A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

His voice cut across her words, colder than she had ever heard it.

She stood there, stunned.

"...Lucas, dear..."

He rose and walked to the window, turning his back to her. "Go back," he said quietly. "I wish to be alone."

Nareen remained where she stood. For the first time in her life, she felt afraid of him.

She had never seen him thus.

In her heart, Lucas had always been gentle—kind-tempered, ever smiling. When she fell as a child, he had lifted her up. When others bullied her, he had stood at her side. When her mother was occupied, it was he who kept her company.

And now... he seemed like a stranger.

"Lucas..." Her voice trembled slightly. "Did I do something wrong?"

He did not turn. "No. You should go."

Nareen stood still, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

She bit her lip, struggling to hold them back. "...Then I... I will come again tomorrow."

She turned and hurried out.

***

Several days later, Rhaegar brought Caelith once more to Firefly Lane.

As they pushed open the gate of the residence and she was about to step inside, he caught her hand and gestured toward the side.

"This way."

Caelith followed his gaze.

The neighboring gate stood open as well. Residence D was the writing on the gate.

She paused in surprise, then followed him within.

This courtyard was somewhat larger than the previous one, its layout similar, though more spacious and bare, save for a few old trees standing in quiet dignity.

Rhaegar halted at the center of the courtyard and looked at her.

"I have purchased this one as well."

Caelith was taken aback.

He stepped closer, coming to stand beside her.

"The two courtyards will be joined," he said. "The front shall be used for business, the rear for living. You need not return to the workshop—henceforth, you may remain here."

Caelith looked at him, and for a moment, words failed her.

"Your skill in embroidery is exceptional," Rhaegar continued gently. "Why remain at Ostenton Brocade, subject to another’s roof? If you were to establish your own workshop, you could embroider what you please, and close your doors when you will."

A trace of hesitation crossed her face.

"There is no need," she said softly. "At Ostenton Brocade, I am not truly under another’s thumb. And... I do not wish others to think that I rely upon you in all things—that I am a burden you must support."

Rhaegar seemed to have anticipated her answer. From within his cloak, he drew forth a folded document and placed it in her hands.

"It is not a gift."

Caelith opened it—and stilled.

It was a contract.

Written clearly within it: Rhaegar Thorne would provide the capital and secure the premises; Caelith Emberlyn would manage the business. The profits would be divided equally.

She looked up at him, and a faint smile touched his lips.

"I am, after all, a man who does not engage in unprofitable ventures," he said lightly. "You provide the craft, I provide the means. When profit is made, we divide it evenly. Is that not fair?"

Caelith looked at the contract, and she understood. He had taken such care—lest she refuse.

"No," she said.

"Why not?"

"No half. You take six parts, I four."

Rhaegar nodded without hesitation. "As you wish. Though in truth, what is mine shall one day be yours regardless."

She handed the contract back to him, and together they began to examine the courtyard, discussing how best to arrange the space.

***

By the time Caelith returned to the old residence that evening, night had already fallen.

Yvaine had returned from work and sat alone in the courtyard, lost in thought. The moonlight cast a pale glow upon her face, rendering it faint and subdued.

Caelith walked over and sat beside her.

"What troubles you?"

Yvaine lifted her head. Seeing it was her, she forced a faint smile. "It is nothing."

Caelith studied her—her eyes were red.

"You quarreled with someone at the workshop today, did you not?"

Yvaine bit her lip.

"It was those senior embroiderers... They said I learn too slowly. In front of everyone, they said... they said I only entered because of you. That if not for Miss Emberlyn, no one would give me a second glance..."

Her voice faltered, her eyes reddening further.

"I know I am slow... I know I am not clever. But I am trying. I go earlier than anyone, leave later than anyone. I do whatever they ask of me... and still..."

Caelith looked at her—and remembered.

Once, Yvaine had been the proud young lady of the household, adorned in finery, her manner sharp and dismissive. Each meeting had been marked by scornful glances and cutting words.

And now...

"Sister," Caelitho said quietly, "I am leaving Ostenton Brocade."

Yvaine froze. "What?"

Caelith told her of the plan to open a new shop.

"The new place will need hands," she said gently. "Sorting threads, keeping accounts, receiving customers—these are all things you have learned before. Would you be willing to come with me?"

Yvaine sat frozen, as though the words had not yet reached her.

For a long while, she did not even move. Then suddenly, she covered her face—and burst into tears.

Caelith started in surprise. "Why are you crying?"

Yvaine wept so hard she could scarcely speak. "Dear sister... you would truly take me with you?"

Caelith looked at her, and something within her softened. "You are my blood family," she said simply. "It is only natural that I would think of you."

At that, Yvaine’s tears flowed all the more.

She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Caelith.

"Little sister... I have wronged you... I treated you so poorly before, and yet you are still so good to me..."

Caelith, caught in the embrace, could barely breathe.

"Enough, enough—do not cry."

Yvaine shook her head, unwilling to release her.

"I am not crying because of sadness... I am only happy... I will work hard from now on—I will never bring you shame..."

Caelith gently patted her back. "I know."

. . .

At first light the next morning, Caelith went to the Ostenton Brocade Workshop to formally take her leave.