Lord Theodore's Favorite Ritual
Chapter 189: The Knight & The Witch.

Chapter 189: The Knight & The Witch.

Night.

Kitchen, Theodore Mansion.

Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.

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Lydia had purchased a grand wall clock for the mansion the day they shopped with Helena and it was finally significant to Shade today.

The grand clock in the entrance hall had just struck five when the noble family’s carriage pulled up to the stone steps of the mansion, he had rushed to alert every member of the mansion and he loved the job unless the girls still couldn’t see him.

The unexpected early return had sent a ripple of urgency through the household staff. In the kitchen, Joyous and Dorothy, along with the acting butler, Hound, sprang into action to prepare a swift yet elegant dinner after having delivered the first course of meals.

Joyous, the elder of the two maids, with her practical brown eyes and steady hands, quickly scanned the larder.

"We have fresh vegetables from the garden, a roast from yesterday, and some fine cheeses," she announced, her voice a calm anchor amidst the sudden flurry better than it was earlier, she was fine again as expected of life.

Dorothy, younger and more impulsive, with curls escaping her cap and bright, eager eyes, nodded vigorously.

"Let’s start with a simple soup," Hound suggested, his voice measured and authoritative.

He carried his distinguished air even in the kitchen, his midnight hair impeccably combed, and his uniform pristine.

He moved with quiet efficiency, directing the maids with practised ease. "Joyous, chop the vegetables. Dorothy, kindly fetch the stock from the pantry."

Joyous’s knife skills were precise as she diced carrots, celery, and onions, her hands a blur of motion.

Dorothy returned with a pot of rich, homemade stock, setting it on the stove to heat.

The aroma of the simmering broth began to fill the air, a comforting promise of the meal to come.

Soon Hound turned his attention to the main course. "We’ll reheat the roast and serve it with a quick gravy. Joyous, slice the meat thinly. Dorothy, go and set the cats bed"

Dorothy hurried off, her footsteps quick and light on the polished wood floors. She loved taking care of Red and being ordered to do it didn’t feel like a punishment.

In the dining room, they’d laid out the fine china with practised grace, the silverware gleaming under the chandelier’s soft light.

They added a vase of fresh flowers from the garden, their vibrant colours a cheerful contrast to the white tablecloth.

Back in the kitchen, Joyous had the roast sliced and ready, the meat succulent and tender.

While Hound took charge of the gravy, his hands deftly blended flour and drippings in a saucepan until the mixture thickened to a rich, velvety consistency.

"Prepare a salad from the fresh greens," he instructed Joyous. "And bring out the cheeses for a finishing touch." His words.

Joyous washed and dried the lettuce, tossing it with a light vinaigrette she whipped up from pantry staples.

While Hound himself arranged the cheeses on a wooden board, garnishing them with clusters of grapes and sprigs of rosemary.

The final touch was a loaf of crusty bread, warmed in the oven and sliced just before serving.

Then Hound started to inspect their work with a discerning eye, nodding in approval. "Well done, both of you," he said, his tone passive but still carrying the authority of his position. "Now, let’s get this to the table."

As they moved the dishes to the dining room, the maids exchanged quick, proud smiles.

The room looked welcoming and elegant, the table a testament to their skill and teamwork.

Then the girls moved to invite the house for dinner.

"Search the chambers bring them down here" Hound.

The girls nodded and ran off to carry out the request.

In the space of an hour, the maids and the butler had transformed the kitchen’s simple offerings into a meal worthy of their esteemed lord and Lady, their seamless coordination a dance of dedication and expertise shone proudly on the dining table.

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Night.

Garden, Theodore Mansion.

Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.

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The sky that had been darkening and threatening to cry hours ago now looked happy again, its moonlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the garden near the serene lake,

Birds chirped intermittently, their songs a gentle backdrop to the peaceful surroundings.

The garden was full of blooming flowers, their vibrant colours contrasting with the green foliage.

