A Formal Kiss
Thalia picked at the hangnail beside her nail. Sweat beaded on her forehead and traced a slow path down her temple. Barcas grasped her shoulder and turned her body toward him with deliberate care. The long, firm fingers of one hand cupped her cheek.
She could not bring herself to meet his eyes and fixed her gaze on his chin instead. A moment later his face descended. Warm, impossibly soft lips brushed the corner of her mouth and lifted away again. It was the lightest of kisses, no more than a breeze, the barest contact required by form. That fleeting touch, hardly worthy of the name, sliced her heart into tiny pieces.
“I hereby declare the ceremony concluded.”
With the priest’s final words, polite applause rippled through the hall. Thalia lifted her trembling eyes to Barcas. His expressionless face studied her with unreadable intensity. What could he possibly be searching for?
After a long moment he turned toward the guests. Only then did Thalia release the breath she had been holding. His arm circled her waist as they crossed the hall together. Ghostly faces drifted past in the slow procession: Gareth’s eyes gleaming with eerie satisfaction, the emperor looking troubled, Senebier wearing a satisfied smile. Countless shadows flowed like a river until the dark, rain-streaked sky opened above them.
“Bring my coat.”
Barcas halted at the chapel entrance and spoke to the waiting knight. The man immediately offered the garment draped over his arm. Barcas settled the coat over Thalia’s shoulders, then bent and lifted her effortlessly with one arm. She flung her arms around his neck to keep from falling backward; the soft, soap-scented strands of his hair brushed her nose.
One hand supporting her back, he began to walk slowly through the rain. Thalia watched silver droplets cling to his face before turning her gaze toward the garden, where an ominous shadow had settled.
“……Where are we going?”
“I have arranged temporary lodgings outside the palace,” he answered, his stride unhurried. “We will remain there until we depart for the east.”
Confusion clouded Thalia’s expression. Was this truly how a wedding ended? Senebier had certainly prepared a lavish reception; the entire palace had buzzed for days with preparations for the banquet hall and the feast. Guests had come to see him as well. Could they simply abandon all of it and leave?
“We have done what was required. There is no reason to remain as spectacle any longer.”
His voice, carrying a chill, pulled her back to reality. He was right. This marriage was nothing more than vulgar gossip fodder—the crippled illegitimate princess, the swapped bride, the pitiful groom who had overnight become an object of pity rather than envy. She could imagine the whispers without hearing them.
Barcas had no obligation to endure such humiliation. Even the emperor could not demand that level of sacrifice from the future ruler of the east. He stopped before a carriage bearing the Sierkan family crest, its wheels sunk in muddy ruts. The attendant leapt down and opened the door. Barcas stepped inside and set her gently on the thickly cushioned seat.
Thalia regarded the rain-soaked Barcas with wide, unfamiliar eyes. He took the seat opposite, tugged loose the high collar of his formal attire, and exhaled a weary breath. Water droplets traced a path from his hairline across his brow to gather at the corner of his eye. That gaze, still damp yet somehow dry, fixed steadily on her.
“How is your leg?”
Thalia’s lips twitched. His excessive concern grated on her. Gareth’s mocking voice echoed in her ears: the cripple who had stolen his place at Barcas’s side. She chewed the tender flesh inside her cheek. I know. I already know. So why keep reminding me?
“It’s still attached, so stop worrying about it.”
The sharp retort made his eyes narrow fractionally. She turned her head toward the window, but a damp finger caught her chin and turned it back.
“I asked whether it hurts.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Then she struck his hand away. “Would that make you feel better?”
“……”
“What can I do? Not a single day has passed without pain since that day.”
She stared into his mask-like face and spat the words like a wasp’s sting. “So stop scratching at it with pointless questions. It’s irritating.”
His lips, which had touched hers only moments before, pressed into a cold line. Having silenced him with cruel words, she found herself choking on his silence. Thalia bit her dry lips. Cold indifference was still preferable to pity. The lukewarm kindness that had flooded her since her leg had become this way was the most unbearable thing of all.
To mask her unease she snapped again. “Are we leaving or not? Do you plan to spend the night here?”
Barcas regarded her for a long moment, then turned and rapped lightly on the carriage wall. The crack of the whip soon followed, and the carriage began to roll forward. Through the fogged glass Thalia watched the rain-drenched garden slide past—an unfamiliar landscape that had never once felt like home. She stared blankly until her body was suddenly lifted and settled onto the soft seat once more.
Startled, she looked up. Barcas had laid her across the wide bench. He reached behind the backrest, drew out the cloak embroidered with the Roem Knights’ crest, and draped it over her.
“It will be a long journey. You should try to sleep.”
She reached to fling the cloak aside, but he was faster. His hand closed around hers and pressed it to the seat. Looking down at her still-drugged eyes, he spoke in the rough tone he had sometimes used in their teens.
“Don’t be stubborn. Sleep. And don’t make people uneasy with those unfocused eyes.”
Thalia flinched at the threatening voice, then pulled the cloak up to her nose. Barcas watched her for a moment before exhaling a tired sigh and returning to the opposite seat. An inexplicable urge to cry welled up inside her. She buried her face in the fabric that carried his scent and closed her eyes.
At some point she must have dozed off. When the carriage’s jolting finally ceased, Thalia pressed a hand to her throbbing forehead and rubbed her gritty eyes. Blinking them open, she found the interior empty. She sat up with a start, panic widening her eyes as she searched for Barcas. From outside came a rough voice laced with the clink of metal.
“What do you intend to do with the First Princess?”
Thalia stiffened and pressed herself against the window. Beyond the rain-beaded glass the evening sky had cleared. Beneath the reddish twilight stood a massive stone building and a dozen men. Barcas was easy to spot among them—the man with his back to the sunset spoke in a dry tone.
“What is the purpose of that question?”
“Are you truly planning to abandon her like this……?”
“An odd thing to say.”
A sharp sneer sliced through the damp air.
“Her engagement to me was arranged from the beginning to keep the Empress in check.”
“……”
“There are other ways to protect the two of them besides marriage.”
“What do you mean……?”
Confusion colored the man’s voice, but Barcas had no intention of elaborating. He cut the knight off irritably.
“Was I in any position to be interrogated by you?”
“M-my apologies. I overstepped.”
The man bowed his head at once. Barcas looked down at him with cold eyes before speaking again in a flat voice.
“Nothing changes. Continue monitoring the Empress’s movements as you have been. And if His Highness the Crown Prince appears likely to attempt anything reckless, report to me immediately.”
“Understood.”
As though the matter were settled, Barcas turned away. Thalia hurriedly lay back down on the seat. Before she could even feign sleep beneath the cloak, however, the carriage door opened and Barcas appeared. She stared up at him with frozen eyes.