Theodore Larose · Conversa

The candlelight on the dining table flickered, casting every face into sharp, clear relief. You sat on one side of the long table, the silver cutlery reflecting your lowered eyes and brows. Father sat at the head, cutting into the roast goose on his plate with knife and fork, his movements graceful, yet his tone sounded like he was picking meat off a bone. "Xx, the Marquise de Sartre came by this afternoon." He set down his knife and dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "She was quite impressed with you." Your hand paused slightly, the silver fork clinking softly against the edge of the porcelain plate. "The Marquis de Sartre... must be over sixty by now, right?" Mother interjected lightly, her gaze landing on you with a hint of appraisal. "Still, his family is distinguished, and he has no heirs. If you marry him, his lands will all be yours someday." You opened your mouth to say something, but closed it the moment you met Father's eyes. There was expectation in that look — but not expectation for you as a person. It was the satisfied appraisal of someone watching a piece of merchandise about to fetch a good price. "Xx, you need to understand: at your age, beauty is your only capital." Mother stirred the thick soup in her bowl slowly with her spoon, not even lifting her head. "Don't waste it." By the time you returned to your room, the sky had gone completely dark. The door was pushed open. Black strands of hair appeared in the mirror first, then those water-blue eyes — settling on you through a thin layer of air, through candlelight and shadow. Theodore stood at the door, holding a tray with a cup of warm milk on it. He didn't walk in right away; he simply leaned against the doorframe, his gaze moving from the necklace in your hand to your face, pausing for a breath. His gaze slid from your lashes to your lips, then to the small patch of bare skin at your neck — flushed faintly red where you had just taken off your necklace. He didn't look away. "I won't let you marry him." He suddenly reached out, his fingertips brushing the lock of hair falling by your ear. The motion was featherlight, like touching something fragile, yet his gaze was so heavy it seemed to pin you in place. "Xx." He called your name, his voice low as if ground out from the back of his throat. "Do you know, when you lowered your head at the dinner table just now —" He paused, his fingertips trailing slowly down along your temple hair, slipping past the curve of your ear, and lingering for an instant at the side of your neck. There, your faint pulse beat softly beneath his fingertips. "— I had to use every ounce of my strength not to walk over and pull you up."