Eleanor peeked her head through the doorway, her frail hand gripping the knob with quiet concern. Moments ter, Lisabelle stepped out of Randia and Viena’s room, her face clouded with unease. Their eyes met, and Lisabelle walked over to her grandmother.

  “What happened? It sounded like the little one was crying harder than usual.”

  “She was reading Mother's old books . . . ,” Lisabelle murmured, leaning against the wall beside her.

  “Ah . . . I suppose I should’ve thrown those out a long time ago,” Eleanor said with a sigh. “I didn’t even know she had them all until Davon brought them here.”

  “No, you were right not to,” Lisabelle replied. “They’re all we have left of her. I just . . . I just don’t know how Viena managed to find them. This is my fault.” She ran a hand through her hair, guilt tugging at her expression.

  "Then go and comfort your sister. Sleep beside her tonight and expin gently why you did what you did. I'm sure she'll understand—Viena is a smart girl. Just like you," the old woman said with a voice full of quiet conviction.

  Lisabelle nodded, her throat tight. "I'll do that," she whispered, then turned back to her room with a slow, determined step.

  Several minutes ter, Viena emerged from the room, still sniffling, her eyes red and puffy. Randia, his voice calm but firm, told her to wash her face and get ready for bed. Without a word, she nodded and shuffled quietly toward the bathroom, her steps slow and heavy.

  Unbeknownst to her, Lisabelle had been standing just behind her own door, only half-closed, watching through the narrow crack. The moment Viena passed, Lisabelle stepped out, her heart aching with regret and something softer she couldn’t quite name. She waited just outside the bathroom, arms folded loosely, pacing once or twice before stopping herself.

  When Viena finally came out, their eyes met—but only for a moment.

  Viena immediately looked away, brushing past her in silence, her small frame tense with leftover hurt. As she moved to pass, Lisabelle reached out gently, her hand resting on her sister’s shoulder with barely any weight, as though afraid to startle her.

  “Don’t bother your dad,” Lisabelle said quietly, her voice just above a whisper, a slight tremble betraying her usual edge. “Come sleep in my room tonight.”

  Viena obeyed without a word. Lisabelle slipped an arm around her shoulders and gently guided her down the hall. Once they reached Lisabelle’s room, she nudged the door open and motioned for Viena to go in first.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said softly, watching her little sister shuffle inside.

  Lisabelle descended the stairs to the quiet kitchen, her footsteps thumped against the granite. There, she set about making a pot of warm tea. She dropped in a few sprigs of mint and added a lot of sugar unlike the usual—despite its steep price and the dwindling supply, most of which had already been reserved for the upcoming festival. It didn’t matter. Tonight, comfort came before cost.

  She also retrieved a handful of ginger biscuits—soft, spicy, and just a little chewy—left over from Eleanor’s st batch. They were stored in an old oak-wood jar that had sat in the corner of the kitchen for decades, ever since Eleanor was a little girl herself. The tea and biscuits she arranged carefully on a worn but elegant brass tray, a gift long ago from the Duke of Florence, its edges dulled with time but still beautiful in the candlelight.

  When Lisabelle returned to the room, Viena was curled up on the bed with her back to the door, her fingers twisting a lock of her hair over and over again. Every now and then, she sniffled, the remnants of her crying still audible in the quiet.

  Lisabelle pced the tray on the small table beside the bed and then sat down gently at Viena’s side, saying nothing—for now.

  Lisabelle pyfully poked at Viena’s cheeks with her fingers, her expression gentle, teasing. Then she reached out, took Viena’s hand, and gave it a light tug—an unspoken invitation to come and share the te-night treats she had prepared. Viena turned her face away at first, still trying to maintain her pout. But she faltered the moment Lisabelle leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I brought the sweetened tea. The one you’re always curious about.”

  That did it.

  Without saying a word, Viena slid off the bed. But instead of sitting beside her, Lisabelle pulled her into her p, insisting with a smile. And so, the two of them sat there together in a warm little bubble of calm, slowly savoring the quiet comfort of biscuits and tea.

  Viena was visibly surprised by the taste—the sharp spice of the ginger cookies prickled her tongue, but it was oddly complemented by the mellow sweetness of the mint-infused tea. The mix was strange, almost too intense, but also exciting. Every now and then, Lisabelle would casually wipe a crumb or a smear from Viena’s lips with her finger, the way one might with a toddler, but there was care in her touch, not mockery.

  As the tea dwindled and the st of the biscuits were gone save for a few crumbs, Lisabelle circled her arms around Viena’s waist and rested her cheek atop her little sister’s head. The movement was slow, weary, and sincere.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely more than breath. “I didn’t think Uncle Ran would go that far. I just . . . I didn’t want you to get weird ideas from those books. That’s all.”

  Viena didn’t respond. The moment Lisabelle brought it up again, the warmth seemed to vanish. The fvors on her tongue turned to nothing. She put her teacup down, carefully, but without much thought.

  “Why do you all hate that I read those books?” she asked quietly, her fingers curling tightly into her nightdress. Her voice trembled—not with fear this time, but something more tangled. “Aren’t books supposed to teach us things?”

