The steam had long since vanished, leaving only the ghost of Hallowbloom and rosewater clinging to the air. Ilaria sat before a large mirror, her hair already dry, her fingers playing a restless rhythm along the comb.
Melyn moved behind her with the quiet grace of flowing water, weaving gentle curls into place. Her gaze often caught the princess' reflection, like a watcher noticing the tide turn.
"You've gone quiet again," Melyn cooed. "Is it worry, or are you thinking of him again?"
Ilaria looked up, the question pulling her back from a distant shore. "Neither," she murmured, the denial a shallow thing.
Melyn smiled faintly, seeing the faint blush still warming the tips of the princess' ears. "The second one, then."
Ilaria dropped her gaze, her cheeks heating. She could still hear the echo of his voice. That low, quiet authority that left her too aware of his near absence. The memory lingered in her head like a fragile bird fluttering against the cage of her ribs.
