Today, we had an unexpected guest. That was clear from the moment the Matron came rushing through the hallway, muttering under her breath and pulling her gray shawl off her shoulders to reach for the red one. She didn't stop to yell at anyone. She didn't stop to straighten the children's posture or swat hands away from the window. She didn't even glance at me when she passed.
She just moved—fast and careful—her breath catching in her throat, one hand smoothing down her skirt, the other tightening the brooch at her neck. But she hadn't had time to arrange her hair. That said everything. The red shawl only came out when someone important arrived. And you could always tell when she hadn't been warned.
I was outside with the cat. The sun was still soft, the garden still quiet. Most of the children were inside finishing chores or sneaking extra bread from the pantry. I had taken to spending most of my time outdoors since spring opened the door and let the light return.
The cat sat beside me on the porch step, tail curled neatly around his paws, his body still as stone. His eyes followed everything, but he never blinked fast. Never startled. I liked sitting next to him. We didn't need to talk. We just listened.
That's when I heard it—carriage wheels crunching on gravel. Slow, smooth, too polished for the orphanage. I looked up. The carriage was enormous. Sleek, deep blue with silver trim that gleamed like a river in sunlight. It didn't rattle like the ones driven by villagers or the church-run delivery wagons. It was silent, heavy, expensive. It moved like it had somewhere better to be.
A crest was painted on the door, sharp and unfamiliar—an ornate emblem with wings curled around a star, framed by a circle of thorns. Even from a distance, I could tell it wasn't decorative. It meant something. A bloodline. A house. A name that didn't need to be spoken to be obeyed.
The carriage door opened before the Matron even reached the steps. The man who stepped out wasn't old. Not one of the usual visiting nobles with stiff collars and tired eyes. He was young. Maybe twenty. Maybe a little older.
His hair was navy blue, not black, not brown—blue, like stormwater or ink spilled on parchment. It shone where the sunlight hit it, parted neatly, not a strand out of place. His eyes were bright—gold. Not amber. Not honey. Gold. Like coins left too long in firelight. His skin was pale, untouched by weather. His boots hadn't known mud. His gloves were soft leather, stitched in silver.
Everything about him was deliberate. Sharp. Silent. Controlled. He moved like he'd never been hurried in his life. He stood at the base of the steps, his posture effortless, his gaze calm. He looked around the yard once. Just once. Not with curiosity. Not with suspicion. But with focus. The kind of focus that collected more than it revealed.
His gaze passed over the garden, the shed, the hanging laundry. It landed briefly on the porch. On me. I didn't look away. But he didn't linger. He turned back to the Matron, who had finally reached the top of the stairs, breathless and pink-faced.
She curtsied. Not deeply—her knees never allowed that anymore—but low enough to count. Her red shawl slipped slightly, but she didn't fix it. She was too focused on him. They began to speak. I moved to the edge of the porch, pretending to brush dust from my knees.
The cat followed, slow and silent, tail flicking once. He didn't react to the man, but he noticed him. His head turned, ears twitching once, twice, then settling forward like two flags watching the wind. I tried to listen. But their voices were low. Not cold. Not angry. Just… careful. The kind of careful that made your stomach twist even if you didn't know why. I caught broken words.
"…tracking her for years…"
"…moonlight hair, almost white…"
"…signature like static…"
Then something softer. A pause. A breath.
"…young maid… missing… presumed dead…"
I didn't understand. A maid? A girl? Hair like moonlight? The words drifted through me like dust, too soft to hold but too heavy to ignore. The Matron's posture shifted. Not in fear. But something close. She pressed her hand to her neck like the collar was choking her. She nodded. Then shook her head. Then nodded again.
And then I heard it. My name. Not a whisper. Not a mistake. "Elarion." The Matron said it firmly. Deliberately. No hesitation. No title. No descriptor. Just me. And she said it to him. The man with golden eyes.
I froze. The dust on my fingers stopped moving. My legs stiffened where they sat folded beneath me. The cat shifted. He stood. Leaned slightly against my leg. Then sat again. Still. Alert. I didn't move.
Inside the house, something changed. Doors creaked. A floorboard popped. The air pulled tight. The Matron didn't glance toward me. She just stood straighter, eyes still on the man. I couldn't hear what he said next.
But I saw his eyes. They didn't wander. They locked onto the door. Onto the hallway behind the Matron. Onto something he already knew. Not someone he was curious about. Someone he expected.
I pressed my hand to the porch board beside me, grounding myself. The wood was warm from the sun. I focused on that—on the grain beneath my fingers, on the cat's fur brushing my ankle, on the slow rise and fall of my chest.
I didn't know why she had said my name. Not "the quiet one." Not "the boy under the stairs." Not even "him." Just—Elarion. Like it had been written on a list. Like it had been asked for. I looked at the carriage again. Sleek. Waiting. Not empty.
I felt it in my ribs. That feeling I got when Evelune's father came. The feeling that the world was about to split quietly down the center and no one else would notice the sound but me. I stayed seated. I didn't move. The cat didn't either. The sun crept farther across the garden. A bird landed on the fence, looked around, then flew off.
Inside, the conversation continued. Then ended. The Matron turned back toward the house. But the man didn't follow yet. He stood there a moment longer, hands folded behind his back, face unreadable. Then his eyes moved again. Back to me. This time, he didn't look away. And I didn't either.
For just a breath, it felt like something unseen passed between us—like the space bent slightly, the porch warmer, the wind stiller. Then the door closed behind him. And I was alone again. Except I wasn't.
The cat leaned into me slightly, his weight solid and unbothered. I didn't ask the Matron why she'd said my name. I didn't ask what he wanted. I didn't ask who the maid was. Or what it meant to have hair like moonlight. Or why someone important was now looking at me the way Evelune's father once looked at her.
Because I knew the answers wouldn't come from words. They would come later. In pieces. In movement. In silence. But something had changed. Something old had woken up. And now— someone important knew who I was.