The Chronicles of Van Deloney-Chapter 31: AZALIK AND KALI

"You always brush off my questions," she said, chin cupped in her hand. "I'm not trying to pry into your life. I just want to know more about the people I'm living with. Especially someone who's always around but never quite there."

The shears in Vladimir's hands stopped moving mid-air. For the first time, he didn't turn to her and speak in that calm, clipped tone of his. "You are quite persistent, aren't you?"

"I take that as a compliment," Charlotte said.

He put down the shears with a light thump on the cloth. The pause stretched out a beat too long before he eventually remarked, "I was a commoner once—homeless, cast away, and forgotten in the gutters of Albiana."

Charlotte sat up straight, surprised by the sudden honesty. "It was a very cold winter. I had nothing: food, shelter, and no name mattered." He paused, then continued evenly, "Then, she found me. The Countess. Gave me clothes, a place to sleep... and eventually, a purpose. That's how I ended up here." His gaze lifted, dark and unreadable. "Does that answer sufficiently satiate your curiosity, my lady?"

Charlotte's smile faded, albeit slowly, giving way to something softer. "It does. Thank you." He nodded curtly, already turning back to his work. "Very well, then let us henceforth return to our ways of not asking personal questions."

"Quite," said Charlotte with lightness, breaking the silence. "No more personal questions."

Vladimir did not lift his head, but the victorious slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips. More confidently, he continued folding the cloth beneath the flower vase.

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Charlotte meant business.

"I do have one more thing to ask though," she added innocently.

Vladimir froze as he folded a piece of cloth; indeed, the stiffening of his shoulders signified a comforting but irritating release. "Of course, you do," he muttered resignedly as he glanced at her with a sidelong look.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "The art gallery we're visiting... What was the name again? The one His Lordship said to me— The El Daumier-Gaston Galleria, wasn't it?"

Vladimir straightened up, brushing off his gloves before he answered. "That art gallery you say? I've heard about that. The gallery is located in Corsavenna, a city within the nation of Ivalor. It's a place renowned for housing priceless works, especially from the early Dreston Era. Saevionh mentioned it once to Her Ladyship as a possible site for artistic inquiry."

"Ivalor..." Charlotte repeated thoughtfully. "That's by the northwestern coast, isn't it? Near the borderlines of Normaine?"

"You mean Port Borevelle," Vladimir corrected, now he was tucking the shears back into the leather. "Yes, it is nearby. Corsavenna is not too far away by land, but we will not be docking at Borevelle." Charlotte tilted her head, curious. "We won't?"

"No." His voice was calm but firm as he looked straight at her. "We will depart from Port Maltheris farther to the south, which is under Albiana's allied control and offers a discreet route of egress. From there, we will sail directly to Corsavenna."

She blinked. "Why not dock at Port Montedoro then? Isn't it closer? And safer?"

Vladimir gave a small sigh, as though he had expected this query. "The ships of Saevionh's people are not allowed to unload in Montedoro. The local powers there are less... cooperative. While Port Montedoro might be closer land-wise, it operates under stricter jurisdiction. Corsavenna, however, is considered neutral. For us, this is a safer option. Politically speaking."

Charlotte absorbed his explanation in silence, slowly nodding along. The flames licked at the back of her mind as the whispers of dancing shadows, and for a moment she was but a listener to their crackle.

"And how long will it take to reach Corsavenna from Maltheris?" she asked after a while.

"The route is long," Vladimir answered. "We should be at sea for at least five days, maybe longer, depending on the winds and temper of the sea. Corsavenna lies just shy of an old pathway along the Islorian Ridge, which for centuries sailors came to tread terribly careful upon. It is neither a quick, nor a forgiving journey."

Charlotte let out a soft breath. "Five days...sounds taxing."

"It will be," he stated bluntly. "So I suggest, Lady Charlotte, you should pack lightly and not overdo with the frills. Prepare for the fact that salt water and silk may not get along."

She chuckled. "Noted, Steward Vladimir. But I should warn you—I have a distinguished reputation for overpacking."

He made a dry noise somewhere between a sigh and an unwilling laugh. "Of course you do."

For a brief moment, the tension between them relaxed. In that pocket of stillness, the fire glowed warmer, while the vase of roses by the windowsill picked up the pale light spilling from the overcast sky. The journey loomed ahead like a shadow on the horizon; for now, though, their silence was companionable.

His gaze drifted to the vase and then back to the book that Charlotte had very recently closed. He raised an eyebrow, with clear interest. "I see you have found something of interest," he uttered, with a nod towards the book cradled in her hands.

Charlotte answered with a smile that almost matched the one that rested lightly on her lips, her eyes traveling absently to the book whose cover her fingers were now tracing. "Yes, a novel," she replied in a warm, fond voice. "It's by a rather obscure author, a woman writing under the name of Amélie Delacroix."

Vladimir's gaze deepened in thought, a slight furrow settling into his brow. "Amélie Delacroix?" he wondered, tentatively familiar with the name. "Is she... an established author?"

