A GRASP FROM NOWHERE

❝

STANDING in front of the grand oil painting, Charlotte scanned the delicate touches of paint that formed the face of the woman. The gallery was silent except for the muffled voices that faintly echoed down the marble corridor. There was something ghostly in the beauty of the woman in the portrait—the softness of her gaze was the attitude of her chin. Charlotte lingered. 

The quiet was unsettled behind her. 

"My apologies for the delay, my lady. I am Vladimir Kurt Roosevelte, House Steward of House Grimoard," a calm and deep voice said.

Taken by surprise, Charlotte turned to him. 

The tall, commanding figure before her stood quietly in a perfectly tailored formal black suit, with his short slicked-back raven hair giving him an austere elegance. Round wire-rimmed spectacles framed sharp golden eyes, which bore into her with unnerving intensity. He carried the aura of being somewhat refined yet distant, like a relic from another century. 

Charlotte managed to regain her composure and offered a brief and polite curtsy. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Roosevelte. I am Charlotte Deloney, daughter of Earl Marcus Dallas Deloney." 

Vladimir bowed in return, his expression unreadable. "An honor, Lady Charlotte." 

She struggled to maintain her composure as something about his gaze lingered, stirring unease in her heart. 

"You did appear rather entranced by the painting," he resumed slowly, deliberately emphasizing the syllables. "La Boucle d'Oreilles turns many heads, but few ever stop to really look." 

Charlotte glanced back at the painting. "It felt somehow… familiar. Like I have seen it in a dream." 

A slight smile flickered across Vladimir's lips. "Dreams and memories usually exchange threads." 

Footsteps thundered to a halt behind her before she could utter a word. 

"Charlotte!" called her mother, Countess Cordelia Deloney. The lady spoke with the authority of a commander softened by simulacra of motherly affection. "There you are. And who, may I ask, is this gentleman?" 

Beside her stood Lady Eleanor Voclain, the very embodiment of sweetness and gentleness, with an expression of curiosity directed toward Charlotte and the strange gentleman.

Charlotte took another step back. "This is Mr. Vladimir Roosevelte. He is the House Steward of House Grimoard."

A flicker of something barely discernible crossed Cordelia's face. "Grimoard?" she reiterated, letting the name roll on her tongue with an almost bitter edge. She scrutinized Vladimir from head to foot, smiling steadily. "How interesting to find a steward loitering in a gallery alone with a young lady."

With unfazed bearing, Vladimir offered just enough of a bow. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace. I merely answered your daughter's questions regarding the painting. Our conversation was one of utmost decorum."

Charlotte felt her mother splay her fingers across the wrist of her arm, the gesture subtle, perhaps purposely so. 

"Well," Cordelia began, her focus still on Charlotte, who turned to Vladimir. "We wouldn't want to be mistaken for commoners who would behave so freely with the staff. Now come-we have guests to tend to."

Eleanor looked at her equally sympathetically; "Let us go together?"

"Yes," murmured Charlotte, shooting Vladimir another glance. He was still beneath the painted woman's gaze. 

Walking away between the two women, she felt that Vladimir would learn what she knew and perhaps much more.

Behind them, as soon as they left, Vladimir murmured to himself, "She... seems... familiar." The popular sight stirred curiosity in his mind, but soon his attention was drawn to the pocket watch he just checked-the hour. He clearly had pressing matters to attend to. And thus, he strode away, not giving any further thought to the young woman who had stolen his interest. 

The sight stirred curiosity in his mind, but soon his attention was pulled to his pocket watch. It was clear he had pressing matters to attend to. And thus, he strode away, not giving any further thought to the young woman who had stolen his interest. 

Boxes piled high with gowns and accessories for the evening's grand celebrations filled the carriage as Charlotte pondered on her ambivalent feelings about the forthcoming festivities and the yet endless struggle about an unknown future. 

Lady Eleanor continued to gently coax her. "Chin up, dear. You want to make a good impression tonight with the prince," her soft but steady voice said, a guiding anchor through the storm of Charlotte's emotions.

Charlotte frowned, startled by the mention of the prince. "You invited the prince?" she asked, laced with disbelief.

This time, Lady Eleanor gave a soft smile of understanding just as Cordelia's ice-cold commanding voice silenced the inside of the carriage: "Your father invited the prince," she snapped, looking at the interminable list of invitations she had scrutinized so far. 

"It is very important that we make a great impression. This celebration is for your future, Charlotte."

Charlotte frowned in protest. "But Mother, you must understand that I am not interested in marrying him. I just cannot marry Prince Dominique. I do not care about royal blood," she added, feeling rather irritated. 

