Page 76 of Maid For The Dark Elf

"That's... actually not terrible," I venture, earning a look of betrayal from Nerina's gold-flecked violet eyes.

"It gets worse. He then suggests that our union would be like 'two stars colliding in the heavens to create new light.'"

Emeric winces visibly. "That's unfortunate."

"The man is older than Father, has buried three wives already, and owns more hunting hounds than books." Nerina crumples the letter with vicious satisfaction. "Yet somehow believes astronomical metaphors will sweep me off my feet."

"Maybe he's trying to appeal to Asterion," Nikolai suggests, gesturing toward the scholar who sits completely absorbed in an ancient tome, a forkful of eggs suspended halfway to his mouth while his eyes scan the page. "Brother, your breakfast is getting cold."

Asterion blinks owlishly, as if surprised to find himself holding utensils. "What? Oh. Yes. Food." He takes the bite mechanically, already returning his attention to the text.

"What fascinating historical disaster has captured your attention this morning?" Seralyth asks with fond resignation.

"Financial records from House Drakmoor's collapse." He flips a page without looking up. "The pattern of anonymous payments matches what we found in the Ardyn investigation almost exactly. Same intermediaries, same careful dead ends, same⁠—"

"Asterion." Seralyth's voice carries gentle but firm authority. "Eat first. Unravel centuries-old conspiracies second."

"But the timeline suggests⁠—"

"Food. Now."

He sighs dramatically but obediently focuses on his plate, though I notice him stealing glances at the open book between bites.

I reach for the jam, automatically scanning the table to see what else might need passing, old habits dying hard. Seralyth's violet eyes catch the motion immediately.

"Rosalie." Her tone holds the patient firmness she usually reserves for Asterion's absent-minded moments. "You are not responsible for managing breakfast."

"I was just⁠—"

"Being helpful, yes. But you're family now, not staff. The servants know their duties."

Heat rises in my cheeks as I settle in my chair, hands folded deliberately in my lap. "It's difficult to remember sometimes."

"Three months isn't nearly long enough to undo years of conditioning," Emeric says, his deep voice surprisingly gentle. "You'll get there."

"Besides," Nerina adds, setting aside her correspondence to focus on me with characteristic intensity, "we need you to concentrate on more important matters. Like choosing which gown you'll wear to Lady Thessa's reception next week."

My protests die as every member of the family conspires to keep me firmly planted in my chair. When I reach for the salt, Nikolai slides it across the table before my fingers can touch the crystal shaker. When I notice Emeric's empty cup, Seralyth catches my eye and shakes her head with gentle firmness while a house servant materializes to refill it.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, watching the dining room orchestrate itself around me. Plates clear themselves with whispered activation words, while floating serving dishes drift between family members without any visible effort.

"You'll adjust," Nerina says, buttering her toast with deliberate leisure. "Eventually you'll stop twitching every time someone else performs a basic task."

"I don't twitch."

"You absolutely twitch," Nikolai confirms. "Yesterday you nearly launched yourself across the library when a servant reached for your empty teacup."

Heat floods my cheeks. "That's different. I was reading."

"You were reading," Asterion agrees without looking up from his historical tome, "but you also practically vaulted over the furniture to prevent someone from doing their job."

The conversation flows around me like water, warm and inclusive, yet I remain acutely aware of my outsider status. Not because they make me feel unwelcome—quite the opposite. But because years of servitude don't simply evaporate with a change of circumstance.

After breakfast dissolves into the family's various pursuits—Emeric departing for training exercises, Nerina retreating to her correspondence, Asterion wandering toward his study with arms full of books—Caelric appears at my elbow.

"Walk with me?" His indigo eyes hold a familiar invitation that still makes my pulse quicken despite three months of mornings like this.

The gardens stretch before us in carefully cultivated splendor, pathways winding between flowering hedges that maintain perfect symmetry without visible gardener intervention. Roses bloom in impossible abundance for the season, their petals responding to some subtle magic that keeps them perpetually fresh. Small songbirds flit between branches, their melodies shifting in harmony as if conducted by an invisible hand—likely Nerina's influence, given her affinity for coaxing beauty from living things.