---
"...Temporary. What have you done to me?"
"What?"
Gerald surged from his chair and crossed the distance between them in three swift strides.
"I asked you—*how did you do that?*"
Marin retreated step for step, matching his advance. His sudden movement, his aggressive approach—it stole the breath from her lungs. Her heart hammered so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
"I—I don't understand what you're—"
"*You.*"
"W-what?"
His hands clamped down on her shoulders, pinning her in place. She felt her entire body go rigid with shock.
Then he leaned down.
*What is he—*
His nose brushed against the curve of her neck.
He *inhaled*.
Deep. Deliberate. Drawing her scent into his lungs like a man analyzing evidence.
Marin pressed her lips together so tightly they went white, trapping the scream that clawed at her throat.
*Mm.*
The soft sound of consideration escaped him.
The scent was familiar. Something he'd encountered before, in the world he'd abandoned. Clean and herbal, like morning dew on fresh leaves. Warm and dry, like sunlight captured in cotton. And beneath those layers—for the first time he'd noticed—the sweet, subtle fragrance of a woman's skin.
*Not poison.*
That had been his fear. That she'd drugged him somehow, slipped something into the air, used alchemy or sorcery to lower his defenses.
But even at this distance, with his senses straining to their limits, he detected nothing toxic. Nothing artificial. Nothing that explained what had just happened.
"W-why are you doing this?"
Her voice emerged small and trembling. He felt her body quiver beneath his hands—a bird trapped in a predator's grip, too terrified to fight.
Something uncomfortable stirred in his chest. Irritation, perhaps. Or guilt.
Gerald straightened and released her shoulders, stepping back.
"What *are* you?" The question came out rough, almost accusatory. "How did you do this?"
"What... did I do?"
She sounded on the verge of fainting.
He let the silence stretch until the thundering of her heartbeat began to slow. Then:
"...You put me to sleep."
"What?"
"You. Put me. To sleep." He spoke each word as though it were foreign to his tongue. "Not with poison. Not with drugs. With nothing but your voice reading aloud—and I *fell asleep*."
"Oh!"
The terror vanished from her tone, replaced by pure, ringing joy.
"Did you really sleep? Truly?"
*She was just shaking with fear, and now she's celebrating?*
Someone else's happiness making her happy. As if his rest mattered more than her own terror.
*Incomprehensible girl.*
"Yes."
"Then why did you wake up? Why not keep sleeping?"
"...Unpleasant."
"What?"
"It's been too long." The admission emerged before he could stop it, dragged from some exhausted place deep within. "So long that sleep itself felt wrong. Foreign. Like falling into something I might not return from."
Gerald couldn't explain why he was telling her this. He'd shared more in the last two minutes than he had with anyone in months.
"I see..."
Something shifted in her voice—comprehension dawning.
"Wait. How long has it been? Since you last slept properly?"
"I don't remember."
And he didn't. The last true sleep—not unconsciousness forced by physical collapse, but genuine, natural rest—had vanished into the blur of endless, agonizing days.
"*Dear God.*"
Exhaustion crashed over him without warning.
Now that the adrenaline of confrontation had faded, the weight of his existence settled back onto his shoulders with crushing force. He turned and made his way back to his chair, dropping into it heavily.
She followed.
He heard her footsteps—quick, light, anxious. Like a puppy trailing its master. She stopped somewhere nearby, hovering uncertainly.
"What?"
"...Should I read more?"
The offer came cautiously, as though she expected rejection.
"No need."
"But Your Grace needs to sleep—"
"The moment has passed."
He could feel it clearly. Whatever spell her voice had woven, whatever strange peace she'd summoned—it had shattered when he'd torn himself back to wakefulness. The opportunity had fled.
"Tomorrow."
"...Yes. I understand." A pause. "Then please, rest as best you can."
The rustle of her skirts retreated across the carpet. The door opened, then closed.
Darkness returned.
But somehow, the familiar blackness felt emptier than before. One small presence had vanished, and the study seemed to have absorbed that absence into its shadows.
*Strange.*
---
## — The Corridor —
Marin emerged from the darkened passage with heat blazing across her cheeks.
She walked quickly at first—then faster—her steps accelerating until she was nearly running by the time she reached the bright, curtain-free section of the castle.
She stopped before the office door, pressed both hands to her flushed face, and took three deep breaths.
*Calm down. Calm. Down.*
Then she knocked.
"Come in."
Olive looked up from his paperwork as she entered, his expression shifting from concentration to pleasant surprise.
