Chapter 50: Shadows Over Tea - Part 1
As always, the youngest princess Sephora corresponded with Corvin Mourhollow, her truest, most loyal and faithful friend over had written ink and letter. These were sent by shadow mail. An art of shadow and space manipulation only the Ravens Harpy knew how to do, and turned it into a mundane mode for mail transportation.
If it was ever needed, they could always relearn how to use it in battle again and it likely wouldn't take long. It just wouldn't be the mastery that would be needed.
All week, Sephora had looked forward to her arranged tea with Corvin Mourhollow, which the Queen had approved of, after the imperfect princess begged for an informal, friendly relief. In an understanding and dismissive way, the Queen had allowed it. Under the prevision that it would be in the castle, given the situation with the peacocks could result in unsavory attempts and that had never eluded the Queen's mind - retaliation for a threat. Even if she didn't think those gaudy peacocks would be as bold in warfare as they were in colour and character.
In the storm of court — the endless procession of suitors, the whispers of alliances, the suffocating presence of her sister's perfection — she was now at the end of social exhaustion. She couldn't keep up the false nobles the way that Seraphina had the social endurance for.
At this point, Corvin was a rare reprieve.
For he was not a suitor. Not a flatterer. A friend.
One of the very few left to her since she was officially open and on the marriage market.
She had spent hours choosing her dress that morning, finally settling on deep purple and grey silk threaded with onyx, modest yet elegant. She wanted to appear as if nothing was wrong or that anything weighed on her mind, though her sleepless nights and the raw tremor in her chest from flashbacks and night terrors of that incident threatened to betrayed otherwise.
Yet, Corvin was already waiting in the Raven court's west wing music room when she arrived. His dark hair fell neatly into place, his tunic bearing the subtle sigil of House Mourhollow: the white crescent against a black scroll, one of the few houses that didn't use a raven, talon or feather on their emblem.
His presence was steadying for her, like a stone cliff amidst a sea of ever shifting sands.
"You're handwriting is as neat as ever, Sephora's," he greeted warmly, waving her letter briefly before putting it back in his pocket and rising to bow before the princess. "It feels as though we have not spoken properly in years."
She gave him a smile — thin, but genuine. "Even though it's only been a few weeks, it feels even longer for me. Too many distractions," she admitted. "I sometimes wonder if I will ever catch my breath again... and get up!" She chastised quickly, jolting him up with a sharp pull at a wing, "Stop bowing!"
He offered his arm, "Can't I give some respect to the princess... who is also conveniently a very good old companion?" At this, she laughed and forgave his formality quickly.
Together they walked toward the small tea table laid out beneath a cascade of stained glass, the light spilling black, grey, and violet across the floor.
The table was modest but beautiful, dark wood with the scent of the resin used as varnish gloss, set with delicate raven-feather patterned china and sweet spiced pastries.
Being the gentleman as always, Corvin poured for her first, as he always did when they were children. His parents, while lesser nobles, were of one of the oldest families. Being a gentleman among all was hardwired into him.
"You always did prefer the cinnamon," he said with the faintest smile.
She blinked, startled at his memory, then softened. "You haven't changed your tastes yourself, you and that bitter green leaf of choice."
They sat, and for a while they spoke of lighter things; Corvin humored her interest in old myths and whispered legends of the Dark Ones, while he shared the more simultaneously ancient and recent Mourhollow archive news, what he had recently been tasked with preserving. His voice was calm, deliberate, and kind — the very opposite of the clamorous competition for her hand at court.