HANDLING INSTRUCTIONS

The harsh glare of the examination lamp showed every flaw in the century-old fencing jacket. Dr. Corvin had charged me with finding every place a mid-century curator had "improved" it with synthetic thread. Painstaking work. I welcomed it.

"Criminal," I murmured under my breath.

Anika, a junior conservator with messy braided hair, glanced over from the next worktable. "What is it?"

"Polyester."

She pressed a gloved hand to her heart in mock horror. "Thoughts and prayers to your sanity."

I shook my head in response. Dr. Corvin had vanished upstairs twenty minutes earlier for an administrative meeting, leaving me with strict instructions to complete the preliminary condition report before touching anything else.

The shutter clicked as I captured the final angle of a particularly botched seam, the high-resolution image flashing onto the connected monitor. Across the desk, the sharp, rhythmic buzz of a phone vibrated against the leather blotter. Anika reached out, swiped the screen, and let out a heavy groan. Without a word, she began sliding her calipers into their cases and clearing her workspace.

"You're leaving?" I asked, holding a scale ruler against the wool.

"Lunch."

"It's two-fifteen."

"Precisely." She slid her diagnostic tablet into a locked drawer. "Coming?"

I looked at the jacket, then at the half-filled intake form, and back at her. " I should finish logging the shoulder lining first."

She stopped, giving me a look of theatrical pity. "Dr. Corvin has already infected you."

"I want to finish this before the lighting shifts."

"That's how it starts, Zhenevieva," she warned, pointing two solemn fingers at me. "Next thing you know, you're forty-seven, you own twelve identical cardigans, and you have furious, unyielding opinions about nineteenth-century bone glue."

"Go eat your lunch," I laughed.

She left with a dramatic sigh.

The garment on my table belonged to Konrad von Hohenzollern, a celebrated figure from the early Grand Circuit era. He had worn it during the 1921 continental season and, according to the archivist's ledger, had stubbornly refused to let the House replace it after an Italian épée nearly parted the sleeve from the collar during a brutal semifinal in Lyon. Which made the cheap, 1980s polyester repair feel like an insult to a war hero.

I adjusted my posture to tilt the macro-lens, centering a particularly egregious knot of synthetic fiber in the viewfinder. The intense, white glare reflecting off the examination table vanished as the light was suddenly cut off, replaced by a shadow.

A sharp intake of breath caught in my throat as I threw my weight back so hard the stool scraped the floor. 

 I lifted my chin slowly, my pulse instantly skyrocketing into a frantic tempo. Dashiell von Hohenzollern's presence simply flooded my field of vision. He stood directly across the table, his imposing frame anchored by dark tailored trousers and a pale grey dress shirt. 

The open collar exposed the hard column of his throat, leading the eye down to sleeves rolled twice up his forearms to reveal the clean, shifting lines of powerful muscle. Before my brain could even process the sudden proximity, the harsh white light of the lamp caught the geometry of his jawline and the dark strands of hair falling slightly out of place across his brow. Then, his gaze caught mine. 

 The same pressure beneath my sternum from this morning surged back with terrifying intensity. 

"Mr. von Hohenzollern."

His eyes drifted over my face before dropping to the antique wool garment resting between us.

"That repair isn't original."

"Yes, sir," I responded, keeping my tone perfectly flat. "The original linen repair along the shoulder seam remains intact. This synthetic stitch was added much later."

A subtle tightening touched the corner of his jaw. "Barbaric."

I blinked, momentarily thrown. Then I looked back down at the offending thread. "Completely."

He circled the table slowly, keeping a respectful distance from the exposed textile without me having to remind him... a flawless demonstration of conservation protocol. This was his family's private collection, he had probably been taught how to handle artifacts before I learned long division.

The heat under my ribs made breathing deliberate work. I reached for the clipboard and started tapping notes.

"Are you here for Dr. Corvin?"

"No."

His voice was absurdly polished up close. I fought down an insane urge to smile. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"I chose to divert my path down to the vaults," he remarked, lifting his gaze to meet mine. "It is always beneficial to ensure our auxiliary staff is properly supported."

Liar. I kept the accusation safely imprisoned in my throat. Archival work carried its fair share of professional risks, but brandishing a charge of dishonesty against the future ruler within the confines of his own foundations would ensure my immediate execution from the payroll.

"How fortunate for the department," I offered instead.

 I quickly dropped my gaze to the report before my face could betray me.

"You were standing in the upper gallery this morning," he quipped smoothly. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

"Corvin brought you?"

"She believed observing a high-stakes pledge match would provide helpful context for the Circuit inventory."

"And did it?"

"I learned that your family is willing to gamble regional infrastructure on a fencing bout."

One dark eyebrow rose slightly. I caught myself instantly. "Professionally speaking, of course. It was very educational."

"I'm sure it was."

There was a dry, razor-thin edge of amusement in his tone that made my heart do another stupid, erratic flip. He glanced down at Konrad's jacket again,  resting his fingers casually against the edge of the display frame. "What did you think of the bout?"

I hesitated. Surely the Grand Circuit champion hadn't descended three flights of stairs to solicit compliments from an assistant archivist.

"It was impressive," I answered carefully.

"That sounded remarkably diplomatic."

I met his gaze dead-on. "So was the question, sir."The words left my mouth half a second before I realized what I'd said. My blood went cold.

"Forgive me," I added quickly, stepping back into professional decorum. "My response was far too familiar."

"I asked for your opinion," he responded softly. "I don't recall specifying that it needed to be sanitized."

"You make people choose badly," I replied honestly. "You kept offering Asterholt openings that weren't really openings. Every time he believed he had forced you into a corner, he was actually stepping exactly where you wanted him."

Dashiell stared at me in complete silence. I couldn't read him at all, and I began to wonder if I had crossed a line, or if my blunt analysis had offended his aristocratic pride.

"You've never held an épée," he mumbled.

"No."

"Yet you broke down my distance control in four exchanges."

"I notice things," I replied, finding my footing. "It's my job."

"Hmmm." The low cadence of his voice sent a sudden shiver straight down my spine.  He took one slow step closer. It was an entirely innocent gesture, and yet the heat behind my chest expanded so violently that my fingers cramped around the stylus.

His proximity brought a sudden wave of rich, hypnotic blend of rare black saffron and smoky Mysore sandalwood, anchored by the dangerously dark warmth of pure cacao absolute. I had lived alongside wolves my entire life, and none of them had ever made every nerve ending in my body scream in red-alert awareness.

Dashiell leaned slightly over me, his shoulder inches from mine. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't help it.

I took a deliberate step back, using the excuse of setting my stylus into its charging dock to put distance between us. 

 "Was there anything else you required, sir? Or may I return to my inventory?"

He glanced down at the gold watch on his wrist. "I am keeping you from your duties."

I stared at him, my lips pressed into a tight line as I fought to formulate a response that wouldn't result in security escorting me off the premises. "A little," I admitted guardedly.

"I see."

Dashiell turned smoothly toward the door, turned the handle, and pulled the door open. "Enjoy the remainder of your afternoon, Miss."

"Thank you, Mr. von Hohenzollern."

The door clicked shut, leaving me standing alone.

"What an extraordinarily infuriating man," I whispered to the empty room.