36: The Invisible Seal

Irene quickly jotted down a list of materials:

– As many metal sieves as possible

– A bottle of water, plant fiber pulp, starch, and torn cloth strips

She folded the paper carefully and handed it to Emily, saying in a calm yet firm tone:

– "Bring everything written here, and follow me to the back garden. Don't be late."

Emily nodded quickly without asking a word, then rushed out.

As for Irene, she headed to a small box in her library and pulled out a special metal wax stamp, engraved with a seal no one had seen before. Then she took her old book on papermaking, tucked it under her arm, and slipped some banknotes into a small pouch. Taking a deep breath, she headed to the garden.

Minutes later, Emily arrived, slightly out of breath, carrying a basket filled with straw, water, and various tools.

Sally approached from a distance, having been watching quietly, and asked curiously:

– "Sorry, but I could only find four sieves. What are you planning to do with all this, my lady?"

– "An experiment… I just need to confirm something."

Irene answered without further explanation as she prepared the workspace.

She sat on the grass and began attempting to make paper pulp. It wasn't easy; she needed several tries to balance the amount of water with the straw and other ingredients. Her hands sank deep into the mixture, while Sally helped her hold and steady the sieves.

Finally, after an hour of trial and error, the pulp became consistent enough.

She poured the mixture into the metal sieves, carefully trying to strain it. Each one was left to dry according to a specific plan:

1. The first: She pressed the wax seal while it was still completely wet.

2. The second: She waited two hours, then pressed the metal stamp onto it.

3. The third: She thinned the pulp in the area of the seal, then pressed it gently.

4. The fourth: She let it dry for four hours, then applied the seal before it was fully dry.

Hours passed, and the sun was beginning to set. Irene held up each sheet to the light, examining it closely… Her expression shifted to astonishment. Nothing appeared. No trace of the stamp.

She looked at the second sheet… then the third… and the fourth… Still nothing.

Her hand froze in mid-air, then her body trembled with internal panic. She whispered to herself, her voice breaking with fear:

– "This is impossible... the council is in two days. I can't fail. Not now. I'll lose everything if I mess up the first test… even Richard's trust in me..."

At that moment, Sally returned, holding some fresh fruit, and gently offered it to her.

But Irene shook her head, speaking in a distant voice:

– "No... not now."

She remade the pulp again, this time comparing its thickness precisely to the banknotes she brought, trying to mimic their texture, weight, and transparency. She repeated all the previous tests with the same care… but the result didn't change. No trace of the stamp on any sheet.

She washed her hands, then sat on the ground, staring blankly. Night had begun to creep into the garden, and natural light faded gradually. She could no longer see the details of her work.

Sally stood behind her in silence, then spoke with a realistic tone:

– "Maybe the stamp just doesn't show up on handmade paper..."

Irene lowered her head, feeling an unfamiliar cold creeping over her skin… it wasn't from the air, but from within—from that tight, suffocating space in her chest.

Yet she stood heavily, wiped her hands on her dress indifferently, and said:

– "Let's go back."

When she reached her suite, she asked the servants to prepare a hot bath, hoping it would soothe her anxiety. She sat in the water for a long time, eyes closed, but the tension continued to gnaw at her nerves.

Afterward, she dried her hair slightly with a towel and opened another book—this one not about paper, but about wax seal making.

She read it carefully. But the hour was too late, and her eyes were too heavy to continue.

Unable to sleep despite her exhaustion, she returned to her drawer, took a sleeping pill, then sat on her bed under the dim light of her lamp, holding the book in her hands.

But she never made it to the next page…

She dozed off as she was, sitting up, the book open on her chest…

and inside her heart, a single question echoed like an alarm bell:

"What if I fail… what if I don't have time to fix anything?"

---

At 2:00 AM, the door opened quietly. His steps were a little unsteady, but he entered with the confidence of a man used to drinking without collapsing.

Lucas stood in the doorway, his shirt partly unbuttoned, eyes red with heavy sleep and the faint scent of alcohol.

His gaze fell directly on Irene. She was still sitting on the bed, half-reclined, the book open on her chest, her head tilted to the side, breathing softly… but she wasn't deeply asleep. She was struggling against drowsiness—caught between caution and exhaustion.

He approached with uneven steps, reaching gently for the book, as if to move it so it wouldn't disturb her sleep…

But just as his fingers nearly touched the pages, she opened her eyes and jerked up in alarm, saying in a shaky voice:

– "What are you doing?!"

He froze, raising his eyebrows in surprise, then replied slowly:

– "You were asleep… and the book was still on top of you."

He handed her the book like someone surrendering evidence of a crime. She snatched it quickly from his hand, walked to the desk, and placed it there. Then she pressed her fingers to her temples. She knew too well… now that she was fully awake, she wouldn't be able to sleep again without a sleeping pill.

She looked at him. He was still standing there, silently watching her. She spoke with forced calm:

– "You must be tired... please go to sleep."

But he didn't move. He tilted his chin slightly and stared at her with a sarcastic tone:

– "Why were you so scared? As if you saw a monster."

– "What?"

