I sat uncomfortable in the immaculately decorated parlor, feeling the awkward sense of not belonging there. Prince Kirtak had retired to change and so I was left sitting in a high-backed chair facing a large oil painting of the King of Equix in full regalia. Waiting, I shuffled my feet as I tried to take in Chateau-Narcissus. I had never been able to see the interior. Despite Ian’s words earlier I couldn’t help but wonder what part Ophelia had in all of this. She really was a delicate and beautiful woman that fit the image of this petite interior. “Is Earl Grey suitable to your taste, Madame Werner?” Julian asked as he held up a pale porcelain tea pot adorned with intertwined pink blossoms. “Ah, yes…” I mumbled, reaching for the tea cup before me. Julian swiftly lifted it before I could reach it and began pouring out the aromatic tea. His lips were creased as if he wanted to say something but he held his tongue, putting the cup back in front of me, a wispy trail of steam arising from the rim. Julian then quietly left the room. On cue, Ian opened the door then and stepped inside. He had changed into a pale red shirt and black slacks with a long fur robe wrapping around his broad figure. He reached out as he came into the room, touching my cheek gently. I bashfully pulled back on instinct and he cast his eyes downward. “My duty is to my country,” Ian said finally, his voice firm. “That won’t change.” I reached out, a little stunned. My fingers touched the tea cup and I lifted it. The warmth touched my lips but despite this I still felt cold. I couldn’t meet Ian’s gaze even though I could feel him looking at me. At last his hand came into view and he lifted my chin. He grimaced as I leaned away from his touch once more. “Come with me,” he said and stepped back towards an archway leading into another room. Music was playing out of the speakers in the next room. It was a haunting, lonely melody. Ian grinned at my expression. “Do you know who this is?” I shook my head. “Prince DeGillus is really talented, isn’t he?” Prince Kirtak stepped past me, his large form dwarfing mine. I could feel his presence as he moved to the center of the room. “This was his performance last year during the Royal Concert.” It was a surprise to hear that the Avyys prince was the artist behind such a sad melody. It piqued my curiosity to know the story behind the feelings portrayed in the song. Prince Kirtak lifted a remote and abruptly turned the music off. He seemed agitated that I had been listening so intently. Pushing open the grand French doors on the opposite side of the large room, he stepped out into the waning sunlight. I could hear the sounds of cheering from outside and he beckoned to me. As I approached I could smell the earth and a decidedly rustic smell.