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

Chapter Twenty

For the next few days, Cressida spent nearly every waking moment with Callidus. From the moment she stepped out of her bedroom, he was there, waiting for her in the Sapphire Suite. Their time together seemed endless, stretching from dawn until the sun disappeared beyond the towering walls of the garden.

They spent their time talking about gardening and music and sharing different folktales from their respective countries. He affectionately called her 'His Marigold' and instead of remotely sending jewelry, as he had done in the past, Callidus personally presented her with carefully arranged flowers, each with its own symbolic meaning. With every passing day, the bouquets became increasingly passionate, conveying his love and desire through the Eflian language of flowers, and causing Cilla to stare in condemnation.

Among the floral arrangements, there was one that stood out - a meticulously pruned and shaped bougainvillea plant. Callidus had nurtured it with great care, training it to grow within a small, ornate pot; Its vibrant color and paper soft petals delighted Cressida, prompting her to lovingly place it in her bedroom.

As Cressida immersed herself in Callidus's company, she found herself captivated by every new detail about himself that he shared. Although Callidus had previously said he preferred to listen to music, he was a skilled flutist- albeit not in the traditional sense. She was astonished to find that his control over his magic was intricate enough to allow him to play an old Eflian love song while they dined.

Cressida couldn't help but observe that Callidus had a peculiar aversion to using his hands for everyday tasks. Instead, he relied almost entirely on his magical abilities to manipulate objects around him. Whether it was grasping door handles, plucking flowers, or even eating, his natural connection to his magic fascinated her. It was a sight to behold, watching him effortlessly interact with the world without physical touch.

However, Cressida noticed a stark contrast when it came to his interactions with her. His hands, which seldom interacted with the physical world, were constantly in contact with her. Whether it was resting gently on the small of her back, intertwining their fingers tightly, or softly playing with strands of her hair, his touch made her feel cherished and special, as if she held a unique place in his otherwise magic-centered existence.

In the perfect moments spent with Callidus, Cressida's doubts and Cilla's warnings faded away. They became distant echoes that seemed inconsequential compared to his overwhelming presence. The weight of responsibilities, the ongoing investigation, her worry over Quail, the imprisonment of her people, and even the guilt over Ferox's death gradually lost their hold on her thoughts.

In his presence, she felt safe and loved, and nothing else seemed to matter.

However, as Cressida basked in the thrill of her blossoming romance with Callidus, a nagging thought began to form in the back of her mind. She couldn't help but notice the absence of Cilla and Mint in her life. They seemed to have receded into the background, appearing only when they were needed to serve meals or help her dress.

The realization struck her with a tinge of guilt. Not only towards Cilla but also towards Mint, who had been a comforting presence during her imprisonment. They had both expressed concern about her liaison with Callidus, raising valid points and urging her to be cautious. Although she had listened attentively, every time she resolved to be careful, he effortlessly dismantled her barriers with his tender, loving gestures.

One morning after attempting an awkward conversation with Cilla, who responded with distance and curtness, Cressida stepped on a fallen thorn from the bougainvillea flowers.

Cressida sank down onto the vanity pouf, hissing in pain.

Cilla's professional demeanor immediately shifted in to one of concern. "What's the matter, Your Highness?"