MB Chapter 5

A waltz. The orchestra began before Goiyo had so much as taken the Marquess's hand—as though the dance had already been settled, as though its beginning were simply a matter of course.

Not that anyone would dare refuse, not after the Emperor himself had given his blessing. Goiyo took the Marquess's hand.

Beneath an expression of perfect composure, bewilderment crept into hiding. At the same moment, the watching hush of the ballroom began to fill again—thin threads of music weaving together with the murmur of whispered voices.

Her face betrayed nothing, though inwardly Goiyo was somewhat tense. Years had passed since she had last danced, and yet her body moved as though it had never forgotten.

A firm arm curved around her waist and drew her in. The man had come so near she was almost held against his chest, and Goiyo drew a shallow breath.

Her grey eyes remained fixed on him without flinching. When the Marquess opened his mouth, he was close enough that his low whisper seemed to fill her from the inside out.

"I regret that our first introduction should come in such a manner. I am Entzi Bethelgius."

His voice, breathed more than spoken, was lower and deeper than she remembered. She had always thought Therio's voice low—but beside the Marquess, it would have seemed almost light.

"...For all that, you didn't hesitate. Goiyo Rubiette."

"You don't appear to be surprised, my lady."

"How could I not be?"

She answered in earnest. It was nothing of great consequence, perhaps—but no one could be entirely free of surprise when something they had been certain would happen did not occur.

Whether it was the embarrassment or the faint edge of unease, holding his gaze felt like too much. Moving with the music, Goiyo made a deliberate effort not to look away.

As if mocking that effort, the long lines of his eyes narrowed slightly.

"I had hoped to arrange a moment alone with you, my lady. But the terrace—too many watching eyes."

"And so you chose to speak in full view of the entire room instead?"

"Is there not a better place to hide one's words?"

True enough. Two people dancing at the center of a ballroom, whispering to each other—no one could possibly overhear. And even if someone managed it, they would catch only ordinary conversation.

But why had the Marquess asked her to dance this time, when in the past he had not?

The simplest answer: because Goiyo Rubiette was here tonight. Unlike before, she had attended the ball—and more than that, she had broken off her engagement with Therio.

But.

'Would he do the same this time?'

Would the Marquess propose to her again? The question arrived, somewhat belatedly, with genuine weight.

She had assumed it without much deliberation—that because Bethelgius had put forward a marriage proposal in her previous life, he would do so again. And now that she had broken even the engagement with Therio, it would surely be simpler.

Yet Marquess Bethelgius was known, even by reputation alone, to be a capricious man.

Perhaps the reason he had troubled himself to propose to Goiyo before was precisely because she had still been engaged to Therio at the time.

Simply to get under the skin of the Altes or the Rubiettes—whichever it happened to be.

What were his intentions now? Whatever the reason, if his actions were to differ from what she knew—what then?

A sudden weariness swept through her. The ridge of her brow ached. She stopped trying to puzzle it out and asked directly.

"What is it you wish to say, my lord?"

"I understand you have broken off your engagement to Lord Alte, Lady Rubiette."

An extraordinarily rude man.

Without waiting for Goiyo to finish, he brought his face closer and asked again. Do you love him?

Beneath her lip color, Goiyo's lips had gone pale. She pressed them open with effort.

"...I did love him."

"That sounds rather as if you no longer do."

"It seems the Marquess enjoys wordplay."

"My, does my lady dislike it?"

Bethelgius's hand nudged hers aside. For a moment their hands separated—and then came together again.

The piece was drawing to its close. Following the man's lead, Goiyo placed her hand on his shoulder.

"You put me on display before the entire room simply for a few games with words?"

"And what does my lady believe my reason was for bringing her here?"

"My lord."

She turned—swish—and her skirts bloomed wide before closing around her legs in a single sweep.

One step back, then her hand back on his shoulder. Dark eyes looked steadily up at him.

"I know considerably more than you imagine."

"My lady?"

"And—"

Her red lips had barely parted when the violins fell silent. The moment the orchestra stopped, a light scattering of applause rushed in to fill the quiet.

Well. It's done. Goiyo exhaled. Whether it was relief or something else, she couldn't have said.

"The dance is over."

"Just one moment—"

Pardon me. Without waiting for a response from a Bethelgius who had not yet received an answer, Goiyo turned away.

The Marquess watched her disappear into the crowd and gave a slight shrug.

"She ran away."

The terrace doors opened. The ball had not long been underway, and the terrace was nearly empty. That, at least, was in Goiyo's favor.

"Phew."

The cold air did something for the throbbing in her head. She leaned against the wall beside the door and pressed her fingers to her temple.

In her urgency to put the matter of Therio Alte to rest, she had given little thought to anything else.

Partly because the whole thing still felt uncertain—dream or something else—and she had not been able to take it entirely seriously. But whatever the case.

Quite a long time had passed, and yet everything remained vivid. As real as life itself.

If it were a dream, it would not have stretched this long. If it were a hell, she could not have broken the engagement with Therio.

That impossible premise—that she had returned to the past—was steadily accumulating a strange and undeniable weight. She could no longer not believe it.

'What is the Marquess thinking?'

The conversation during their dance had amounted to nothing more than a few empty pleasantries.

In her previous life, she had managed at least to secure an audition token—something of practical use. So why had he drawn such conspicuous attention to himself by asking her to dance?

Perhaps simply a whim. Leaning against the wall as she was, Goiyo closed her eyes.

'I should go back.'

She could not read the Marquess's intentions—and truthfully, whatever they were, it made little difference in the end.