Cordelia glared at her, albeit mildly, as she lowered the list of invitations. "Just how many more times must I explain this? This is about your future," she said curtly yet firmly. "This marriage, this betrothal—it's all for you. Why don't you understand that?"

Charlotte sighed deeply as her thoughts floated through the window, seeking freedom from the pressure of the expectations laid upon her. She longed for the right to go off and pursue her dreams, especially art, but this weight felt unbearable. 

"We might as well employ the adverse weather for the announcement of your said engagement to Prince Dominique,' Cordelia added, her tone now very frosty. "That is a must, Charlotte." 

Charlotte felt immeasurable dread sink down into her chest as her mind began spinning about the engagement announcement. It loomed even larger than herself, shrouded in clouds, with the expectation of the world's eyes being on her. But what she wanted in her heart was a chance—an opportunity to paint, nothing else—to paint and to be free from any strings of obligation.

Their carriage came to a soft stop at the very entrance of the family mansion, which towered before them like a majestic mountain. The lower-maids greeted them, heads bowed low with respect; and as the door was opened, Cordelia hopped out first and Charlotte, barely after a pause, did so too. 

The butlers and maids carried the boxes of clothes into the house. Inside, the house buzzed with preparations in full swing for the grand celebration. Charlotte cast her eyes about the merriment, but her heart was somewhere very different from the mood. 

The energy of the house was almost foreign to her. There was just so much to be done: the decor, the table settings, the receiving of guests. The house, filled with grand furniture and works of art, gave her the impression of something splendid, but she had to shake off the feeling that it was just a decorative veneer. The mother held court in all her majesty, issuing precise orders to the staff, as she made sure everything was fine for the evening. 

Lady Eleanor, seeing Charlotte's quietness, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Remember, Charlotte. We will go through this together." 

Charlotte gave a small, sad smile and nodded as they made their way deeper into the mansion. The staff were busy setting up extravagance by lavish decorations and classy pieces of furniture, imparting a sense of grandeur to the house.

However, amidst all this beauty, the consuming dread has not left Charlotte empty. It is supposed to be a celebration made for her, but rather than feeling honored, she feels more like a cage being constructed around her dreams and wishes. Watching her mother and the staff prep for what seems like the ultimate event, she feels her dreams go further from reach. There hangs the thought of the engagement announcement, and all she can do is wonder how much longer she will be able to pretend as the dutiful daughter to marry for a future not of her making. 

Indulging in bitterness and anguish would serve her better, if it could be of any help at all, and might bring her to believe, however momentarily, that the possibilities of pursuing those ardent artistic dreams were crushed by the weight of the family dictates. Seeing her mother and the staff prepare for an extravagantly fancy party, dread filled Charlotte. While she might not be permitted to, she was expected to play the role of the future for the family. 

"My Lady, wouldn't you ever refuse to take a rest? You have been looking at the decorations for so long." 

But dreaming out Charlotte, the maid servant's gentle voice inquiring about rest woke her again into reality. There was a smile trying to glimmer across her lips as she shook her head, attempting to curtain any sign of distress. 

"Everything is fine, Delphine," she replied quietly, though somewhat below par. 

The only thing on her mind was that she would have to take part in another social event as well, feeling helpless through this event. She had to continue to conceal her feelings and stay strong until the event was over. Just as she switched her focus back to surveying her room, she recalled that she ought to have returned the book borrowed from the royal library. "Good heavens! I forgot to take back the books to Mrs. Sinclair! Now I'm done for." 

She turned to her maid Delphine for clarification of where Helena was at. "Delphine, do you happen to know where Helena is? I would want her presence instantly," she said with a touch of concern, and Delphine acknowledged this with a nod. 

Late returns to the book did not access the free spirit; rather, they accompanied her in haste to clear the issue. Shortly after sending the message, supper descended upon Helena, who had already shoved her way into Charlotte's room for the sole purpose of helping that vital let-go of the borrowed books. She was entering the room when she noticed the lady searching for the books to be returned to the royal library. 

"My Lady, this is the tenth time you haven't returned the books when I do. Wouldn't that old hag, Mrs. Sinclair, punish you?" 

She advised concern about what penalties would be incurred.

"I don't think the old hag would get riled up with me anyway. What's more, the assistant librarian told me that she's not even going to be in charge of the library today," Charlotte comforted Helena as she let the required volume slip into her fingers as she walked out with her maid or rather swung her arm about the wrist of Helena and took her off with her to their destination.

