After lunch, I was asked if I was tired. I wasn't. The ride hadn't worn me out. The seat had been soft, the road smooth. I hadn't walked much since we arrived, and the palace air didn't press on my chest the way summer heat did at the orphanage. I had slept last night, even if not much. I didn't need a nap.
But I nodded anyway, just to give myself time to change. The stain from lunch had already dried a little on my tunic. It wasn't large, but I could feel the patch—tight, uncomfortable. When I returned to my room, Gabel helped me unbutton it with quiet efficiency, while Tilly folded the soiled fabric and placed it in a basket near the door.
Lillian had already laid out a replacement—another cream tunic, this one lined with pale blue threading around the sleeves. They didn't ask why I hadn't said anything aloud. They just knew. Once I was changed and combed again, Caelum arrived at my door—not sending someone, not waiting for me in the hall, but coming himself.
"Up for a walk?" he asked.
I nodded. No explanations. No fanfare. No escort. He simply offered his hand—not to hold, just a gesture to follow. So I followed. The palace was large. Bigger than I had imagined. Bigger than what I'd thought "a palace" would be.
At the orphanage, we had six rooms, counting the kitchen and Matron's office. One of the stairwells was off-limits because of the broken step, and half the windows didn't open. Here, everything opened. Everything worked. And the West Palace wasn't even the largest one.
Caelum didn't rush. He walked slowly, matching my pace even though I could tell he usually moved faster. He didn't talk the whole time, only when I looked curious or tilted my head at something for too long. And he didn't talk like someone giving a tour. He spoke like someone introducing a story with too many chapters to count.
The first hallway we passed had windows running the full length of one wall. Outside, I could see a stretch of blue-green grass bordered by hedges shaped like waves. A few birds sat on the garden walls, not startled by our movement.
"That's the West Garden," Caelum said. "It gets the most sun in late afternoon. Good for reading. Or napping."
We passed through a small gallery after that. The walls were lined with paintings—not grand portraits, but quiet ones. Still-lifes of fruit bowls and flower arrangements. One painting showed two children chasing a black cat across a field. I paused at that one.
"You can come here anytime," he said. "None of these halls are off-limits to you."
I looked up at him. Not with disbelief—but something close. "You mean… even the fancy rooms?"
He smiled. "Especially the fancy rooms."
We walked next through a small music hall. Empty, for now. A long piano sat near the wall, its lid polished like black glass. A violin rested on a cushion nearby. The chairs were lined in a circle, none of them dusty.
"I'll call a music tutor if you ever wish to learn." Caelum said.
I didn't answer. But the idea stayed in my head. Not because I wanted to play. But because no one had ever offered me music before.
Next was the glass gallery. Not a hallway, not a ballroom. Just… light. It was a long atrium with floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides and a ceiling of cut crystal panes, arranged in a pattern I didn't recognize. Blue and silver tiles covered the floor, cool beneath my boots. The sunlight passing through the ceiling scattered across the stone in soft colors. Everything shimmered—like standing inside a painting made of water.
"This room has no real purpose," Caelum said with a shrug. "But I like it."
I could understand why. Even without touching anything. It felt like a secret made of color.
He showed me the reading room next. Smaller than I expected, but warm. A soft rug, two couches, a hearth. Bookshelves along the wall filled with volumes on history, botany, and poetry. A few picture books rested on the lower shelf.
"You can take any of these to your room," he said. "Or stay here if you prefer company."
I didn't ask who the company would be. But I imagined it. Me. The chair. A book. Maybe the cat, if he ever found his way here. It was a good picture. Then we climbed one staircase. Then another. No marble. No gold trim. Just soft wood and glass banisters that gleamed when the light hit them right.
We stopped on the second floor. He led me to a door—taller than mine, but not overwhelming. Painted white with silver hinges. The handle was shaped like a crescent moon.
"This is my room," he said.
Then, as if he didn't need to ask my permission, he opened the door and walked inside. His room was the same size as mine. But it felt bigger. Maybe because of the height of the ceiling. Or the way the windows lined both sides instead of just one. Or maybe because it was split into two distinct parts, separated by a tall archway that divided the space without closing it.
The first part held the tea table. It was made of pale carved wood, round and low to the ground. On each side sat a matching armchair, soft and high-backed, with feather-filled cushions in pale sapphire and cream. Behind them was a long sofa, deep and inviting, its upholstery threaded with a delicate pattern of silver vines.
And at the far end of the room—A fireplace. Carved stone. Unlit for now, but still warm in color, framed by a mantle that held a few unlit candles and a small statue of a wolf with a crescent-shaped tail.
"There are two doors in this half," Caelum explained, gesturing to the far wall. "The one on the left leads to my study. The one on the right goes to the library."
He walked to each door as he said it, brushing his fingers lightly over the handles.
"You can use either, whenever you like."
The idea of being allowed in someone else's library without asking felt strange. At the orphanage, even the Matron's office had been forbidden unless she summoned you. But Caelum spoke like it wasn't a gift. Like it was just… natural.
The second part of the room held his bed. Larger than mine—but not to the point of being showy. It sat on a platform, framed by tall posts wrapped in silver-threaded drapery. The sheets were blue-gray, soft in tone, tucked with sharp corners. There was a single pillow at the head. No clutter. No mess.
To the right of the bed were three doors. The first led to his bathroom—similar to mine, but with twin basins and a longer mirror that stretched from one end to the other. The second led to his closet, larger than mine, lined with formal suits and traveling coats, folded robes and silk gloves in matching pairs. No armor. No royal regalia. Just clean, noble clothing, practical in tone.
The third door opened onto his balcony. He pushed it open and let the breeze in. The view was similar to mine—but higher. Broader. From here, I could see the entire western garden. The maze of hedges. The winding path to the stables. The tops of nearby trees. Far in the distance, I could even see the shimmer of the palace walls to the north, and the faint outline of the Sun Palace's golden spire, rising like a flame.
"This room used to belong to my uncle," Caelum said, softly. Then, after a pause—"He didn't like books."
I looked at the bookshelf beside his study door. It was full. He let me wander. Didn't follow too closely. Didn't hover. When I touched the soft armchair cushion, he didn't stop me. When I crouched to look more closely at the wolf statue, he didn't comment.
I didn't speak much. But I didn't need to. I was allowed to exist in the space. To breathe inside someone else's room. To not feel like a guest. When we left, he didn't lock the door behind him. He just said—"If I'm not in my study, I'm probably here."
Then we walked back toward the stairs. Back to the hallway. And back to my room. It wasn't night yet. But already, I felt like I had learned something I couldn't name.