"Not really," Charlotte answered, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. "From what I gathered, she's still somewhat of an enigma. The book I'm reading, The Forsaken Garden, was buried deep in one of the bookshelf shelves here in the living room. I didn't think much of it at first, but when I started reading, it was impossible to put down. The story is so... captivating. A forbidden love in the final days of a grand estate, threaded with loss and longing-so beautifully sad."

Her voice fell as she glanced thoughtfully over the pages. "Never thought I'd be so gripped by a story like this. It's quite different from what I'd call standard romance novels, but something about this just sucks you in. The characters feel... real. The emotions feel real."

For a moment, Vladimir's gaze rested upon the book again before he spoke, and his voice now became even more quiet. "I see. A woman who can make words dance like that must have a unique perspective on life."

Charlotte nodded, a trace of humor in her smile. "I suppose so. She writes about things most people are too afraid to speak about... loss, love, and the inevitability of time."

Charlotte tilted her head with curiosity, rubbing her fingers absently along the spine of the book beside her.

"If I may ask," she said with a gentle grin, "what about you, Vladimir? Do you have a favorite book?"

Vladimir stiffened slightly, ever so slightly, arranging sprigs of wildflowers into a new vase. The question seemed to disconcert him. After some hesitation, he replied, "It... is not really a book in the sense... It is rather... a story."

Diving into the subject, Charlotte leaned forward. "Oh?"

"One that my mother used to tell us as a bedtime story," he said softly, with a nostalgic lilt. "She called it The Little Stars of Eldwynd Hall."

Charlotte blinked. "Sounds very nursery-ish."

"It was," he said, almost smiling, "It was about a group of children who lived in a tiny, two-hundred-year-old house on a hill called Eldwynd Hall. They were not blood brothers or sisters, but they were raised together like one big family. The house was very old, the winters were terribly long; but they made it warm by lighting lanterns and telling tales beside the hearth."

"Oh, that already sounds lovely," Charlotte murmured, smiling.

"There was an old caretaker named Miss Maribel, who always said that every child at Eldwynd Hall was born with a star in their heart," he continued. "One day, a snowstorm trapped them inside for weeks. They ran out of flour and butter, even the firewood started to dwindle low. The children began to get scared, thinking they would never see spring again."

Charlotte's smile faded a little. "Oh no..."

"However," Vladimir managed, "The eldest child, who was called Tomlin, took upon himself to be very brave. He wrapped himself in every scarf and muffler that was available and set out into the forest to find help. The wind yelled and the snow piled high to his knees... but he was following the star of light in his heart."

"His... star?"

"Yes. That is what Miss Maribel always told them to do: When lost, follow the light inside you." Vladimir paused, as if with some nostalgia. "Tomlin did find a kind farmer and his wife, who brought food and firewood to the Hall. Spring came early that year, and the snow melted in a week. The children were saved– and they all planted a garden of sunflowers to remember the light that brought Tomlin home."

A full smile curved Charlotte's lips, and admiration softened her eyes. "That's so sweet...It sounds like something I would have loved as a child."

"It was a simple story," Vladimir said, looking down. "But it has remained with me."

"You said your mother would tell it to us," she said after a while. "Did you...have siblings?"

Vladimir gave a weak nod. "I did...a whole housefull. We didn't have much, but it was enough." Another pause. "They're all gone now. A fire took it all."

Charlotte froze, then whispered, "You were the only one who survived?"

"I was," he asserted; quiet now, composed still. "That's why I carry the story with me. It was the last one she told."

Charlotte stared at him, not knowing what to say. But he offered her a fleeting smile—faraway but firm.

Just when she was about to try to speak again, a sudden loud bang resounded through the sitting room.

With such great force, the door burst wide open, a strong gust of wind carrying in the outside air, flipping through the pages of the book resting on Charlotte's lap and sending a few petals dancing into the atmosphere from the vase of wildflowers. Immediately, Vladimir stood to attention, eyes sharp, and then began instinctively putting the room to rights amid the gentle chaos.

Charlotte gasped softly, eyes now glued to the doorway.

Saevionh was standing there, framed in the tall threshold like a sudden gust of sea breeze, his long overcoat flaring dramatically in the wind behind him, dusted with a hint of salt as though he had just returned from a stroll by the dock. He seemed almost offended by the specks of dirt over the door frame, and having avoided them with a decidedly restrained expression, stepped carefully to the side.

"I do hope," began Saevionh, his tone clipped and cool, "that no one moved the vase from the left of the fireplace. I distinctly remember putting it there this morning."

Vladimir blinked. "No one has touched it."

"Good." He gave a small nod of satisfaction.

Two figures came behind him with an air of stirring curiosity.

"This," Saevionh said with a languid wave of his gloved hand, "is Azalik and Kali. My... unfortunate sea-bound acquaintances who have again chosen to arrive uninvited."

"Ahoy there, mateys! We are the descendants of Isloria! Scourge o' the seven seas, thieves of fate, and the last names ye'll curse afore the depths take ye!"