Without bothering about her mother's permission, Charlotte ran off from the very mansion, running through the gates with the borrowed book. The maidservant, Helena, was finding it very hard to keep pace with her, out of breath from all the running: "My Lady, do not you feel tired of running? Just a little help from Mr. Braun would have got us here very easy to the library," panted Helena, trying to keep up to Charlotte, strained voice with physical exertion. 

"The library is not very far, and we can still make it," was what had been nonchalantly said by Charlotte, though the words had not, at least, carried with them the usual confidence. Keeping all that, Charlotte was, nevertheless, running with an almost effortless pace, but hard to follow for Helena, who was trailing behind. Despite the pathetic state apparent on Helena, Charlotte still concentrated on having the library straight up ahead, returning the borrowed book weighing heavily on her mind.

Charlotte's mind wandered, but she suddenly felt bad like something was off. It was like a little buzz at the back of her head, like someone—no, something—was watching her, and her heart skipped a beat. She turned her head, eyes surveying the street around them, but there wasn't anyone there. The streets were quiet and empty, besides the two of them. 

She shook her head and forced aside the feeling, rationalizing as either imagination or the pressure of the long evening. It's stupid, she told herself. There's really no reason to feel shaky. Nonetheless, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Keep running.

After what seemed an eternity, they had reached the library and automatically slow pace breathless with exertion Charlotte realized just then how winded she was. Glancing over at Helena and she found her bent over with her hands on her knees, gaspingly catching air. "I told you we'll be right on time," she said with a slight smile that somehow didn't reach her eyes. There was a disquiet lingering in her gut, but she did not want to acknowledge it now. 

Helena managed to straighten herself despite still panting. "My Lady, w-wait!" she gasped, voice strained, but Charlotte had already taken her wrist and was leading her into the library. There was cool, quiet air in the library, which seemed a welcome relief. The shelves and bookcases stretched high, crammed to their fullness with volumes upon volumes of literature. Charlotte let her eyes wander over the titles while her mind was still occupied by the odd feeling she had been unable to place. She shook her head again and attributed it to fatigue. 

Her eyes quickly scanned the library for the librarian. She needed to return the book, settle the matter quickly, and back to her home-responsibilities. Back to the oppressive expectations waiting for her. But her unease roared back, stronger this time. A cold shudder danced on her spine as she glanced toward the entrance. There was no one standing there. 

Charlotte frowned, tightening her grip on Helena's wrist, and yanked her along into the library. She had to concentrate and not let these strange thoughts distract her.

Gasping behind her, Helena stumbled. "My Lady, are you all right?" she asked with a worried lilt, but Charlotte only nodded in response, her smile brittle.

"Yes, I'm fine. Let's just get this over with," Charlotte said, her voice more strained than she'd intended. Somehow, she could not shake the feeling that there was some figure watching her from the other side of the shadows, some horrid ambiguous thing lurking just out of sight. 

Helena took a seat at one of the vacant chairs, grateful now for a chance to rest after such exertion. Meanwhile, Charlotte wandered through the polished corridors of the library, lightly gliding her fingers against the book spines as she looked for a librarian on duty. Her eyes flitted across the shelving and polished counters—no doubt intending to get rid of a book that had been piling heavy on her thoughts since that morning. 

Eventually, her steps came to a standstill in front of the main desk, where a solitary gentleman sat with his back to her on a chair, apparently engrossed in organizing papers into symmetrical stacks. The lingering scent of parchment lingered faintly in the air. Charlotte slowed her pace upon first glimpsing him: pale blond hair brushed just above shoulder length and a neat black blindfold extending from one temple to another. Very odd-somewhat acutely flawed! Yet, it exuded a sense of order and restraint.

She approached him with a hesitant smile.

"Good to see… oh, you're not Mrs. Sinclair's assistant?" She raised an arching brow.

The man looked up in her direction, and though the blindfold prevented him from seeing, it felt as though he was looking right at her. "Good afternoon," his voice was bright and surprisingly pleasant. "Saevionh at your service. Have you come to return the book or are you coming to borrow more?"

Charlotte tilts her head, frowning. There was something unnervingly familiar about him. 

"Wait a moment… You're the stranger I encountered in Vercesia earlier today," she said slowly, her voice steadily rising to show the surprise slowly dawning upon her. 

The man blinked, bringing the sorting to dear life. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to," he replied, shrugging casually. It was delivered so smoothly that Charlotte really couldn't tell if he was just playing innocent or truly unaware of the insinuation. 

She narrows her skeptical gaze, her mind racing. 

"What is he thinking? I'm sure it's him—or did I make a mistake? No… it was definitely him." 

He continued to exhibit perfect poise with barely provoked amusement dancing on the corner of his lips before snapping his fingers discreetly, as though something rang a bell.

