The morning light slanted across the study, gilding the shelves and spilling warmth over the young couple on the settee. Elara leaned into Dorian's side, a blanket draped across their knees, her fingers idly tracing the spine of the book balanced between them, "This chapter is dreadful," she announced, lips pursed. "Why must scholars insist on writing as though their words are bricks? Heavy, dull, and impossible to lift."
Dorian's brow quirked. "Perhaps if you stopped skipping half the mortar, the wall might make sense."
"I do not skip." Her cheeks flushed as she jabbed at the page. "I skim. Very efficiently."
"Efficiently enough to miss every third word?" His voice dipped smooth and teasing.
Elara huffed and shut the book with a snap, turning to bury her face against his shoulder. "You're insufferable."
"And yet you're smiling," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her closer. His breath tickled her ear. "Defeat looks rather fetching on you."
Her heart gave a sharp flutter, and she shoved at him with mock outrage. "You're impossible!"
Hale, posted discreetly by the desk, cleared his throat. His face remained the picture of propriety, though the faintest crease at his mouth suggested amusement. "Shall I take it in account that today's studies are… postponed, my lord?"
"Indefinitely," Dorian replied without looking away from Elara.
Across the room, Luella lowered her embroidery to her lap, eyes crinkling with quiet fondness. "If I may, my lady… sometimes the driest chapters conceal the most useful lessons. Patience reveals them."
Elara groaned into Dorian's shoulder. "Luella, don't betray me."
The maid's lips curved in a small smile, though her tone stayed gentle and respectful. "I would never dream of it, my lady. But I should hate for you to call the book 'dreadful,' only to find it indispensable later."
Dorian chuckled, setting the abandoned tome aside. "Listen to her. She has more sense than either of us."
"Perhaps," Elara said loftily, lifting her chin. "And I have you."
The words slipped out, unguarded, and her cheeks burned scarlet. Dorian's smile softened, slow and warm, as he leaned down to kiss her temple, seeing so Hale muttered under his breath — "Noble irresponsibility…" — but the ghost of a smirk lingered on his face as the Velhart study filled with quiet laughter.
A sharp rap at the study door cut through the warmth of the laughter.
"Lord Velhart," came Harrick's steady, time-worn voice. "May I enter?"
The uninhibited laughter died at once. Hale and Luella shot upright like strings pulled taut, backs straight, hands folded neatly before them.
"Enter," Dorian said.
The door opened to admit Old Man Harrick, the Velhart butler. His presence was like a line of ink across a page — crisp, unbending, and final. His silver hair was combed immaculately back, his posture flawless despite the decades etched into his face.
"Viscount and Viscountess Hallowen have arrived," Harrick announced, bowing with the same measured depth he used for all guests. Then a slight pause, his eyes flickered toward Elara, and then he added, "Their daughter, Lady Lunavel, accompanies them as well."
Elara's shoulders tensed, her lips pressing into a thin line. Hale and Luella stood perfectly still, as though the butler's presence alone demanded silence. Dorian inclined his head. "Thank you, Harrick. Escort them to the parlor. We'll receive them shortly."
"As you wish, young master." Harrick's eyes, sharp as ever, flicked once toward the scene he'd interrupted — the half-open book, Elara's flushed cheeks, the easy closeness between lord and lady. A faint, unreadable glimmer crossed his face before he masked it beneath his usual precision. With a final bow, Harrick turned and departed, closing the door with the kind of quiet that carried more weight than a slam. For a beat, the room remained still. Then Hale exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders dropping.
"Why does he always feel like he's measuring me for my coffin…" he muttered.
Dorian chuckled softly. "Because, Hale, he probably is."
Dorian then glanced at Elara, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Shall we go, dear?" His hand brushed against hers, light and sure.
Elara hesitated for just a heartbeat, fingers tightening slightly around his, before she nodded. There was a flicker in her emerald eyes—part anticipation, part unease—but she forced her posture upright, smoothing the folds of her gown as if to remind herself she was still in command of her own composure.
The corridor stretched before them; The sun filtering through the tall windows, painting stripes of light across the polished floor. Hale walked a careful pace beside them; Luella remained nearest to Elara, moving with measured precision, the parlour doors loomed ahead. Dorian's fingers brushed against the polished wood, and he gave a barely perceptible nod. Elara inhaled quietly, her chest rising beneath the delicate folds of her gown, before following him inside.
The room was sunlit, tall windows spilling warmth over polished floors and velvet drapes. The Viscount and Viscountess Hallowen sat near the far side, the Viscount stiff-backed and formal, lips drawn in an expression that seemed carefully sculpted to show deference, yet carried a faint tremor of eagerness. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over Elara as though measuring the distance between her presence and the favor he hoped to win. Beside him, the Viscountess smiled broadly, hands clasped tightly together in a performance of warmth that seemed rehearsed for years. At her side, their daughter, Lady Lunavel, lounged with an air of practiced indifference, eyes half-lidded and sharp, the slightest curl of her lips betraying amusement at the awkward display.
Elara's fingers curled lightly, a reflex she barely noticed, as her gaze flicked from the Viscount to his wife, and finally to Lunavel. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, a tightness coiling in her chest that she had not expected, and yet—despite herself—she felt it. A pang of vulnerability, long buried under years of careful composure, clawed back to the surface.
The Viscountess stepped forward with deliberate grace, arms outstretched, and before Elara could react, embraced her in a firm, slightly perfumed hug. Elara stiffened at first, then melted into the gesture just enough to maintain the appearance of cordiality, while her mind wrestled with the strange tug of emotions she had long kept hidden.
Dorian's hand brushed against her back, guiding her gently as the embrace ended. "Shall we sit?" His voice was soft, steady, a tether that pulled her out of the whirl of awkward familiarity into a place of calm certainty.
Elara nodded, smoothing her dress as Dorian led her to the chairs near the table, Hale and Luella shadowing their movements with a disciplined, almost military precision. Edwin's eyes flitted briefly over the guests, lingering on the calculated perfection of their gestures, before settling on the floor in quiet, respectful observance.
The Viscount's gaze locked onto Dorian with a mixture of apprehension and expectation, the Viscountess smiling a shade too brightly, Lunavel watching from her corner with the practiced air of someone already bored with the proceedings.
Elara folded her hands neatly in her lap, forcing a steady breath. Beside her, Dorian leaned back with composed ease, his presence filling the silence without a word.
For a moment, no one spoke—the sun slanting through the high windows, the faint clink of porcelain as Harrick oversaw the tea being set.
It was a family reunion.