A gentle breeze carried the scent of roses and lavender, mingling with the earthy aroma of the lake nearby.

Amidst this idyllic scene, Helena, knelt beside the garden stone bench, her hands trembling slightly as she prepared a small basin of water.

The knight, Sir Conan, sat on the bench, his armour partially removed, revealing a bloodied sleeve where his arm had been cut by a blade for a day now.

His face was a mask of stoic endurance, but his eyes betrayed the pain and fatigue he felt from the ambush they had all narrowly escaped. Everyone had gotten light treatment but for some reason, he had lied he needed nothing and he wasn’t wounded at all.

Helena dipped a cloth into the basin, wringing out the excess water.

She stole a glance at him, her heart pounding not just from the sight of his injury, but from how handsome he looked in his ragged form and even in pain. She sighed, the unspoken feelings that had lingered between them for so long were spiralling.

She had admired him from afar, his bravery and kindness, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at her.

Yet, neither had dared to voice their feelings, the propriety and uncertainty of their positions keeping them silent.

"Hold still," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves.

With his eyes still glued to her face he grunted a yes.

She gently dabbed at the wound, her touch light but firm.

Conan winced, drawing a sharp breath through his teeth when she wiped a certain part, and Helenaa’s heart ached at his discomfort.

"I am sorry," she said, her voice laden with genuine concern. "I will try to be careful."

"It’s not your fault," Conan replied, his voice low and strained. "Thank you, Helena." It was his fault for keeping the wound so that only she would treat him so that they could talk while she touched him.

Her name on his lips made her cheeks flush. She focused on her task, trying to steady her hands.

As she cleaned the wound, she couldn’t help but notice the strength in his arm, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed under her touch.

She felt a rush of tenderness and worry, wanting nothing more than to ease his pain.

Helena reached for a small jar of salve, her fingers brushing against his as he moved to help.

The brief contact sent a shiver down her spine, and she glanced up, meeting his gaze. For a moment, they were both still, the world around them fading into the background.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers as if trying to read the thoughts she dared not speak.

"Helena," he began, his voice soft and hesitant. "I... at some point during the ambush I could only think of you, of how you would have to cling to another if I let go and die, if I let you go and that gave me strength."

Her heart skipped a beat.

What was happening, she wondered.

She looked down, fumbling with the lid of the jar to hide her smile. "I am here now, Conan," she whispered, her voice almost inaudible.

The words hung in the air between them, a fragile bridge over the unspoken distance that had separated them.

Helena applied the salve to his wound, her touch gentle and careful.

She then reached for a bandage, wrapping it around his arm with deft, practised movements.

She held his eyes before whispering, "May I?"

He gave a slight nod making her smile, he watched the smile like a sad man searching for happiness.

Placing the tip of all her fingers on the slash across his arm she started with a soft incantation, her eyes involuntarily shut close and she continued to then slowly with magic make his wound heal faster, his pain reduced and his breathing normalized.

When she finished, she sat back on her heels, her hands resting in her lap.

Conan reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, lifting her gaze to meet his.

"Helena," he said again, more confidently this time. "When I was out there, all I could think of was how I wanted to return to you. I missed you, the feeling is unexplainable."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled, a radiant, hopeful smile, perhaps she would finally have her nobleman. "Sir Obnoxious, you... I missed you carelessly too, Conan."

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the space between them. "Then what are you still doing here?" he murmured.

In the quiet of the garden, near the tranquil lake, surrounded by the beauty of nature, their two hearts finally spoke the words they had longed to say.

The pain of Conan’s wound seemed distant now, overshadowed by the slight joy and relief of their shared confession.

"Come with me" he invited and that froze Helena, not for too long because Dorothy’s squeal interrupted them.

"Dinner is ready!"

They startled into separation.

"Thank you Dorothy" Conan breathed through gritted teeth.

Helena stood up and left the place hastily, while Dorothy picked the bowl and rag.

What just happened? She wondered.