"Ah, now I recall," his voice became warmer. "It is you—the young lady who stepped in earlier. You showed commendable courage." 

Charlotte began to reply, but he softly raised a hand to stop her.

"Though, if memory serves… I also aided in your defense, did I not?" he went on, dryly amused. "By that account, I do believe you owe me."

She parted her mouth in pure astonishment, left speechless by his measures. 

"But do not worry," he said smoothly, tilting his head a little bit. "I will not collect it just yet."

"I hear you. Then I will give the book back to your keeping so that my humble companion Helena and I may leave at once," said Charlotte, executing a small curtsy with a little melodrama into her tone.

Before she could place the volume upon the counter, a sudden thud reverberated through the room. She started— Saevionh had stomped his foot sharply on the marble floor just behind the desk. 

Charlotte flinched and stepped back slightly, eyes wide. 

"W-What was that?" 

Saevionh cleared his throat in a polite but hardly perturbed way; his expression was still blank beneath the black blindfold. 

"My apologies," he said in a smooth tone, "There was an insect." He waved casually toward the ground. "A rather bold one, too. But don't worry, I handled it." 

Her eyes flicked down. The floor was clean. Immaculate, even. Not a single trace of the supposed insect could be seen. 

Charlotte stared up at him, suspicion slowly knitting her brows. "An insect… in a spotless library?" 

He offered a faint, almost innocent smile. 

"Even the most sacred places attract filth. Nature is impartial that way." 

Charlotte did not reply at once. There was something odd about him: his standing so precisely behind the desk, the blindfold that would make him unable to notice insects in the first place, that suspiciously timed stomp... And that made her more curious than ever. 

She tilted her head. "You're quite fast, aren't you? You must have good instincts." 

"I'd rather call it a reflex born of habit," he replied, returning his focus to the book. "Some of us don't take well to chaos, Miss." 

There was a flicker of something behind his voice-a contained rigidity. Charlotte detected it. His every motion, every gesture, was calculated. Intentional. 

She leaned slightly forward, her curiosity deepening. 

"Not a librarian, are you?" 

"I never claimed to be," he coolly replied. "Only a substitute." 

"But you know where every book is located. You handle returns. And you're... efficient." 

Saevionh didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned the book in his hands, inspecting the spine before aligning it perfectly with the edge of the ledger beside him. Then he finally looked, well faced her again. 

"I simply dislike disarray," he said plainly. 

Charlotte gave a little smile as if she had discovered a minute fragment of a great puzzle. "You're a very interesting man, Saevionh." 

"And you are an inquisitive woman, Miss Charlemaine." 

She blinked. "You know my name?" 

"You just said it earlier. That thing about a humble companion and a speedy departure," he replied nonchalantly, mimicking her earlier words with unsettling accuracy. "I do listen well." 

It was what he said that made Charlotte's skin crawl; not from fear but from a strange sensation– not just looked at but understood. As though this man, even blindfolded, missed nothing. But something was off, she never mentioned her full first name to him since entering the library.

"That's… odd." She thought to herself, even she was confused as she recalled the scenario.

"Very well, then," she puffed. "If you'll excuse us, we will be on our way." 

She swung around and began marching briskly to the door, eager to escape any remaining strange energy in the library. Saevionh continued stacking his papers, the soft rustle of parchment filling the air. 

But just before she reached the edge of the doorway, his voice broke the quiet once again. 

"Wait—!" 

Charlotte paused mid-step and turned back. 

Saevionh let out a disappointed sigh as he glanced down at the registry. 

"Didn't even bother to sign." 

He shook his head and straightened the spine of the book carefully along with the corner of the counter. His fingers hovered briefly over the quill before returning to the papers beside it. 

"Now..." he murmured for himself, "where was that thing again?" 

But he didn't reach for the list. 

Instead, Saevionh's hand paused in the air. His body remained still except for the slight tilt of his head as if listening to something inaudible. One expression, calm and composed but shifted subtly into something colder. Sharper. More focused.

He slowly turned his gaze downward.

Underneath the heavy wooden desk, concealing the rest of the deep front paneling, a light quiver disturbed the calmness of the tiled floor. Only a low, muffled groan could be heard if someone strained enough.

Saevionh crouched. Deliberately.

Not hurriedly, not like there was panic—but with the patience of someone well-acquainted to the secrets.

His dark hem brushed against the floor as he lowered himself fully behind the counter. And there-huddled, half-unconscious-his Theodore, the real assistant librarian. His arms had been bound in back with tight, expert knots of cloth. His ankles were tied with another. Over his mouth was pressed a thick strip of faded fabric, muffling any cries he might dare attempt.

