at your table too. Might help chase the annoyances away."

Her words were light. She was smiling at him — just as she always had, even years ago when the world around them had been different. That same brightness had followed him through the years, and he found himself wondering why it haunted him still, why her smile mirrored so vividly the one from back then.

It was almost envious to look at, like nothing in this world could ever touched her.

His gaze lingered on her face. Too long, perhaps, because then he noticed how she shifted slightly, her expression softening into a quiet question as if there was something bugging in the back of her mind. She held his eyes patiently, but still unwilling to pry.

"Don’t you want to know?" he asked, the words slipping out soft, but almost challenging.

Her lashes fluttered, but she did not flinch. "I do," she admitted quietly. "...If you want to tell me."

The simplicity of it, that she would not press; that she would wait until he gave, gnawed at his thoughts. For all the chaos clawing at his crown, here was someone content just to sit with his silence until he was ready to break it.

Levan’s eyes lingered on her, the silence stretching between them until at last he relented. "What happened to you last night wasn’t an accident. The powder you used to make your macarons is not chocolate powder but an aphrodisiac."

The words settled like stones, and Ilaria sat straighter, shock flashing across her features. The flush on her cheeks deepened as last night’s memory tangled with his words. All her embarrassment, all the moments she thought herself foolish — they had not been her fault at all. "...What?"

"Don’t worry, it wasn’t the kitchens’ doing," he said, catching the flicker of disappointment on her face. His tone sharpened. "Remember Lady Seraphine? Apparently, she thought bribing the maids to slip poison into the kitchen would be easier than facing me outright, though her plan failed when she left the powder in your comfort corner instead."

He exhaled an exhausted breath. "So I had a meeting with Lord Dorovian to discuss the appointment of a new representative. Took me time but it went well."

Ilaria mulled over his words, stunned that someone would go so far. She could not fathom what reason could ever warrant such an act? And to think that she unknowingly dragged herself into the mess because of carelessness...Was that why he had been so withdrawn? Perhaps the case had weighed heavily on him.

She lowered her gaze, fingers tightening over her skirt as guilt and confusion washed over her. "...I was the one who took the jar and put it on my shelf," she suddenly admitted. "I wasn’t careful...If I hadn’t taken it, nothing would have happened."

Levan watched her carefully, wondering why she suddenly thought she was to blame.

"It doesn’t matter. It was always going to be a disaster anyway," he said evenly. "Had it not gone to you, it would’ve gone to me. You only happened to stumble into it sooner."

Her throat tightened, shame simmering beneath her words. "...I should’ve noticed..." she murmured, almost to herself. "Well— I didn’t expect someone would...do something like that. I thought when the jar was left there, it was meant for me—"

"It wasn’t your fault," he cut in smoothly. "You are not meant to second-guess every breath you take, or weigh every sweet you touch as though the world is waiting to strike you."

Ilaria’s heart thudded at the quiet ferocity in his words, but was too ashamed to say anything.

Levan leaned back slightly, his gaze softening though his tone remained stern. "If anything, I was the one who should’ve ended it sooner, not allowing her years of schemes to fester for as long as they did."

Ilaria listened, the weight of his words sinking in until something caught her attention, blurring her shame and letting a frown take its place.

For so long, she had thought his quiet indulgence of Seraphine meant closeness, that every slight smile and overlooked fault was proof of an intimacy she herself could never touch.

But now...hearing him call them "schemes," she felt the fragile glass of her certainty shatter. Had she truly mistaken them for something they were not?

Her lips parted, hesitant. "H-huh...you and Lady Seraphine weren’t..." her voice trailed off.

He continued for her. "Lovers?" The word tasted foul on his tongue. His tone was clipped, almost insulted by the notion. "That’s absurd."

The certainty in his voice left her stunned.