Rain whispered beyond the balcony, the estate slept and Consort finally turned from the night and entered her chambers.

They were humble compared to the rest of Ashford grandeur, though humble in Ashford language still meant the room would have made lesser nobles accuse poverty of favoritism. It was narrow but immaculate, with pale walls, dark wood, a single bed dressed in white, a small desk, a wardrobe, a washstand, shelves of neatly folded linens and one vase of fresh flowers she had absolutely not placed there because Phei once said flowers made rooms less lonely.

That would have been absurd.

The flowers were there for air quality.

’Obviously.’

She closed the door behind her, and the soft click sounded much louder than it should have. In the privacy of her room, the perfect Head Maid dissolved by degrees as her shoulders loosened, her posture bent and her hands, so steady when holding blades, letters, elixirs and the weight of her mistress’s commands, trembled as they rose to her collar.

A breath left her.

"Haaah..."

It had only been one night.

Only a single night Phei had touched her with gentleness and so much pleasure she had not known how to survive, his lips had brushed her neck, his hands had settled at her waist, his voice had lowered near her ear with a compliment so warm it had turned her bones traitorous.

And yet she had not gone an hour without thinking of him since that time. She would retreat to her room, sit on the edge of the bed, lie down, rise again, pace, scold herself, fail, lie back down and stare at the ceiling while her mind, body and soul reached desperately toward the memory of him.

Her neck shivered first.

It remembered the kiss before she wanted it to.

Then her waist followed, burning with the phantom weight of his hands, strong and careful, as if he knew without knowing that she was made of ruins in places no one could see. Her whole body trembled, not from cold or fear, but from the terrible softness of being wanted so bad by him without being commanded.

That was the part that frightened her most. Not his beauty or his bloodline her mistress coveted or the way he could make her feel like a girl standing barefoot at the edge of some bright, impossible beginning.

It was that he had not taken.

He only had touched her.

There was a difference so vast it could swallow centuries.

And she knew the size of it precisely, because she had spent those centuries on the other side of that difference.

She knew what it was to be reached for as a thing, to be handled, used cleanly, the way a hand uses a key or a blade, and set down again without a single thought spared for whether the key minded.

Her body had been a tool and a tribute and a punishment in turn, in places she had locked so deeply inside herself that even the One Above had never asked for the keys. And then Phei, who could have commanded anything of her had put his hand at her waist as though asking.

He had left the choice in her hands.

No one had ever once thought her choice was worth leaving anywhere.

Consort sat slowly on the bed, one hand pressed against her chest, the other curling into the white sheet beside her. She could still hear his voice in her ear, warm with compliment. She could still see his eyes when he looked at the dress she had worn for him.

The dress.

Her cheeks flushed violently.

"Fool," she whispered to herself then, after a pause, she whispered softer, "But he liked it."

The admission made her bury her face in her hands.

If any servant saw her like this, she would have to leave the realm out of dignity concerns. Or kill them. Probably leave. Killing over embarrassment was excessive, even by her standards, though she suspected several ancient clans had started for less.

She wanted to see him again.

The wanting hurt in a way that was almost sweet, which was deeply unfair. Pain should not be allowed to disguise itself as hope.

It was deceptive. Unregulated. Probably illegal somewhere.

She wanted to gather courage, go directly to him, stand before him without hiding in space or shadow, without hovering at the edges like some pathetic spirit haunting the boy she loved watching.

She wanted to speak to him.

The problem, naturally, was that she had no idea what she would say.

Hello, Young Master. I have spent this whole time avoiding you because your hand on my waist ruined my ancient composure.

No.

Terrible.

Perhaps: I came to make certain you are well.

Too formal. Too maid-like. Also true, which made it worse.

Maybe: Did you think of me?

Absolutely not. She would rather duel a heavenly executioner while wearing wet slippers.

Her face warmed again, and she groaned softly into her hands.

How could she gather the courage to meet him when she could not even gather the courage to observe him as she used to? Before, watching had been simple. She appeared, remained hidden, judged him, criticized his recklessness, scolded his flirtations in silence, and pretended she was an impartial servant.

Now the thought of watching him made her heart panic like a sheltered girl after her first confession, terrified that the boy would turn and see everything she had tried to hide.

Thousands of years old yet still so new to any of this.

Age was just a number, apparently; a very useless number.

One could live for millennia and still become mentally useless because a beautiful boy complimented a dress and kissed one’s neck. Immortality, as it turned out, did not come with emotional training manuals.

Very poor design.

Consort lowered her hands and looked toward the mirror across the room.

The woman reflected there looked composed enough at first glance: pale, graceful, pink short hair, red eyes too old for her face and too young for what they were feeling. But the longer she looked, the more she saw the cracks. The blush, the uncertainty and the aching softness she had buried under duty for so long that she had forgotten softness could return without permission.

She had served because service was safe, obeyed because obedience did not ask questions and believed men became monsters because believing otherwise had once been too dangerous.

And then Phei had laughed, teased, protected, spoiled her just from watching him, touched her gently, and become an inconvenience to an entire worldview she had spent centuries polishing.