If Bethelgius chose not to propose, then things would unfold differently from what she had planned. But the outcome would be the same.

His desire to destroy House Rubiette would not change.

Whether it was political calculation or private grievance, she did not know the cause—but in one year's time, Bethelgius would bring House Rubiette to ruin.

If the ending is fixed, the path there hardly matters.

Half in resignation, and half in reasoning she could not entirely fault, Goiyo decided to leave everything to chance. Whatever happened, an end would come.

She had just resolved to return to the mansion when the terrace doors opened again.

She had been planning to leave anyway, so it made little difference who entered. Without looking to see who it was, Goiyo straightened her dress—but the voice that reached her was familiar.

"Are you all right, Goiyo?"

"...Therio."

"You look like your head is hurting."

Therio Alte was watching her with something that looked like concern.

The weariness that had begun to ease returned, settling heavy and full. She blinked twice through fatigue-weighted eyes and answered without feeling.

"No—not really."

"Why did Marquess Bethelgius ask you to dance? What did he say to you? Your expression was—"

"It was only small talk. Don't trouble yourself."

"He'd never cause that sort of scene for small talk."

What concern is it of yours. She swallowed the sharp words and changed the subject.

"Why are you here? Where is Melishi?"

"What does Melishi have to do with it—her escort is His Grace the Duke, and I'm your partner tonight."

"I didn't realize a partner ranked higher than a fiancée."

"Don't say that, Goiyo."

After everything she had done to bring them together. Goiyo refrained from laughing only because she was too tired.

When no answer came, Therio's face—something rare since her return—went rigid.

"You've been a little strange lately."

"Strange?"

"Yes—I'm not sure how to put it, but... it feels as though there's a distance between us."

"Not strange. Different. Hff. I don't want to have this conversation. I want to rest. Please go—or rather, I'll go, so step aside."

Goiyo moved to leave the terrace, to slip past Therio, but Therio Alte stepped directly into her path.

His expression had sharpened considerably. He pressed her for an answer.

"Different how."

By now Goiyo could no longer suppress her irritation.

She had ended the engagement herself—had even brought him and Melishi together—and still Therio was here, doing this. She could not comprehend it. Should he not be at Melishi's side, too consumed with love to spare a thought for anything else?

Even if she had drawn rather too much attention thanks to the Marquess, it was not concern but impertinence to chase her to the terrace and make demands when they were no longer even engaged.

Having returned to the past and severed the engagement, she had shed every last vestige of obligation she had ever felt toward Therio—and that made his behavior all the more insufferable.

Instead of swallowing her irritation as she always had, Goiyo turned back on him, her words cut sharp.

"Then did you truly believe that a Goiyo who loves you and a Goiyo who does not love you would be one and the same?"

"Goiyo—!"

"Move aside before I call someone. I won't say it again."

Goiyo made another attempt to push past him, but Therio caught her by the shoulder. His expression was still that of a man who did not understand.

"Even if we're not lovers, we're friends. We've known each other for more than ten years. Why are you suddenly like this!"

Suddenly.

Goiyo's eyes blazed cold and bright. It was only natural that the Therio before her knew nothing of what those years had cost her—and yet, the fury that rose in her was fierce.

'It was seven years for me!'

She remembered those days—enduring on sheer obligation alone, after every feeling she had held for Therio Alte had finally gone cold and hollow. Holding on, and on, and on, until Therio found a new love, until someone was at his side. Until she could let go.

She had understood in her mind that it had not been her fault. Her heart had never been convinced. And still she had endured.

All those days of Goiyo Alte's endurance—all that suffering—collapsed in an instant into something she might have crumpled in her fist.

Had he thought the same even after her death? That she had died out of nowhere, for no reason?

He wouldn't even know it had been a choice. He might think it was some kind of deserved fate.

Goiyo Rubiette knew her anger was not entirely rational—but the feeling, deep and rare as it was, had swallowed her reason whole.

She had very nearly shouted—could feel it rising in her throat—when someone pulled Therio's arm away.

The voices had climbed so high she hadn't heard anyone enter. Goiyo's eyes went wide.

Like a pin pressed into a swollen balloon, the storm of feeling drained out of her. Suddenly. Completely.

"Did I arrive at the right moment?"

Entzi Bethelgius. The Marquess turned toward Goiyo and asked.

She opened her mouth on instinct.

"...You said you feared people's watching eyes—and yet you've changed your tune already."

"I still fear them. I overcame my fear to come to my lady's aid."

Bethelgius added a slight shrug:

"Or perhaps I came to interfere with my lady's romance."

"That isn't funny."

"I'm sorry to hear it. Had my lady been from the east, she might have called it quite funny."

"Who wouldn't laugh at the jokes of a warmonger?"

It was a barbed remark—but the Marquess was smiling. A strange man, to enjoy that kind of humor, Goiyo thought.

"My lord, Goiyo and I are in the middle of a conversation. If you have business, I would ask that you wait."

"Ah—was that Lord Alte?"

"Yes. Therio Alte."

Plainly displeased at being dismissed, Therio shook the Marquess's hand from his arm and spoke firmly.

The look Therio directed at the Marquess was openly challenging—but the Marquess did not match it. Instead, his expression settled into a slow, easy smile as he addressed Therio.

"My lord. Is it your custom to call what you are doing—pouring words at someone who has no wish to hear them—a conversation?"

"My lord Marquess—"

His long fingers pointed toward the terrace doors.

"I believe the one who ought to leave is you, my lord."