MB Chapter 6

Therio Alte left the terrace. His expression was frighteningly subdued—but he went, with unexpected docility.

Probably, Goiyo decided, because he had no wish to draw attention to a quarrel between two people who had already broken their engagement. Or perhaps, as a nobleman who had not inherited a title, he found the weight of the Marquess's rank too much to oppose.

Thank you. Whatever else might be said, she had received help. Goiyo offered a brief acknowledgment.

Instead of answering, the Marquess smiled and walked toward the balustrade. The distance made conversation awkward, so Goiyo followed a few steps.

The Marquess's gaze traveled upward. Without particular intention, Goiyo looked up as well—and there was the moon.

At the center of the black night, a reddish moon had risen. Darker, even, than the Marquess's hair.

"A witch's moon out tonight. They say strange things happen on nights like these."

The witch's moon.

Ordinarily, the moon held a pale yellow light—but there were nights when it appeared red.

When the mana that drifted on the currents of the atmosphere stalled for reasons unknown, the concentrations in the air grew dense, and the moon on those nights appeared darker than usual.

The moon that rose on such nights, people called the witch's moon.

Whether the supersaturation of mana was the cause, strange occurrences often followed in the wake of a witch's moon. Bizarre phenomena lying entirely beyond the reach of human magic—manifesting in thoroughly irregular forms.

'A disagreeable moon.'

Goiyo's expression tightened. The witch's moon had risen on the night Goiyo Alte closed her eyes. And on the night Goiyo Rubiette opened hers.

She had not been ready to believe she had returned to the past—but beneath the slow, creeping acceptance of it as something real, there had always been the red moon.

"On stormy nights it is said to be spiteful, and on clear nights without cloud, generous... Fortunately, tonight the sky is clear."

"Didn't you come here to say something?"

Marquess Bethelgius seemed to enjoy letting conversation drift wherever it pleased—Goiyo steered it back.

Only then did Bethelgius turn his gaze from the moon to her.

Neither Entzi Bethelgius nor Goiyo Rubiette had red eyes, but under the moon's influence, both pairs held a faint rose tint.

Eyes of similar hue met each other.

"I regret that we couldn't finish our conversation earlier, but..."

The tips of the Marquess's fingers brushed Goiyo's forehead briefly and withdrew. She stepped back on instinct—and felt the balustrade press into her back.

"Your condition appears poor, my lady. I'll leave it for another time."

For today. The man smiled and turned to go.

Not once but twice—to leave having said nothing but pleasantries?

Goiyo frowned. She had decided to leave things to chance, but even so—the Marquess prowling before her and then holding his tongue was maddening.

If his purpose was to give her some interior ailment through sheer irritation, then he was a man of considerable talent even in his games.

Before the Marquess had taken two steps, Goiyo called out to him.

"My lord."

"Yes, my lady?"

"Are you intending to propose to me?"

His steps halted. He turned his head slowly to look at her—and the smile that had been in place all evening was gone from his face.

He was expressionless, but not twisted by it. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost as though he were speaking only to himself. So that was what you meant. When you said you knew.

"Well—if I were known to be seeking closer ties with the nobility faction, then I suppose it would be natural for you to anticipate it."

"I don't intend to attend any further balls for the time being, so there will be few occasions for us to cross paths. If you have an intention, I would prefer you state it now."

"...And if I do, my lady—"

Entzi Bethelgius closed the distance in a single stride. He planted his hands on the balustrade on either side of her—the railing at her back, nowhere to retreat—as though she had been enclosed within his arms. Beneath the cold night air, something reached her now: a perfume, or something else, a personal scent she could not name.

It must have been drowned out by everything else inside the ballroom.

The scent itself was not strong, but at this distance it was more than sufficient. It irritated her, and Goiyo pressed her lips together.

And still he did not stop. The Marquess bent slightly at the waist and tilted his head just a little, as if he might close that last distance—whether his purpose was to unsettle her or simply to amuse himself, he looked down at her with a smile on his face.

"Would my lady accept my proposal?"

The dark lashes trembled, very slightly. The scent was ornate and unwelcome; the headache she'd carried all evening hadn't lifted; the cold air was raising a faint chill across her skin.

By now, the Marquess's conduct felt less like genuine intention and more like a game played at her expense.

And more than all of it put together—she hated the situation itself.

She had thrown her life away in resignation, and her marriage along with it—and yet the way things were unfolding, it looked for all the world as though she were earnestly yearning to be wed to this man. That, above everything else, was insufferable.

Unable to bear it any longer, Goiyo Rubiette seized the face that was right in front of her. And before Marquess Bethelgius had any chance to pull away, she brought her own face close to his and—

Entzi Bethelgius startled back, but by then it was already done.

For the first time all evening, the Marquess looked genuinely flustered. He lifted his hand to cover his own mouth. He was so surprised that even the tips of his fingers were trembling slightly.

"I accept, gladly. The Marquess's proposal."

"M—my lady...?"

"Please see that the formal proposal is not too long in coming."

Now that the insufferable composure had cracked, things felt somewhat better. With a considerably more satisfied expression, Goiyo Rubiette walked past him and out through the terrace doors. She had no further business with him.

She left her family behind—Therio included—and returned to the ducal estate, where she lay down directly on her bed.

What she had taken for an ordinary stress-induced headache had, on the way home, turned into a proper fever.

Only when she pressed her fingers to her own forehead and felt the heat rising there did she understand what the Marquess had been doing, earlier that evening, when he had briefly touched her temple with his fingertips.

"I love you, Therio."

A year had passed before the confession was returned—and yet Therio Alte's face held no change.

