Soft Steps in the Dark

The days passed like soft waves, each one depositing little shells of warmth and new routines that no one quite knew how to identify.

The marquis had become accustomed to Alexendra's company. Initially, he had maintained a proper distance — a nobleman's decorum wrapped tightly around him like an iron shell. But something had changed.

It began in whispers.

When Alexendra stumbled, he was always there ahead of everyone else, a steady hand on her arm, his voice low and guarded.

When she snarled at a chair or snapped at a doorframe, he remained just beyond earshot, concealing a small, unwilling smile.

When she read to Charlotte in the evenings, he would linger in the hall longer than was proper, listening, hand clenched hard against the wall as if he sought to absorb every word.

One night, after an exhausting day of garden escapades (Charlotte and Biscuit had come within a whisker of waging war on a squirrel empire), Alexendra finally fell over onto a cushioned bench beneath the stars.

She sighed deeply, cane propped at her side. "If Biscuit charges into another bush, I'm exiling him to the chicken coop."

A low laugh answered her. She turned her head — though her sight could not catch him clearly, she felt the warm presence beside her.

The marquis sat down slowly. "You sound tired."

"I am tired," she huffed. "I'm not made for chasing after tiny whirlwind children and oversized dogs. My knees are crying."

There was a long pause. Then she felt it: a soft warmth brushing against her hair. His hand.

It was gentle, hesitant at first, as if he expected her to bite him like a feral cat. But she didn't. She stilled, frozen by the unexpected tenderness.

"You've changed this place," he murmured. "Charlotte. she laughs more freely now. And I—"

His voice faltered, the words catching in his throat.

Alexendra's heart beat too loudly in her ears. She didn't know what to say.

He continued, almost shyly now. "I used to think silence was necessary. That warmth would make us weak. But you… you've brought life back into these halls. Into me."

She snorted — partly to hide her embarrassment, partly because she didn't know what else to do. "All I've done is knock over priceless vases and argue with furniture."

His hand left her hair only to find her fingers. Carefully, he intertwined them with his own, as though she might vanish if he held too tightly.

"And yet," he said softly, "I wouldn't change a single broken vase."

Alexendra swallowed, her throat parched. She couldn't make out his face, but she sensed the heat of his words seep into her very marrow.

That evening, she didn't sleep, Charlotte nestled at her side, Biscuit snoring on the floor.

Her fingers still vibrated where they had touched his.

For once, she didn't curse the darkness or the indistinct forms. She merely laid her hand on her chest and allowed herself to sense the warmth — the still, gentle unfolding of something terrifying and lovely.