Walking out into the east main hall, we motion to part ways in opposite directions. However, rather than continuing down the corridor, I linger past a corner behind him. As soon as I nearly lose sight of him, I advance towards his previous steps, facilitating a careful distance between us in my pursuit. The forest green wallpaper eventually fades out into the familiar gold of the ornate halls as we approach the sleeping quarters. Following him farther into the upper levels of the estate, I realize his bedroom must be just past my sleeping quarters. Eventually, he stops to turn the handle of a grand doorway and disappears into the room. Assuming that must be his bedroom, I remain hidden outside its entrance in wait.
After a brief respite tucked behind a wall, the sound of a door’s creak alerts me of His Grace’s departure. It seems he’s not just had a change of clothes, but additionally combed his hair back into its originally neat cut. I keep my gaze on him as he makes his way back down the flight of stairs, listening for his footfalls until I can no longer detect his presence. Emerging from my hiding place, I hasten towards his bedroom, anxious in my glance around the hall for the eyes of any potential passers.
Approaching the door, I hold out my hand ahead of me, pushing it open quickly before slipping inside. I’m immediately hit with a wave of unease in my entry to his room, and dart towards the window for confirmation of his whereabouts. Parting the lush curtains, I peer outside through the glass, and though I can see several figures engaging in combat below me, none appear to be His Grace. My hands begin to clench the fabric in my scan of the grounds, growing concerned of his absence. That is, until it occurs to me, otherwise. No, it's too soon. He merely just left his room; it’s rather likely he is still on his way out of the estate. Releasing my grasp on the curtains, I assure myself I’ll be certain to look out the window periodically. Turning to take in the scenery of his bedroom, I realize that with his tables uncluttered, his bed made, and every drawer closed, there was not a single trace of the brooch. Sighing, I began the careful task of tending to the most conspicuous of hiding spots, assuming it might have been stashed away in a cabinet, snuck into one of the many decorative vases, or even perched above an armoire. Sorting through a desk’s drawer, I almost felt hopeful as my fingertips grazed the soft velvet of a small box towards the back. My hand clutches the container as I stand elbow deep in the drawer, and I drag it back towards me. I impulsively pry open the lid. My expression falls flat at the sight of a diamond strung to a chain, nestled within maroon silk. A gift for me, I’m certain. Cramming it back in his desk, I accept that the initial round of my search has come up fruitless and take the initiative to check back on His Grace.
Looking down on the combat grounds, my lips can’t help but curve in my lustful gaze upon the bare chests of the men having removed their blouses. Though their broad shoulders make them appear strong, their clashes with each other attest to the extent of their strength. There’s about four of them fighting in pairs, whereas several others sit worn out at a bench along the sidelines. As my eyes remain isolated on the sparring of the four, my hands go to begin fidgeting with a strand of my crimson hair. In my undisturbed stare of them from behind the pane, I consider them as a moving painting I long to commit to memory. Pleasantly attractive from afar, but most importantly, mute. Yes, they were the focal point of the piece, but the charm of my view lay in its ability to display only their features, keeping their habitual dribble behind the glass. Observing them in this manner, despite the barbarity of their nature, they were beautiful.
In my motion to pull away from the window, I take particular notice of one. Although most of the men routinely broke off from their pairs, switching from practice for a respite, one neglected to follow suit. Opposed to his comrades, he persevered round after round, tempting my imagination. Centering my gaze at him, I realize how his physique stands a notch above the rest. A matter of height, coupled with his ability to outlast the others, made him seemingly the most advantageous, but also a target. I watch intently as they all swing in turns, attempting to deteriorate his defense. In his gradual back away, he appears to be growing tired. Seizing the opportunity, another goes on a full offensive, pushing him farther with each brunt of their swords. Although his stamina is poised to run dry soon, I’m curious to see their exchange play out. A final stalemate signals they are nearly at their wit’s end when suddenly, a swift kick from behind his ankle drops the challenger to the dirt. So he wasn’t too tired then, was he? As the triumphant one makes his stride back towards the bench undefeated, I recognize he had only led them to believe he was in a weakened state to emerge the sore victor. He just couldn’t stand to lose, could he?