Anxiety spread through Goiyo's already-tense heart. She had believed his feelings were unchanged. Surely he hadn't altered in the space of one year—

But the brief fear was made meaningless almost at once. Tears fell from that expressionless face.

"Therio...?"

"Goiyo, thank you. I'll be good to you. I really—I really will be good to you."

"No—I'll be good to you too. Don't cry, it's all right."

"I'm not crying. Who said anything about crying."

His face was entirely wet with tears, however. To wipe them away, Goiyo produced her handkerchief and reached for him—only for her beloved to spin and dodge, too busy hiding his face to hold still.

Goiyo, possessed now by stubbornness, moved her hand more earnestly—but there was no chance of reaching the face of a capable knight simply by being determined about it.

She gave up on the tears. And then the absurdity of the moment overtook her, and a laugh broke out of her. Clear and unguarded.

Enough to make Therio's eyes—which had been too occupied with evasion to stay in one place—fix on her despite themselves.

Therio pulled her into his arms without warning.

"Kyah! What's gotten into you!"

"I love you. This time it's real. I'll love you forever—it will never change. Goiyo. I love you, I love you."

Goiyo's face flooded red.

How could anyone say something like that more than once without their heart simply giving out. She had thought hers would burst just from saying it once.

The sweet words came without pause or end. The fluttery feeling was more than she could contain, and Goiyo pulled him close in return.

When Therio—who she had always believed would be nothing more than a friend—had declared his love, she had felt the ground give way beneath her. A betrayal that shook the world.

She had not been able to believe that her one and only friend had been looking at her with different eyes all this time. And it had been hard to accept the shift—from the perfectly stable ground of friendship to the unstable territory of something more.

But in the end, Goiyo Rubiette had lost. Even the part of her that had decided to see him as a friend and nothing else had changed—so if his eternal-friendship declaration had crumbled, she could no longer fault him for it.

And perhaps this was enough. The sweet flutter of it wouldn't last forever—but even so, if she married Therio and had children with him, she might build the family she had always wanted most: small, and warm, and whole.

And perhaps, she had thought, Therio might love me forever after all.

Anyone watching would have seen it—a man who had fallen entirely. The vow from that man's mouth. He had betrayed her once, but what had consumed him had been something larger than friendship.

Held in Therio's arms, Goiyo closed her eyes. Words her mother had said, kept close in her heart all this time, drifted through her mind.

'Goiyo, marry someone you love. A political marriage cannot make a person happy. Bearing a child for someone you do not love is not happiness—it is tragedy. That is when hell begins.'

'Mother, why do you say such things...?'

'Be happy, my girl. Even if I was not—you, at least.'

'That's right, Mother. If I had married someone I didn't love—if I had made a match based on conditions alone—I would never have known this happiness.'

But Goiyo had gained love. Being Alte and Rubiette, she would never have faced her father's opposition on the grounds of suitability.

Unlike her mother, who had come to such a wretched end—Goiyo believed her own ending would be full of happiness. Overwhelmed by what was rising inside her, it spilled from her lips.

"I love you too, Therio. If your love is eternal, then mine will be the same."

'I love you.'

"You're the one who killed Melishi."

'I love you.'

"If you hadn't refused the proposal—if you had let me go—Melishi would still be alive."

'I love you.'

"That child who shared not a drop of Rubiette blood would be weeping in my arms right now."

"Therio?"

The one who had been holding her pushed her away. And then, looking down at Goiyo where she had been flung to the floor—in a voice, unbelievably, gone cold—

"The one I love is not you."

In an instant the dream collapsed, and the long nightmare came to its end.

Goiyo's eyes flew open. She dragged in a rough breath.

Her heart pounded as violently as if she had been running—hard enough that it might break free of her chest at any moment.

She hauled herself upright and leaned back against the headboard. Her whole body was damp with cold sweat.

Damn Therio Alte.

The rough words came naturally, without thought—words she would never ordinarily have used. She pressed her eyes shut hard, then opened them. She lifted the hair plastered to her forehead and pushed it aside.

It had been a terribly long time since she had dreamed of the past.

Then the door opened, and Annie—her lady's maid—entered. There was something faintly uncertain in her expression. She offered her morning greeting in her usual way.

"My lady, you're up? —Wait, just a moment. My lady, what's wrong with your face!"

"Annie."

"Goodness, look at the sweat! Did you have a bad dream?"

"Just a somewhat unpleasant dream."

Goiyo having nightmares was not unusual. Annie nodded with a sympathetic look and handed over the glass of water she had brought in on a tray.

The cold water ran down her throat, and only then did Goiyo feel something return to her.

"Is it past nine?"

"No, my lady. Still half past eight."

"Then why are you here so early? I said to wake me at nine the morning after a ball."

"Well—my lady... There's something I needed to tell you urgently."

What is it? Goiyo asked, passing the glass back. Annie hesitated a moment before speaking.

"A marriage proposal has arrived from Marquess Bethelgius."

Goiyo stopped breathing for just a moment. She blinked, slowly.

Did you perhaps already know, my lady? I heard you danced with him last night... Annie asked with careful hesitation, as though under orders to bring back an answer from the Duke—but the words did not reach Goiyo.

No wonder the night had felt like an omen. He had certainly moved quickly. In a different sense than before, her heart struck against her ribs, once, twice.

It was she who had demanded it, and now she was the one rattled by it—that absurdity rose in her, and she laughed, without much strength.

'Marry someone you love, Goiyo. A political marriage cannot make a person happy.'

'No, Mother. Marriage to someone I loved was the cruelest hell I ever knew. Even if every other path leads to death—it is not one I could ever choose again.'

"No. I didn't know."

And so, then—choosing a less agonizing death is the only path remaining to me.

Isn't that so, Mother?