Book One: The Marigold's Larkspur ~ A tale of mystery, magic, and obsession.

Chapter Seventeen

The following days slipped by in a haze, as if time itself had grown foggy and Cressida found herself deeply entangled in Callidus's snare of affection and attention.

Despite her nagging suspicions and unease, a growing sense of comfort enveloped her, nurtured by the indisputable sincerity of his fondness. Deep down, she knew he was still hiding things from her, but she couldn't deny the seemingly genuine affection he held for her.

Cressida's interactions with Callidus became a delicate balance of caution and curiosity. She treaded lightly, aware that any misstep could lead her deeper into the intricate web he had woven around her. Their conversations took on a more guarded tone, each word chosen with care, and yet an undercurrent of tension remained.

Callidus, too, seemed aware of the shift in their dynamic. His attempts to maintain the facade of any sort of diplomatic distance had faded away, and his every look, his every touch was tinged with an unspoken longing that transcended words.

"Your Highness, about my people's imprisonment..." she began one day over breakfast, but Callidus interrupted her with a gentle shake of his head, his tone even and patient. "Princess, we've discussed this already. It's a complicated matter, and I'm doing everything in my power to find a resolution."

Cressida sighed, her gaze dropping to her half-eaten meal. She knew that pressing further on the subject would only lead to more evasion and vague promises. Callidus had become skilled at deflecting her inquiries, and it frustrated her to no end. She had hoped to find some answers, some reassurance from Callidus, but it seemed that he was determined to keep her in the dark.

"Can't you at least tell me if they are being treated well?" she asked, her voice tinged with desperation. "Are they safe?"

Callidus's expression softened, and he reached out to take her hand, a gesture that had become familiar between them. He briefly touched his lips to her knuckles and his thumb traced soothing circles on her skin as he spoke. "Of course, Your Highness." He murmured. "Although your people are already fortunate enough to be the recipients of your compassion."

Cressida pressed her lips together in something that resembled a smile, unable to shake the feeling that his words were meant to divert her attention rather than provide a genuine answer.

As the days passed, Cressida felt that time was slipping away, and with it, the opportunity to uncover the truth. She continued to engage with Callidus, walking the tightrope between trust and suspicion, all the while trying to gather any scraps of information she could.

But as much as she probed and questioned, Callidus remained elusive. He would offer comforting words and tender gestures, but whenever she tried to broach the subject of the investigation and speaking to His Majesty or Quail, he would deflect or change the topic.

Cressida's mind was in turmoil, torn between her growing affection for Callidus and her duty to her people. She wondered if she was being naive, if she was falling into a trap of her own making. Yet, she couldn't deny the confused attraction that swelled within her whenever Callidus was near, and she desperately tried to convince herself it was purely physical. He was a handsome man, after all.

Cressida's sleepless nights were spent gazing out of the window at the garden. In the moon's soft illumination, the marigolds and snapdragons glowed with an otherworldly radiance, while the imposing silhouette of Windridge – or The Hag's- tower stood in stark contrast against the dark sky like a lifeless void.

The Sapphire Suite had swiftly become adorned with an array of small presents, scattered about as if Callidus were a diligent bird, carefully gathering trinkets for their shared nest.