MB Chapter 5

The waltz. The orchestra had begun without waiting for Goiyo to take the Marquess's hand—as though the dance beginning were simply the natural order of things.

With the Emperor's blessing already given, who in this room could refuse? Goiyo, without much alternative, took his hand.

The consternation went behind her face. Around them the quiet filled in—instruments, whispered voices braiding together.

She had not danced in years. Her body had not forgotten.

A firm arm circled her waist and drew her in—so close she was nearly held. Goiyo drew a short breath.

Grey eyes remained fixed on her as the Marquess opened his mouth. This close, his voice—low, unhurried—seemed to fill her body rather than the room.

"I regret that this is how our first introduction goes. I am Entzi Bethelgius."

His voice, threaded through with breath, was lower and deeper than she remembered. She had thought Therio's voice low—but beside the Marquess, it felt, in retrospect, light.

"…That is an odd thing to say, for someone who did not hesitate. Goiyo Rubiette."

“You do not appear surprised, my lady.”

“Of course I was.”

She meant it. Even an event one has braced for—or believed one had braced for—carries its own shock when it arrives. She doubted that anyone could be entirely unmoved when something certain failed to be certain.

Whether it was the unease or the faint sense of being at risk, her eyes kept wanting to slide away from his. Moving in time with the music, Goiyo tried not to.

As though mocking the effort, long eyes curved into a slight narrowing.

"I have been hoping to arrange a private moment with you, but going out to the terrace seemed too conspicuous."

"And so you chose to speak here, with everyone watching?"

"It is quite a fine place to hide words, wouldn't you say?"

True enough. Two people dancing in the center of the ballroom, whispering to one another—no one within earshot could catch it. Whatever they said, it would remain between them.

'Why has he danced with me instead?'

Thinking about it simply: because Goiyo Rubiette was here tonight. Unlike before, she had come to the ball—and she had already broken her engagement to Therio. That much made it easier.

But then.

'Will it go the same way this time?'

Would the Marquess still propose to her? She had only now thought to question it. She had assumed without much examination that because Bethelgius had put forward marriage negotiations in her previous life, he would do so again. And with the engagement already dissolved, she had thought the path smoother than before.

But the Marquess was, by any account, a man of considerable caprice. It was possible—possibly even likely—that in her previous life, he had pushed forward the proposal specifically because she had been engaged to Therio. Perhaps it had been nothing more than wanting to scratch at House Alte and House Rubiette both in a single move.

What is he actually after? Whatever the reason, if his behavior was different this time—

Fatigue pressed in suddenly, and her brow ached behind the bone. She stopped thinking and asked directly.

"What is it you wish to say, Marquess?"

“I understand you have broken your engagement with Lord Alte, Lady Rubiette.”

The nerve of him.

Without pausing for her reply, the Marquess leaned closer and asked again. Do you love him?

Under her lipstick, the color at Goiyo's mouth had gone out. She made herself answer.

"…I did."

"That sounds rather like the past tense."

"The Marquess does enjoy wordplay."

"Oh dear. And does Lady Rubiette dislike it?"

The Marquess's hand pressed hers back, and the two hands separated for a beat before meeting again.

They were near the end of the piece. Moving with the Marquess's lead, Goiyo rested her hand on his shoulder.

"Did you pull me onto this floor for a few moments of wordplay?"

"And what does Lady Rubiette think brought me here?"

"Marquess."

Spin. The skirt flared as she turned, spreading wide before gathering back against her legs all at once.

A step back. The hand on his shoulder again. Eyes the color of dark soil looked up at him directly.

"I know considerably more than you imagine."

"Lady Rubiette?"

"And."

Her red lips had barely begun to open when the violins stopped. The moment the music cut, light applause moved in to fill the space it left.

Well. That is that. Goiyo exhaled. Relief or disappointment—she could not have said which.

"The dance is over."

"Wait just a—"

Excuse me. Before Bethelgius could finish what had been coming, Goiyo turned and walked. She was gone into the crowd before he could follow.

The Marquess watched her go, and lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.

"She ran."

The terrace door opened. The ball had barely started, and the terrace was almost empty. For Goiyo, that was fortunate.

"Huu."

Cold air. The ache behind her eyes eased a little. She pressed her back against the wall beside the door and put her fingers to her forehead.

She had been so occupied with settling the matter of Therio Alte that she had not given much thought to anything else. She hadn’t taken any of it seriously—dream or not, real or not, she’d never quite been able to decide.

But anyway.

Time had passed. Everything remained vivid in the way real things remain vivid.

If this were a dream, it would not have stretched this long. If this were hell, she would not have been able to break the engagement with Therio.

An impossible premise—that she had returned to the past—was acquiring, piece by piece, a bizarre and mounting credibility. She could not choose not to believe it.

'What is the Marquess thinking?'

The exchange during the waltz had amounted to no more than a handful of inconsequential words. Rather than simply securing the entry-examination privilege—which he could have done without drawing any notice—he had made a spectacle of himself over a dance. What had been the point?

Pure caprice, maybe. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

'Should I go back inside.'

She could not read the Marquess's intentions, and in any case—she thought, turning it over—what did his intentions matter? Whatever his reasoning, the outcome was the same.

