"Oh, Ellie, won't you quit studying and just enjoy the sunlight?" Thalia calls, whirling about with the breeze blowing her long chocolate hair into her face.

Eleanor makes a face at her best friend. "Why, I'd love to!" she replies jokingly. "And I do suppose Gone with the Wind will just read itself!"

A warm hush settles over the palace gardens, broken only by the murmur of the fountain and the distant call of swallows circling the towers. Eleanor relents at last, closing her book with a soft thud and stretching her legs upon the stone bench. Sunlight catches in her golden curls as she turns her face upward, eyes half-lidded, as though daring herself to indulge in peace.

“See?” Thalia says triumphantly, hands clasped behind her back. “The world has not ended. The roses still bloom, and you are not the worse for wear.”

Eleanor laughs, a quiet, breathy sound. “Give it time. Neglect one’s studies long enough and catastrophe will surely follow.” As she shifts, a folded parchment slips unnoticed from the pages of her book, resting for a brief, fragile moment against the bench. It is a love poem, written for an imaginary suitor she saw in a dream last night - but it was just in good and fun and not meant to be shared, not even with Thalia.

The breeze, emboldened, claims it.

Thalia gasps. “Ellie—your paper!”

Eleanor turns just in time to see the parchment lift, its edges fluttering like startled wings before the wind carries it onward, skimming over the garden path and toward the open arches that led to the inner courtyard. Color rises to Eleanor’s cheeks as she springs to her feet.

“Oh no—” She hesitates, torn between dignity and alarm. “That is not merely a paper.”