The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

She listened harder. The hush of fabric sliding over skin followed, then a low moan, muffled but laden with feeling. Not pain. Not surprise. An intimate sound.

Her spine straightened; every muscle snapped taut. Is someone injured? She sampled the noises again. No—no cry for help, no distressed rustle—only that tender, involuntary release people make when words have left them.

Heat surged beneath her collar. The library was holy ground, a vault of living memory. A place for study, prayer, and quiet revelation—never for what her imagination suddenly painted in vivid color. She should step back, gather a patrol maiden, enforce discipline. Instead she stood rooted.

A stronger sigh slipped through the crack, followed by the gentle thump of a body moving against wood or moss cushions. She pictured shelves breathing, lanterns swaying. And between them: Mikhailis's half-smile, dark lashes lowered, hands perhaps cupping a cheek that was not hers. An ache blossomed behind her breastbone, part disbelief, part something sharper.

She edged closer, careful not to disturb the door. Her sandals made no sound; the floor accepted her weight like still water. Every sense stretched forward. She could almost feel the heat radiating from inside—or maybe that was her own blood, racing.

This is sacred ground, her mind protested, voice thin against the drum of her pulse. They wouldn't—

Yet her hand still pressed the door, and her feet betrayed her, carrying her the last half-step to the woven slit. A hush of lantern-lit dust floated between the edges of the panels, glimmering like tiny fireflies. She held her breath, willing her racing heart to quiet so she could listen—so she could learn whether the Grove itself had suddenly decided to twist protocol into something unrecognizable.

A sigh drifted out again, softer than before but edged with yearning. A shiver skittered over her arms. Moon above… someone's voice sounds almost pleased to ache. Myria angled her eye to the gap, pupils wide in the low light.

There—at first only silhouettes. A tall figure bracketed by two smaller ones, lanterns behind them turning hair silver and skin amber. Mikhailis. Even in shadow she recognized the easy line of his shoulders, the careless tilt of his head when he teased acolytes with clever questions. On his right, Talyra's curls brushed his sleeve; on his left, Nessa's delicate profile leaned in, eyes already closed, mouth parted by a breath.

Myria blinked, uncomprehending, until the scene resolved: Talyra's palm rested on his chest, over the quiet drum of his heart. Nessa's slender hand curved around his elbow. Their faces lifted toward him like flowers to a hidden sun. And then—gentle as morning dew—lips met. Not frantic. Not consumed. Simply seeking. Simply wanting.

A warmth that had nothing to do with outrage flared behind Myria's ribs. Startled, she leaned back—and her knee caught the vine-covered side table. Wood scraped. A carved acorn bowl spun once, twice, and tumbled. Clatter. The noise rang far too loud in the hush of sacred shelves.

The library's living walls seemed to hold their breath. Inside, the silhouettes froze. Myria's hand shot to her chest, as though she could catch the heartbeat trying to leap free. Fool, fool! Her mind shrieked. Now what?

She cleared her throat—deliberately, softly—giving them a final chance to compose themselves. A polite cough, nothing more. Then, smoothing her sash with trembling fingers, she nudged the door fully open. The great teak sighed on its hinges, announcing her presence with grave ceremony.

"Oh—excuse me," she said, voice miraculously steady though her pulse thundered in her ears. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Lanternlight spilled over the trio. Talyra and Nessa jerked apart like startled birds, twin gasps escaping. Their cheeks, dusky earlier, blazed scarlet. Talyra's hand flew from Mikhailis's chest to clutch her own collar; Nessa's fingers untangled from his arm, then lingered midair as if unsure where to hide.

Mikhailis turned more slowly. His dark lashes lifted, and for a beat his expression remained unreadable—mouth slightly open from the broken kiss, eyes reflecting both surprise and an emotion she couldn't name. Then the corners of his lips tilted in that maddening half-smile.

"Saintess Myria," he murmured, voice low and calm, as though she'd interrupted nothing more scandalous than a discussion of catalog scrolls. "That was… quick."

She swallowed the knot in her throat. "I felt it would be best to check on you," she replied, letting her hands rest lightly atop each other so her sleeves concealed any hint of shaking. "After all, you are our guest. And this library, as… welcoming as it may be, is not without its mysteries."