Bethelgius's wish to see House Rubiette destroyed would not change.

Whether for political reasons or personal grievance, whether she knew the cause or not—in a year's time, Bethelgius would bring Rubiette down.

If the end is the same either way, the path doesn’t matter.

Half because she had decided to let everything be, half because she had arrived at her own sufficient reasons, Goiyo had made up her mind to leave it all alone. If she just let things carry her along, it would end when it ended.

She had just decided to go home when the terrace door opened again.

She had already meant to leave. Whoever was coming in could not concern her. Without checking who it was, Goiyo straightened her clothes—but the voice that followed was one she knew.

“Hey. You okay?”

"…Therio."

"You look like your head is hurting."

Therio Alte was watching her with an expression of concern.

The fatigue she had been holding off settled back in, heavy in her chest. Goiyo blinked at it twice and answered without much force.

“I’m fine.”

“What did Bethelgius want? The look on your face after—”

“Nothing. Small talk. It’s not your business.”

“He wouldn’t make that kind of scene over small talk.”

What does it matter to you. She swallowed it and changed direction.

"Why are you here? Where is Melishi?"

"Melishi? Lord Rubiette is with her—I'm your partner tonight."

"I didn't know a partner could matter more than a fiancée."

"Don't say it like that, Goiyo."

I arranged everything for you to have this, and you come chasing me down. She did not laugh. Only because she was tired.

Without an answer, Therio's face—something that had been rare since the return—went taut.

“You’ve been weird lately.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. Something’s…I don’t know. There’s just this distance.”

"Not weird. Different. Huu—I don't want to have this conversation. I need to rest. Move. Or I will."

Goiyo moved to pass Therio, but Therio stepped to block her. There was still incomprehension on his face.

Therio’s face had gone hard.

"Different how."

By now even Goiyo could not entirely hold her irritation back.

She couldn’t understand what he thought he was doing. She had offered the breakup herself and had gone so far as to bring him and Melishi together—and he was cornering her on a terrace over it. Wasn’t this exactly the time he should be occupied with Melishi?

Even if she had drawn attention to herself with the Marquess, what Therio was doing—following her out here, pressing her—was not concern. It was presumption.

The moment she broke the engagement she had shed every last thread of obligation toward him. His behavior felt all the more galling now, without that weight.

Instead of swallowing it—as she always had—she answered back. With an edge she had not permitted herself before.

"Did you really believe that a version of me who loves you and a version of me who doesn't would be exactly the same?"

"Goiyo—!"

"Step aside before I have to say it a third time."

Goiyo moved to push past him again, but Therio caught her shoulder. His face had not cleared.

"Even if we’re not together, we’re still friends. We’ve known each other for over ten years. Why are you suddenly—"

Suddenly.

Goiyo's eyes went cold and still. Of course the Therio standing here knew nothing of the years she had spent—but even so, the word landed like something she could not simply let lie.

'Seven years, for me.'

The years came back: all the years after she had given up on him entirely—when the only thing that kept her there was the grinding endurance of staying. She knew in her head it wasn’t her fault. Her heart had never accepted it. And still she had stayed, waiting only for someone new to stand beside him—so that she could finally stop.

All of it—all of Goiyo Alte’s years of gritting and suffering—crumpled into a used tissue and thrown away.

'Did he even think, after I was gone—that I just died out of nowhere? That I had been fine and then suddenly wasn't?'

He would not have known it was a suicide. He might have thought it a kind of justice, a natural consequence.

She knew her fury was not entirely rational. But the feeling, vivid and long-absent, swallowed what remained of her reason.

Goiyo had almost shouted when someone removed Therio's arm from her shoulder.

She had not heard anyone come in—the voices had been rising—and her eyes went wide.

The swollen feeling punctured. Everything drained out of her at once, as abruptly as it had come.

"Did I arrive at the right moment?"

Entzi Bethelgius. The Marquess looked from Goiyo back to himself and asked.

Goiyo answered on instinct.

"…You did say the eyes on you were something to be feared. You change your mind quickly, Marquess."

"My fear remains intact. I overcame it to come to your aid."

Bethelgius lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug.

"Or I have come to interrupt Lady Rubiette's love affair."

"That is not a funny joke."

"How unfortunate. If Lady Rubiette were from the eastern provinces, she would have called it rather amusing."

“Who wouldn’t laugh at a warmonger’s jokes?”

The remark had an edge to it, but the Marquess looked, unexpectedly, amused. Strange sense of humor, Goiyo thought, privately.

"Marquess, Goiyo and I are in the middle of something. If you have business, I would ask that you come at another time."

"Ah—Lord Alte, was it?"

"Yes. Therio Alte."

Standing excluded from his own scene, Therio shook off the Marquess's hand and answered with force. A plain stare in lieu of open aggression—but the Marquess did not match it. Instead he turned a leisurely smile on Therio and addressed him calmly. My lord.

“Is that what you call conversation—forcing words on someone who has no wish to hear them?”

“Marquess.”

Long fingers pointed, without drama, toward the door.

“The one who should be leaving is you, my lord.”