As soon as Saevionh appeared above him, Theodore's eyes sprang wide open. Panic surged over his features, making his muffled whimper sound even more desperate.

"Shhh," breathed Saevionh into a gloved finger brought to his own lips.

He reached forward in one fluid movement to pull the cloth off Theodore's mouth. The younger man gasped sharply, taking deep, ragged breaths, his brow beating with sweat.

"P-Please," gasped Theodore. "Please don't—"

"I won't hurt you," said Saevionh gently, his voice calm and smooth as though it were a lullaby. "Unless, of course… you do something to make me want to." 

Theodore shook his head, trembling. "What do you want?" 

Saevionh leaned in closer, voice a quiet blade.

"I want the records." 

Theodore's brows furrowed. "W-What records?" 

Saevionh's tone cooled even more. 

"Don't insult my time. The records of noble bloodlines. The history of titles, the changes in estates… the erasures." 

Theodore froze.

"You know where they are. You manage them. You've seen them." 

"I—I can't—" Theodore stammered. 

Saevionh tilted his head slightly, as if he were disappointed. He reached into his coat and produced a small blade—not brandished, just revealed enough to glint beneath the faint light filtering under the desk. 

"I'm asking nicely," he said, voice velvet and venom.

Theodore swallowed hard. "Behind the restricted archive," he whispered. "The shelf labeled Anonymous Compilations. There's a false back. It leads to a subroom. That's where they keep the blacklisted records." 

"Good." Saevionh smiled faintly and tucked the blade away. "See? That wasn't so difficult." 

He leaned back and observed the terrified man for a second longer before reaching over to gently pull the gag back over Theodore's mouth. The young man flinched but didn't resist. 

"Now be still," Saevionh murmured. "Your silence is your best friend tonight." 

With a fluid motion, he stood again, smoothing the folds of his coat, not a wrinkle out of place. The smile had disappeared. His face regained its blank, almost impassive calm. 

He adjusted the ledger on the desk one last time before stepping out from behind it, a shadow blending back into the still, sacred air of the library. When the sound of hurried footsteps gradually faded beyond the library doors, silence returned like the tide.

Saevionh straightened as if brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves and let out a slow breath through his nose. A smirk had formed at the corner of his mouth, tired yet amused.

"She almost caught me," he muttered to himself, his tone low, dry, and sardonic. "Sharp one, that lady."

Heavy, ancient doors swung back as Charlotte and Helena entered the library, heavy with the scent of old parchment and candle smoke. Cold air forced its way through the space, sharp and dry, rushing at them suddenly, like a whisper from something unseen warning them to accept it. 

Their footsteps faltered. 

A black carriage had come to them smoothly and suddenly, as if raised by something ancient and unnatural, facing them on the cobbled path, polished like obsidian to reflect the low light of dusk. It stood waiting before them, the horses that drew it eerie still, their dark eyes vacant, and even the clattering sounds of hoofs refused to break the stillness. 

Charlotte gripped her book tightly. Helena, by her side, instinctively reached towards and slipped her fingers around Charlotte's wrist. Neither spoke. The atmosphere pressed heavily around them. 

Then came the sound-a creak. 

The carriage door opened slowly, dragging the silence into a deeper void. 

And from it came a tall woman, in black dress. Her head sported a wide-brimmed hat that threw shadows over her face, but what rather took Charlotte's breath away was the silk blindfold-wrapped eyes immaculate and deliberate. How could she see? And yet... she moved as one who saw everything. 

Two figures followed behind her. The first was a butler-tall and rigid, yet every measure of his was that of a blade unsheathed. The second was a maid, dressed simply, but with a bearing indicative of military precision. Like statues, they stood beside the blindfolded woman.

She raised her hand and snapped her fingers, sharp and final. Before the rest of the girls could react, the two footmen lurched forward. Helena was the first to scream, shattering the haunting calm. "W-What are you doing?! Let go—!" 

The maid began dragging her away by the arm with brute force toward the carriage. Helena resisted, kicking and shouting, her feet dragging on the stone. On the other side, the butler seized Charlotte around the waist. "Let go of me!" she screamed, incredulous. "G-Get your filthy hands off us, you scoundrel?!" 

The man said nothing. His gloved hand clamped down on the girl's face with a vice-like grip, twisting her to meet his stare. She fought but could not break his hold. The pounding in her head matched the roaring of her heartbeat. 

Then, she caught sight of his face. Her breath hitched. She froze. Recognition slapped her across the face. Her eyes widened. 

"You are—?!"