Chapter 145: Desperation Of The Dowager
The Dowager sat with her back impossibly straight, silver teacup poised delicately in her fingers though it was nearly empty, only a faint trace of steam curling from it. Her gaze rested on the basin, not on Lorraine, as though the still water held secrets she alone could read.
"You’re late," the Dowager murmured, her voice smooth but edged, like silk pulled over a blade.
Lorraine’s heart gave a quiet, instinctive lurch. She crossed the chamber with deliberate calm, her gown whispering against the floor. "You don’t usually keep count of my hours," she said lightly, though her pulse quickened.
The Dowager finally looked up. Candlelight carved her features into both beauty and severity, her expression unreadable. She set the silver cup down with a soft chime against the marble stand.
"The hours matter when dawn is close," she replied. Her eyes flicked to the basin again, as if measuring time not by stars or sun but by what she expected to see ripple across its surface.
Lorraine drew nearer, folding her hands before her. Every part of her wanted to mask herself, to become unreadable as the Dowager was. But the older woman’s presence was like gravity—inescapable, commanding.
For a breath, neither spoke. Only the faint drip of water echoed from somewhere in the chamber, a reminder that silence itself could become its own form of interrogation.
Finally, the Dowager’s voice, soft but certain: "Tell me what you’ve seen."
Lorraine lowered herself onto the cushioned seat opposite, her movements graceful, almost reverent, though inside her pulse hammered. She let her gaze linger on the water basin, mirroring the Dowager’s calm, as though she too was absorbed in what might surface there.
"What I’ve seen," she said at last, her voice even, "depends on what you want to know. A queen can ask for omens of war, a mother for omens of blood, a woman for omens of love. Which one are you tonight?"
The Dowager’s lips curved, faint and cold. "You mean to suggest I can choose what is revealed to me?"
"You always have," Lorraine replied softly, lowering her lashes. "You see what suits your cause. I only hold up the mirror."
The Dowager studied her, and Lorraine felt the weight of those eyes like a hand against her chest. Did she see Leroy in the warmth lingering on Lorraine’s lips? Did she see the strange flicker that sometimes overtook her reflection, Lazira’s shadow stirring beneath her skin?
And yet Lorraine forced a smile, faint but deliberate. "Shall I tell you what you fear? Or what you desire?"
The Dowager leaned back, her silver cup now forgotten. "Tell me what is hidden. That is always more useful."
Lorraine tilted her head, feigning thought. "Hidden things rarely belong to me to give. But I can tell you this—" she let her fingers graze the rim of the basin, sending the faintest ripple across the water, "—the hidden does not remain hidden forever. Even silence cracks, in time."
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed, a shard of steel glinting in their depths. Lorraine’s breath stilled, though a ripple of triumph curled beneath her ribs. She had not answered, not truly, but she had given just enough to leave the old viper unsettled.
The Dowager’s gaze lingered, probing, as though she might pierce the veil between them with sheer force of will. Lorraine knew the dowager wanted to ask her if she knew her father’s secret.
Lorraine lowered her lashes, letting silence stretch until it turned taut as wire. She would not give her that satisfaction. Not yet. But she allowed the faintest curve of a smile to play at her lips, a smile that hinted she was closer to the truth than anyone suspected.
The Dowager’s composure twitched. A single muscle at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "How long are we going to play this game?"
"Game?" Lorraine’s voice was a lake at dawn, smooth and untouchable, her veil a perfect shield.
The Dowager’s eyes sharpened to blades. "Tell me where your father is."
Lorraine rose with unhurried grace, the silks whispering about her legs, and moved behind the mirrored screens. Her reflection fractured into many Divinas, each one watching the Dowager from a different angle. It was a dangerous choice to turn her back, but she needed the play of mirrors, the uncertainty of many faces instead of one.
She knew better than to take the Dowager lightly. Beneath those jeweled pins could lurk poisoned needles; in her sleeve, the weight of a blade tipped with venom. Lorraine would not risk offering her throat. Leroy waited in the adjoining chamber, her one silent assurance of safety, but even so, her skin prickled with unease.
"Since you are blunt with me, I will return the courtesy," Lorraine said, her voice steady, eyes glittering from the glass. "I do not know what you are talking about."
The Dowager’s nostrils flared, but her smile was a weapon’s edge. Perhaps this was a trap—bait to test whether Lorraine’s mask would slip. She would not allow it.
"I promised your husband I would protect you," the Dowager said, her tone deceptively gentle. "I have done my best, but if you will not release your father, I cannot protect you any longer."
Protect me? Lorraine’s laugh almost burst free, but she pressed it down into silence. Protection, from her? A handful of stern looks cast at whispering ladies... Was that all the Dowager counted as guardianship? Heh.
And yet... the words snagged at her heart. Your husband asked me to protect you. Leroy? When? Why? She wanted to demand the details, to peel back that hidden truth, but she would not be drawn, not today, not with those cold eyes fixed on her.
The Dowager studied her, then gave a low, bitter scoff. "Look at you. Look at us. Two women left to guard the ashes of men who ruined us. And what are we, in the end? Our names will never be written in the records of history. We will be nothing but wives. Wife of King Dravenholt the Sixth! Wife of the Crown Prince of Kaltharion! The wives of men who loved elsewhere, who left nothing but ruin in their wake. Everything we do... all of it is for nothing."
Her words dripped with venom and despair alike, a poison brewed from years of bitterness. Lorraine heard the dryness in her tone, the hollow in her laugh, the jagged edge of hate carved deep into bone.
But Lorraine felt only a cold detachment. She had no desire for a name etched in stone. She wanted peace, obscurity, the quiet luxury of being forgotten. Not remembered. Not mourned.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement. Leroy stepped soundlessly from the darkened chamber, slipping behind one of the mirrors. He was careful, hidden, but his presence thrummed through her veins. His fists clenched at his sides as the Dowager’s words reached him.