The Shadow in the Corridor
Gareth had been studying his half-sister’s profile with a suspicious eye when, all at once, he felt a surge of irritation at himself for paying so much attention to every little move of this worthless creature. He turned his head away.
What did it matter what rattled around inside that skull of hers? The day he took the throne, she was a presence he would wipe from this world for good. He only had to endure until then.
As if erasing his sister’s bothersome existence, he tipped back the harsh wine and drank it down in greedy gulps.
Thalia feigned a look of boredom as she brought the wine to her lips. Then she noticed the faint tremor in her fingertips and set the glass down at once. Straining to appear as natural as she could, she hid her hands beneath the table and wet her parched lips.
The place where Barcas had touched her burned as if it had caught fire. Even though bare skin had never met bare skin. The hard press of bone and joint, felt through cold leather gloves, seemed to have sunk straight into the flesh beneath.
She forced strength into shoulders that kept wanting to hunch, and rubbed her sweat-damp palms against her skirts. The moisture-soaked fabric clung to her skin.
A wave of dismay crashed over her. The dress she had chosen to provoke Gareth’s temper now felt as though it were closing around her own throat.
She clenched her fists tight, feeling the exposed line of her shoulders and back prickle. She knew perfectly well that man could not be looking at her—and still her nerves stood on end until they hurt.
Thalia fought down, with everything she had, the urge to glance over her shoulder and see where he was looking. Years of performance let her assemble a passable mask of composure, but she could do nothing about the sweat that kept beading along her skin.
Feeling the thin scrap of cloth stick to her like a film of viscous liquid, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Choosing this dress had been a truly stupid decision.
“Is the food not to your liking?”
The sudden voice made Thalia’s shoulders jump. The young monk seated across from her was watching her steadily.
The abbot, was it? She gave a deliberate little shrug.
“Rather shabby, compared to what I used to eat at the palace.”
At her indifferent reply, the monk’s face twisted faintly.
She turned her head with a sharp flick—leave me alone—and picked up a small piece of cake. If she made a show of eating something, he would stop talking to her for no reason. With that thought she pushed the crumbly thing into her mouth and chewed and swallowed it mechanically. It was like swallowing sponge.
She forced down the rising nausea and took a sip of wine. Then she noticed several monks staring at her with sticky persistence and frowned. Those clinging gazes felt more revolting than the greasy food.
She rose abruptly from her seat.
“This is a disappointing banquet. I think I’ll go back and try to sleep.”
Gareth sent her an irritated look. On any other night she would have thrown a few more words just to scrape at her brother’s insides, but she felt bile rising and could not stand there a moment longer.
She left the hall at once. Once she was free of the space thick with the smell of oil, wine, and burning candles, her churning stomach seemed to settle a little.
Drawing a deep breath, Thalia brushed the cold sweat from her damp forehead and walked on along the corridor with soft, measured steps.
The chilled night air swept down the length of her spine. Wrapping her arms around the gooseflesh of her forearms, she quickened her pace a little.
There were moments when she could not understand why she did these things. What meaning was there in putting herself on display under people’s eyes and stirring up trouble?
“The Crown Prince seems utterly unable to tolerate your existence. Sometimes I think he finds you even harder to accept than I do.”
Senebier’s voice, once murmured with quiet satisfaction, drifted faintly to her ear.
It had probably been the day of the late Empress Bernadette’s memorial.
Led by her mother’s hand into the gathering, Thalia had watched Gareth lose every scrap of reason.
Nobles recoiled in horror and tried to restrain him as he screamed and closed his hands around the young princess’s throat, but the Crown Prince did not so much as flinch. It took two knights rushing in to finally drag him off her.
Barely freed from those vicious fingers, Thalia had crawled to her mother’s feet and curled in on herself. Senebier had wrapped her arms around her as if in protection.
The rush of relief that nearly brought tears lasted only a moment—Thalia saw a look of pleased satisfaction flicker across Senebier’s face.
It must have been from that day. That she began, whenever the chance presented itself, to provoke Gareth.
Her already rock-bottom reputation had plummeted to the worst, but it did not matter. The Crown Prince’s reputation would take a blow as well, and then Mother would be pleased.
A hollow laugh burst suddenly from her lungs. Even reduced to this, she found herself ridiculous for thrashing so hard after a single handful of affection.
Even if she ground the Crown Prince’s honor into the dirt, Senebier would never love her.
Mother loved no one. Not the Emperor—and not even Asros, whom she cherished so fiercely.
To her, everything was only a tool and a means. Perhaps it was precisely because Thalia knew this so well that she kept repeating these acts. If she failed to prove her usefulness, she would truly become nothing to her at all…
“Your Highness.”
The sudden voice snapped Thalia out of her thoughts.
She turned her head. A pitch-black shape stood tall against one side of the dark corridor. The moment she recognized it as the monk who had been staring at her so persistently in the banquet hall, her body went rigid.
Did he follow me?
She carefully scanned her surroundings. Not so much as a rat showed itself along the long corridor that led to the garden. The realization that he had trailed her in silence until they reached this secluded stretch sent a cold dread crawling over her skin.
“What do you want?”
Thalia worked to keep any fear from her face and put on a deliberately lofty tone.
Fortunately, the bluff seemed to land; she felt the monk hesitate. She fixed him with a cutting look, hoping he would simply turn and flee.
“I asked what your business is.”
“B-because of what you said earlier…”
The monk mumbled.
She furrowed her brow.
“What did I say?”
“Th-that is… earlier, in the banquet hall…”
The man who had been writhing so disgustingly flushed his freckled face scarlet and kept casting her lewd, sidelong glances.
Thalia locked strength into her legs so she would not step back. Show weakness and the other party only pressed harder. She lifted her chin with arrogant poise.
“I can’t make the slightest sense of what you’re saying. If you have no particular business, I’ll be on my way.”
“Y-you said you wanted to live up to His Highness the Crown Prince’s expectations… d-didn’t you?”
The man blurted it out in a rush.
Thalia, already turning toward the garden, hesitated and looked back at him. Had he actually chased after her because of the words she had thrown out in provocation—answering Gareth’s threat not to toy with the priests?
All at once, as if cold water had been dashed down her back, a chill ran the length of her spine.