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"Your Grace, this is a terrible idea. We do not know who she is."
Christopher stopped before the desk and turned slowly. His gaze was cool. Not hard — simply unreadable, like the sky before a storm.
"I know enough."
Alan's jaw tightened.
"Not enough to bring her into your house. Especially now."
The Duke stepped closer to Alan.
"You saw her reaction. And you saw the Prince."
Alan did not answer immediately.
"That proves nothing."
"It is enough."
The silence between them thickened. Elara stood and listened — motionless, breathing softly, her eyes down. She played the part perfectly: someone who understood nothing, expected nothing, and stood entirely outside this conversation.
/"People speak freely when they think they're not being heard."/
"If you are wrong..." Alan began.
"I am not."
Christopher's voice stayed quiet. He did not raise his tone, and that made the words cut deeper.
Alan exhaled, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Then say it plainly. Do you think this is her?"
A short pause.
The Duke did not answer. His gaze slid past Alan's shoulder, past him — to the moon-silver hair of the girl standing by the door.
"I think," he said quietly, "that she cannot be handed over."
And he walked behind the desk.
Alan froze for a second. His face stayed composed, but his eyes had lost their calm, filling instead with something between resentment and alarm. He understood exactly as much as the Duke had allowed him to understand.
That was not an answer.
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Elara stood in the doorway and heard every word.
/"Cannot be handed over."/
Not 'she is safe.' Not 'we will help her.' A thing that cannot be handed over is still a thing.
She knew this. But she knew something else too — there, in the dungeon, they had said similar things to her. There, too, they had thought for her. Decided for her, without her. The difference was only a matter of degree.
That part — still unknown.
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Agafia entered soundlessly. A tall, taut woman with an iron-grey hair braided beneath a dark cap, her fingers laced calmly before her. She carried herself like the mistress of the house, where ordinary maids would hover nervously by the door, this woman was clearly in command.
"Agafia, prepare a room for her," the Duke instructed, without lifting his eyes from the desk. "And find something to cover her hair."
His gaze moved to Elara — brief, but long enough.
"For the household , she is a gardener. No questions."
"Yes, Your Grace."
No question in return. No surprise. Agafia measured Elara with a slow, deliberate look, head to foot, and the girl understood: this woman noticed exactly as much as she chose to. No more. No less.
/"She knows. Or suspects."/
"You will rest," the Duke said, addressing her directly now. "Tomorrow, we will discuss your duties."
As if everything had already been decided beforehand.
Elara only gave a short nod. The kind of nod one gives when there is no choice and one is acutely aware of it, yet chooses to keep the defiance private for now.
Agafia was already moving toward the door, and Elara followed.
In the corridor, she allowed herself a single glance back through the half-open door. The Duke sat at his desk, unfolding the very papers he had covered when they entered. Alan stood slightly apart, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Neither of them watched her go.
/"Nobles do not help. They invest."/
She did not yet know what, exactly, he was investing in. But she already understood: Christoph knew far more than he said.
And that, in itself, was enough to be dangerous.
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