The two priestesses bowed, heads nearly touching their chins. Myria returned the gesture—precise angle, measured breath. She could feel their mortification pulsing like heat waves, yet another ripple stirred inside her: jealousy, thin and sharp as a thorn. They touched him. They kissed him. The thought circled like a moth to flame. Why does it sting? I have no claim.

When she straightened, her gaze sought Mikhailis. He studied her in that patient entomologist way—curious, mild, as though assessing the color of her wings. Under the scrutiny, her earlier heat flared anew.

"If it wouldn't trouble you, Your Highness…" She heard her voice soften almost against her will. "Would you care to join me for a quiet tea?"

His brow arched, teasingly. "Now?"

The simple syllable glinted like a jewel between them, daring her to betray the slightest tremor. Myria felt the challenge settle low in her stomach—half flutter, half spark—and forced her shoulders to square beneath the weight of the moonlit corridor. She'd trained from childhood to keep her poise amid council squabbles and prophecy disputes; one irreverent prince would not unravel her.

"Yes," she replied, voice level, but she could almost taste the heat in her own cheeks. "If you aren't too weary."

Behind him, Talyra and Nessa shared a quick, sidelong glance. Relief? Guilt? Whatever emotion flickered there, Myria set it aside. Later she'd sort the implications of priestesses stealing illicit moments with a royal guest; right now, every heartbeat centered on the man in front of her.

Mikhailis tilted his head—a raven considering a bright trinket—then offered each priestess a reassuring nod. The subtlety of the gesture struck her: how easily he soothed embarrassment with a mere glance. And then he turned his attention fully back to her, dark eyes steady. "Tea sounds delightful."

The words rippled outward, as if spoken into a still pond. Myria's fingers tightened on the folds of her robe, hiding the way the sound of his agreement sent her pulse skittering. She inclined her head, schooling her breath, and motioned toward the moon-washed passage.

As they stepped through the arch, the living shelves behind them exhaled a faint sigh of stirred dust and settling wood, as though the Teulibrary itself relaxed now that the secret of that kiss had drifted away. Myria almost imagined she felt the building's relief along her spine.

_____

The Grove's night walkways curved beneath silver-branch canopies, each limb strung with star-glow beads that pulsed whenever footsteps passed below. Myria's private balcony sat three turns and two root-bridges from the library. The path was usually a gentle stroll; tonight, every quiet second pressed on her ribs like a tightening ribbon.

Their shoes made little sound on the heartwood planks: her soft sandals, his polished boots. Somewhere overhead, an owl-kite hooted—two low notes—and fluttered through leaves, scattering pale motes that gleamed briefly, then winked out. Myria seized the distraction, offering a scholar's tidbit. "Owl-kites shed luminous dust at night. It wards insects from young leaves."

Mikhailis hummed appreciation, gaze following the drifting sparkles. "Ingenious. Nature's own lantern dust. I might borrow that mechanism." Then, more softly, he added, "Assuming the owl-kites don't mind the patent infringement."

She gave a constrained laugh, thankful for the darkness hiding her smile. He wielded humor like a gentle file—shaving edges off tension without ever dulling his intelligence. That balancing act intrigued her nearly as much as it unsettled her.

When the balcony's vine-woven gate appeared, she breathed a careful sigh. A lantern-gourd hanging beside the door brightened, sensing her approach. Its glow spilled over a round cedar table already laid with two ceramic cups and a jade teapot whose lid chimed lightly in the breeze. She hadn't arranged that; attendants must have anticipated her nightly routine. Fortune—or fate—seemed determined to facilitate this meeting.

She held the gate for him, catching the faint scent of crushed mint trailing behind his coat. A ridiculous thought darted through her mind: If I bottled that scent, I could ruin half the perfumers in Silvarion. She banished it and gestured to a cushioned seat facing the open sky.

They sat. Moonlight stretched across the table in silver bars, steam spiraling from the pot like ghostly script. For several breaths neither spoke. Myria poured tea with steady hands, though she felt her pulses jumping in her wrists. The liquid caught starlight, shimmering green-gold.

Why is it so quiet? she scolded herself. Why is he just sipping calmly like nothing happened? Say something, Myria. Say—anything.

Porcelain touched the saucer. Mikhailis set his cup down first, tilting it to gauge the hue. "Saintess."

She flinched at the gentle address. "Y-yes?"