"Miss Marin."
"Mr. Olive!"
She thrust both arms into the air in a gesture of triumph, a book clutched in each hand like victory flags.
"Yes?"
"I did it!"
Her smile stretched so wide it nearly split her face, her light green eyes sparkling with accomplishment.
"Did... what, exactly?"
Olive's confusion couldn't prevent an answering smile from spreading across his features.
"His Grace fell asleep!"
"*What?*"
He shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair crashed backward, clattering against the floor.
"Well—more precisely, he dozed off." Marin amended quickly. "Just briefly. But it happened!"
"Tell me everything."
He guided her to the tea table in the center of the office, righting his chair along the way.
Seated across from him, Marin launched into an enthusiastic recounting of what had transpired in the Duke's study—the reading, the gradual relaxation she'd sensed in his posture, his sudden outburst, his bewildering reaction afterward.
"How long did he sleep?"
"I'm not certain. His Grace only said he'd 'dozed off.'"
"The Duke himself said that? Those words?"
"Yes."
Marin nodded vigorously.
"Miss Marin." Olive's voice had gone soft with wonder. "*Congratulations.*"
"Why congratulate me?"
"Why?" He stared at her as though she'd asked why water was wet. "You accomplished what no one else has managed in over a year. You helped him *rest*."
He was already moving, crossing to the safe, withdrawing a gleaming gold coin.
"Here. You've earned this."
"No—it's too much!" Marin pulled her hands back, waving them in denial. "He only dozed for a moment. That hardly counts as proper sleep!"
"They say beginning is half the battle." Olive pressed the coin toward her with gentle insistence. "This is rightfully yours."
She hesitated—pride and practicality warring visibly across her face—then carefully accepted the gold.
"Thank you."
"I'm counting on you going forward."
"Yes!"
The word emerged with the enthusiasm of a soldier accepting orders.
---
## — Seven Days Later —
Olive entered the office with his shoulders slumped, weariness dragging at his every step.
Marin looked up from her desk, concern immediately creasing her brow. Their eyes met.
He shook his head.
"How long has this been going on?"
"Seven days."
"*Seven days.*" She practically groaned the words. "He has proof that my reading helps—why is he avoiding me?"
"That's exactly what I've been trying to determine."
Frustration boiled over. Marin rolled up her sleeves with exaggerated purpose and thrust her wrist out toward Olive.
"Look! Does my wrist appear thicker to you?"
"Hmm..."
He glanced at the delicate joint, then quickly looked away.
*She's pretending to be common-born, but she's a viscount's daughter. One doesn't stare too long at a noblewoman's wrist.*
Though the wrist itself might not have changed dramatically, her overall appearance certainly had. The ash-platinum hair that had hung dull and lifeless now gleamed with healthy shine. Her face—previously gaunt, cheekbones jutting sharply—had softened into rounder, gentler curves.
Good food and proper rest had worked small miracles.
"If I just... showed up at his door and demanded to examine my wrist, would he throw me out immediately?"
"There's a standing order. No one is to be admitted."
"I see."
Marin deflated visibly, sinking back into her chair.
Her gaze fell to the stack of books on the table. Fairy tales. Every single one. Carefully curated for maximum boredom—happy endings included, exactly as His Grace despised.
*With these, I could definitely put him to sleep properly.*
If only she could get through the door.
"Miss Marin, you may leave early today."
She picked up the thickest volume—a hardbound collection of sickeningly cheerful stories—and rose without enthusiasm.
"Yes. See you tomorrow, then."
"Goodbye."
Seven days without seeing the Duke.
No reports to deliver. Paperwork completed days ago. Nothing left but reading, and reading, and more reading—all preparation for a moment that might never come.
*This can't go on.*
She walked slowly down the corridor, then stopped.
Turned.
Faced the entrance to the dark gallery.
*Avoiding me because sleep frightens him? That's absurd.*
Resolution hardened in her chest.
Marin strode back to the boundary where light met shadow and planted herself at the edge of the darkness. She crossed her arms. Cocked one hip. Lifted her chin.
A pose of pure, defiant challenge—as though the Duke himself stood before her.
"Your Grace."
Her voice carried down the black corridor, soft but clear.
"Sleep is a basic necessity. You're already unwell—how can you possibly survive without it? I truly didn't want to say this, but..."
She glanced around quickly, confirming the hallway remained empty.
Then whispered, barely louder than a breath:
"*Coward.* Hmph."
She spun on her heel and fled.
By the time she reached the main corridor, she was practically running.
---