Sleep did not come easily to Isolde that night.
She lay awake listening to the familiar sounds of her rooms—the settling walls, the distant murmur of the street below—yet everything felt subtly misaligned, as though her body had shifted without her consent. Her thoughts kept circling back to the library, to the weight of Mariel's gaze, to the way her name had been spoken as if it were something deliberate.
I hope we meet again.
The words replayed with quiet persistence. Not hopeful. Certain.
Isolde turned onto her side and pressed her palm against the cool linen, grounding herself in sensation. She told herself it had been nothing more than conversation, nothing more than a shared moment of intellectual pleasure. And yet the silence Mariel had left behind was different from any she had known—charged, attentive, as if it were listening for her.
When morning came, Isolde rose earlier than usual.
She dressed with more care than she meant to, smoothing fabric, adjusting seams. The realization irritated her. She was not someone who adorned herself for chance encounters. She did not believe in chance at all.
And still, she found herself returning to the library at the same hour as the day before.
The air inside greeted her with the same amber hush, the same patient quiet. She paused just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of her own anticipation. It startled her—how quickly something unnamed had rooted itself in her awareness.
Marie was not there.
Isolde felt the disappointment before she could reason it away. She selected a book at random and took her place at the long oak table, telling herself she had come for solitude, nothing more. She read. She took notes. Time passed, unremarkable.
Then—movement.
Mariel entered without announcement, as if summoned by thought alone. She wore the same gloves as before, immaculate and pale, her posture composed as ever. Her eyes found Isolde immediately, not searching but locating, and something unreadable passed across her face—recognition, perhaps. Satisfaction.
Isolde's pulse betrayed her.
Mariel approached slowly, as though aware of the effect of each measured step. She stopped beside the table rather than across from it this time, close enough that Isolde could sense her warmth.
"Good morning," Mariel said.
"Good morning," Isolde replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
Mariel gestured to the chair opposite. "May I?"
"Yes."
Again, they settled into silence, but it was no longer tentative. It was shared. Companionable. Isolde found herself keenly aware of Mariel's hands—still gloved, resting neatly on the table. The fabric seemed suddenly symbolic, a boundary both intentional and provocative.
"You came back," Mariel observed.
"So did you," Isolde countered, meeting her gaze.
A faint smile curved Mariel's mouth. "I was hoping you would."
There it was again—that certainty that did not ask permission. Isolde felt herself lean into it rather than resist.
They spoke at length this time, conversation unfolding naturally, moving beyond books into the quieter corners of themselves. Mariel spoke of discipline, of a life shaped by expectation. Isolde spoke of retreat, of learning how to disappear gracefully. Each revelation was met not with judgment, but understanding.
At one point, Isolde laughed—a soft, surprised sound. She could not recall the last time laughter had come so easily.
Mariel watched her closely then, something intent and almost reverent in her expression. "You hide yourself," she said, not as an accusation, but an observation.
Isolde's breath caught. "And you don't?"
Mariel considered this. "No," she admitted. "I refine myself."
The honesty settled between them, heavy and intimate.
As Mariel rose to leave, she paused, her gloved hand resting on the back of the chair. For a moment, Isolde thought she might remove them again—but she did not. Instead, she inclined her head, eyes lingering.
"Until tomorrow," Mariel said.
It was not a question.
Isolde watched her go, aware that something was unfolding—slowly, deliberately. The gloves remained on, but the distance between them had narrowed all the same.
And for the first time in a long while, Isolde did not wish to disappear.