  She drew in a shaky breath, eyes brimming once more. “Why did I get punished just for being curious?”

  “Curiosity killed the ape,” Lisabelle said softly, her fingers gently combing through her little sister’s hair. “It’s a famous phrase—one coined by the man considered the greatest writer of the Third Age, perhaps of all time: the Bard of Aeterna, Wilhelm Solksphere.”

  She paused, letting her words settle in the quiet of the room, the warmth between them undisturbed. Then she continued, her voice steady and calm, like a teacher in the safety of candlelight.

  “We have to approach everything with measure, Vivi. Just as a hunter keeps their distance when tracking prey, or a cook holds back when seasoning a stew. Even curiosity - especially curiosity, for all the promise it offers, must be tempered.”

  Viena’s breath caught, her mind working to hold onto the metaphor, trying to understand.

  “Having to eat a soup where the cook poured in a whole jar of spice would be awful, don't you agree?” Lisabelle added, with a faint smile. “Even the best things in life can hurt you if you take them in the wrong dose—or at the wrong time.”

  Viena sniffled once, her eyes still gssy as she fiddled with the hem of her nightgown. Her lips parted, hesitant. Then, almost in a whisper, she asked:

  “Did you ever do something . . . too curious? Something you shouldn’t have?”

  Lisabelle let out a soft, breathy chuckle, her chin still resting on Viena’s head. It wasn’t mocking—it was tender, ced with memories she wasn’t quite ready to unwrap. But she answered anyway.

  “More times than I can count.”

  Viena tilted her head slightly, surprised. “Really?”

  Lisabelle nodded, her expression growing thoughtful. “I once snuck into the city’s war archives just because I wanted to know what happened to a knight who disappeared a hundred years ago. I nearly got arrested for trespassing in restricted halls. And another time, I read one of Mother’s letters—one that never meant for anyone else to see.”

  “What did it say?” Viena asked, voice barely above a breath.

  “Err . . . I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Lisabelle grins awkwardly, then gently turned Viena’s face toward her. “The point is, I made mistakes too. But I learned. I learned when to ask, when to wait, and when it’s okay to look away.”

  Viena looked down, her fingers now gripping Lisabelle’s sleeve. “So . . . I’ll understand one day?”

  "When you are strong enough to handle things on your own, when your curiosity opens a chest full of pain in the ass . . . or in the heart."

  The tension in Viena’s small shoulders began to melt. Her hand found Lisabelle’s and held it tight. The warmth of the tea, the lingering spice of gingerbread, and the quiet closeness between them softened the st of the tears in her eyes.

  She didn’t say anything else, but for the first time since the scolding, she rested her head on Lisabelle’s ample bosom—and stayed there, eyes fluttering, fingers still curled around her sister’s.

  Lisabelle waited until Viena’s breathing had slowed—until she was sure her little sister’s heart wasn’t so full of sharp edges anymore. She continued to stroke her hair, speaking in a low, thoughtful tone. The kind of voice one used when telling secrets or stargazing beneath an open sky.

  “You know, Vivi . . . those books you found—my mother’s books—they’re not evil. But they’re . . . unripe fruit.”

  Viena blinked, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

  “Imagine biting into a peach that looks perfect on the outside, but it’s still green inside. It’s not poisonous, but it will upset your stomach, twist it into knots, and make everything else taste strange for a while. Those stories . . . they were written for adults, people whose minds and emotions have gone through more seasons. They explore things that—if not understood properly—can distort the way you see affection, desire, even yourself.”

  Viena was quiet, but Lisabelle could feel her sister’s thoughts turning. So, she continued.

  “There’s an old sorceress in Aqua Regia, Lady Setra. She once said, ‘The mind is like a garden—pnt too soon, and the frost will cim the roots.’ Stories like the ones you found can stir awakenings meant to grow gently, over time. But if they’re awakened too early, they tangle, and it becomes harder to know which thoughts are truly yours.”

  She paused, letting the silence settle, soft and unthreatening.

  “You see, the parts of your heart that help you understand attachment, trust, and longing—they’re still growing. It’s like trying to dance a court waltz with no music and shoes too rge. You might stumble, not because you're clumsy, but because it's not your rhythm yet.”

  Viena stirred slightly in her arms. “But . . . if it’s so dangerous, why did your mother read them?”

  Lisabelle looked away looking rather embarrassed. “Because my mother was a woman with uh . . . peculiar taste and a wild heart. She believed in exploring every corner of the soul, even the shadowed ones. Those books weren’t made for children—but they weren’t made to harm them, either."

  Lisabelle tilts Viena’s chin up gently and mushing up her cheeks, her tone soft but steady.

  “I’m not angry at you for reading them. I was scared. Scared they’d pnt seeds in you too early—seeds that could twist your sense of self before you even know anything about yourself."

  Viena’s eyes welled again, but not with shame. She leaned into her sister’s arms, finally understanding the root beneath the reaction.

  “So . . . I should wait?”

  Lisabelle nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Yes. Not because I don’t think you’re clever, or capable. But because I want you to have room to grow into those questions safely. I want you to reach for that fruit when it’s ripe, and when you do—I’ll be right here, ready to talk about every page.”