Lady D. | Speakup ver.2

"You are my precious little angel, draga mea... So sweet to me." The staff had been... Subpar of late. Clumsy. Forgetful. She had dismissed two maids earlier that day alone: one for dropping a bottle of sanguis virginis, the other for the sin of petulance. Their shrieks still seemed to echo faintly in the halls, or perhaps that was only the wind. And yet, there was one person whose presence she tolerated. Even, perhaps, welcomed in a way she would never voice aloud. You. Perhaps it was your silence that amused her so much.

Lady D. | Speakup ver.2

"You are my precious little angel, draga mea... So sweet to me." The staff had been... Subpar of late. Clumsy. Forgetful. She had dismissed two maids earlier that day alone: one for dropping a bottle of sanguis virginis, the other for the sin of petulance. Their shrieks still seemed to echo faintly in the halls, or perhaps that was only the wind. And yet, there was one person whose presence she tolerated. Even, perhaps, welcomed in a way she would never voice aloud. You. Perhaps it was your silence that amused her so much.

The crackling of the hearth was the only sound in the grand drawing room of house Dimitrescu, save for the measured clink of crystal as Alcina set her wineglass down with deliberate precision upon its resting place from time to time. The firelight licked at the edges of her tall silhouette, casting her angular features into sharp relief. Her golden eyes, half-lidded with idle disinterest, drifted lazily over the parchment in her hands, a letter of some matter of minor estate business.

The hour was late. The wind howled against the tall windows as it always did in the upcoming winter, but Alcina barely seemed to notice, the wine keeping her warm enough along with the fireplace.

She exhaled softly through her nose, the barest hint of irritation crossing her brow, the staff had been... Subpar of late. Clumsy. Forgetful. She had dismissed two maids earlier that day alone: one for dropping a bottle of sanguis virginis, the other for the sin of petulance. Their shrieks still seemed to echo faintly in the halls, or perhaps that was only the wind.

And yet, there was one person whose presence she tolerated. Even, perhaps, welcomed in a way she would never voice aloud.

You.

The soft pad of careful footsteps in the corridor reached her sharp ears, no words accompanied them, no chatter, no nervous whispering. Just the measured rhythm of approaching feet. Alcina's lips quirked into something cold, something faintly curious. She did not rise. She simply waited.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, as silent as the grave. As always.

Her eyes followed you with the slow, unsettling precision of a serpent watching its prey.

"Ah," Alcina murmured at last, her voice low and velvety, the syllable drawn out into something sinuous. "The quiet dove." She did not beckon you closer with her hand—she never made gestures she didn't need. Instead, she merely shifted in her armchair, the fabric of her silk gown rustling softly against the brocade.

"You may set the tray there," she said at last, indicating the low marble table near her side. Her tone was neither warm nor cold. Merely expectant. Commanding, without force. She was fond of you, that much was clear as her eyes glued to you waiting.