He stepped closer, his voice quieter but clearer:

– "Am I… that terrifying?"

She fumbled with her gaze, then quickly said while lowering her eyes:

– "I was asleep… you startled me, that's all. I don't know what you're talking about."

He came even closer, his voice now a heavy whisper:

– "And yesterday morning? Were you scared just because you saw me shirtless?"

She stammered, feeling heat rise to her face. She answered nervously:

– "Why are you bringing that up now? It's late. Are you trying to start a fight? Aren't you tired?"

But he kept approaching until the space between them vanished. Irene found herself pressed against the wall, her eyes darting away, her chest rising and falling with anxiety. His face neared hers, voice raspy:

– "And those pillows you put between us… do you think I'm some lust-driven beast who might pounce on you in your sleep?"

He leaned in so close she could feel his breath. She turned her face quickly, and only then did she catch the scent of alcohol.

She asked tensely, trying to turn her face away:

– "Are you… drunk? Is that why you're acting like this?"

He didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on her face, unreadable—cold, sad, angry… everything and nothing all at once.

She lowered her gaze again and muttered as she looked at the wall:

– "I didn't mean anything. The pillows were just… just to divide the space between us. It has nothing to do with what you're thinking. Nothing at all."

He was silent for a moment. Then he spoke, voice low but clear, like a confession suffocating him:

– "I'd rather die than sleep with a woman like you."

Irene's eyes widened, and she looked up at him in shock, not knowing what to say. He continued, voice deeper with pain:

– "I've hated you since the day I heard your name.

You're more annoying than I ever imagined.

And if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be this miserable.

I've lost everything… because of you."

The words hung in the air like invisible knives.

Irene took a slow breath, swallowed hard, then said with a strange calm:

– "It's okay if you hate me… everyone here does. You're no exception.

Even I… I hate myself too."

She paused, then looked at him with a long, bitter stare and said:

– "And stop pretending you're the only one forced into this marriage..."

She turned her eyes away in exhaustion, walked slowly to her bed, pulled the blanket over herself, and lay down, eyes tightly shut… pretending to sleep, even though her heart was pounding wildly.

Lucas said nothing more.

He walked to the other side of the room and lay on the couch without even taking off his shirt. His eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling… not knowing whether he wanted sleep—or just silence.

And so, they both sank into a heavy night...

Lucas drifted off under the influence of alcohol.

But Irene stayed awake all night, trying to sleep for just one hour—but couldn't.

The gray light of dawn was creeping through the windows when Irene opened her eyes. The sun hadn't yet risen, but the night was breathing its last.

She sat up slowly, looked across the room where Lucas was still sleeping on the couch, his head tilted, his face unusually calm… but the echo of his words from last night still pierced places no one could see.

A sharp sting rose in her chest, and she whispered under her breath:

– "Bastard..."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, got up quietly so she wouldn't wake him, gathered her clothes, and slipped out of the room. She headed to a nearby empty room, changed quickly, tied up her hair, and went out to the garden.

Everything was still as she had left it the day before: the sieves lined up, the stamps, the water bottle, and her little book that never left her side.

She stood before the unfinished work, closed her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly, then whispered:

– "Wax stamps are made using molds that carry the desired shape… It has to be pressed onto the mesh firmly to imprint clearly."

She took the metal stamp and this time pressed it directly onto the mesh of the sieve with focused determination, until she noticed the shape beginning to form in the metal itself.

Then she carefully prepared a new batch of paper pulp, pouring it into each sieve with different thicknesses, analyzing every detail as if fighting for her life.

She laid them out in the sun and stepped back to wait.

She lay on her side in the grass, her eyes fixed on the gray sky… trying to think of other solutions… different methods…

But her mind was exhausted. Deeply exhausted.

She placed her hand on her head and whispered to herself:

– "Don't break down now, not now..."

Her body was tired, her mind heavy, and her heart flailing like it was drowning in cold water.

Four hours passed.

She stood slowly and approached the sieves.

With trembling hands, she began peeling the dried sheets from the molds, one by one.

She lifted the first sheet toward the sun…

Then the second…

Then the third…

The mark was faint—barely visible. Fear crept into her chest again.

But when she reached the last one… she stopped.

She slowly lifted the sheet, held it toward the light…

And gasped.

The stamp appeared clearly, sharp, distinct.

Her lips parted in awe, then she stood abruptly, clutching the sheet with both hands, bringing it close to her face, then pressing it tightly to her chest.

And under the cold Valerian sky,

Irene wept.

She cried for the fear that shackled her, for the fatigue that gnawed at her mind, for the sleepless nights.

She cried for the merciless looks of the servants,

And the cruel whispers of the people,

And… his words, those brutal words he said last night, that settled deep in the softest part of her.

She collapsed to the ground, knees buckling, shoulders shaking, tears falling uncontrollably.

Then, after minutes, she raised her hand to her head and began patting it gently, the way her therapist used to do during her hardest days.

She whispered to herself in a tearful, choked but steady voice:

– "Calm down… calm down, Irene…

This isn't the time to break…

It's time to strike."

The words she tells herself every time she shatters…

And rises again.

---