“How arrogant…” I mutter, the realization dawning on me as the phrase passes my lips. Of course, I’d find myself lusting after the one man I swore myself off from. Sighing, I resign back to the scrupulous mission of violating his personal space. In my second glance of the room, I begin to consider the potential of more subtle hiding spots, such as wedged between a mattress, stuffed into a couch cushion, or perhaps behind a shelf or mirror. Inspecting the love seat, digging through the bedding, and peering past several articles of his furniture, I can’t help but feel I’ve been stumped. Furrowing my brows at my dwindling list of prospects, I remain doubtful he would be so careless as to discard the brooch without a thought. It was hidden with purpose in mind so it should be obvious… or perhaps that meant it could be someplace higher? Turning my gaze up at the chandelier, hung by a golden chain, I can see the appeal. It’s high above the area, meaning not only would it be out of harm’s way, but almost exclusively accessible to someone of his height. But how to reach it? Spotting a green ottoman, I pull it towards me, angling it directly below the light fixture. I make careful note of the rug buckling below me, reminding myself to flatten it out later. Removing my heels, I grip the layers of my dress and take my first step onto the footrest. I rise awkwardly in my motion to stand, slightly off balance. Reaching out, the chandelier swings gently as my fingertips brush against it. I quickly latch onto it. With its top just slightly above my gaze, I lean precariously in my hope for a closer look.
The door lock clicks.
I jerk my gaze back towards the door, which is now being pushed open, partially revealing His Grace at the other side. I nearly trip in my scramble off the ottoman, unconcerned with the loud thud of my footfalls in my race towards the entryway.
“Ava–?” his voice is cut off by the sudden slam of the door. My hand rushes to lock the handle. “Dear?” he asks warmly, with a knock of his knuckles. I ignore him, resolute about my business as I step back onto the footrest. “As pleasant a surprise it is to find you waiting in my bedroom, I can’t help but feel I’ve been deceived by your slamming of the door.” I roll my eyes back and continue examining the light fixture for any crevices. “Avalor? If it’s something of value that you’re searching for in there,” he continues, cluing me into his knowing, “I can assure you you’ve already stolen the greatest treasure of all.” I sigh. It’s not here at all, is it? Slipping back on my heels, I walk over begrudgingly to answer the door and open it.
“What?” I retort, annoyed by his intrusion. Putting a dramatic hand over his chest, he smiles.
“My heart.” I only stare back bitterly, feeling it unnecessary to voice a response that my eyes alone can just as simply convey.
“I’ll be going now,” I state aloofly, noticing in my brush past him it’s no longer as bright outside.
“Well, wait a moment, Avalor,” he says, catching up with my pace. “I’ve just returned from my drills,” he continues, with an outstretched palm, “Perhaps we could go on a date?”
“A date you say?” I ask presumptuously, feigning wonder at the idea, “How very tempting–but no.”
“We could at least go for a walk together?” he suggests, “The weather has slightly cooled from the sudden overcast.”
“We’re already walking,” I counter, with my hands crossed over my dress.
“Of course,” he flinches, side stepping to face me in my stride, “Perhaps we sit down for lunch?”
“Not hungry.”
“A dance, then?”
“Not interested.” He puts a brief hold on his attempts to court me, as though it’s only just occurred to him I am no longer in obligation to tiptoe around him, anymore.
“Well,” he continues, persistent in his pursuit of a date, “What would you like to do, Avalor?”
“Oh,” I answer, with an innocent pouting of my lips, “I highly doubt that’s of any interest to you.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, “I insist.” I stop to consider his request, inclined by the liberty to choose.
“Alright,” I announce abruptly, remaining steadfast in my stare ahead, “I’d like to play chess.”
“Well, that's not particularly romantic–”
“If you can manage to acquire a board before my patience runs dry,” I interrupt, holding my index finger up indirectly at him, “we may engage in a single match.”
“Fine,” he says amicably, “We’ll play in the living area then?”
“Certainly.”
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