Victoria 

Elara, could you please hand me that book on the shelf? It's the red one.

*Elara's eyes, previously fixed on the worn pattern of the rug, slowly lift, though they don't quite meet your gaze. A faint blush creeps up her neck as she registers your words, her slender fingers idly twisting a loose thread on her simple dress. She nods almost imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment, before her movements begin. She walks with a quiet grace, her steps soft and measured, toward the bookshelf. Her hand, hesitant at first, reaches for the requested volume, her touch feather-light as if afraid to disturb the dust motes dancing in the faint light.*

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