MHHC Chapter 67

Unwelcome Attention

"Pardon?"

"When I saw you at Count Reichenau's estate, and when you followed behind Charlotte like a shadow trailing a maidservant."

"..."

"I don't believe I've ever seen you speak much."

"I, well..."

Adele dropped her gaze to the floor, discomfort threading through her like cold wire. What answer could she possibly give? That the situation had simply made her uncomfortable? That her father had never cared for her voice? Any honest reply would expose too much of her family's rotting foundation—secrets best left buried in shadow.

And her talent for smooth deception had always been dismal at best.

Worse still, tension had transformed her tongue into stone, refusing to move as her mind commanded.

Watching her bristle with animal wariness, Mikhail laughed—a sound like wind through a cracked window.

"No need for such alarm. You were beside Charlotte, so naturally my gaze fell upon you."

"..."

"You don't believe me."

Of course not. No woman would accept such attention at face value, swallowing it whole without tasting the poison beneath. Adelheid's nose wrinkled slightly, as if catching the scent of something rotten.

She wanted nothing more than to escape this suffocating topic.

Then her stomach betrayed her—a low gurgle that shattered the carriage's oppressive silence like glass breaking in an empty room.

"Ah. You're hungry, it seems."

"That's not—"

"Don't deny it."

The Crown Prince's voice carried the faintest trace of amusement, like frost catching sunlight. Adelheid squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Skipping lunch to avoid motion sickness had been a miscalculation—one that now mocked her with perfect timing.

By the time Adelheid's cheeks had flushed nearly the same crimson as the dress clinging to her frame, Mikhail drew a small bundle from inside his coat.

The oil-paper wrapping contained several large plums preserved in honey, their dark skins glistening like jewels pulled from deep earth.

He narrowed his eyes into crescents and thrust the bundle toward her.

"My chamberlain fussed over packing these. Seems it was fortunate. Take one."

"I couldn't... How could I dare touch what belongs to Your Highness?"

"Your hunger makes me uncomfortable. I'm not fine with it, so take one."

When he pressed this insistently, she couldn't simply refuse and leave the offering hanging in the air between them.

She carefully plucked one sticky plum and bit delicately at its edge. He watched her with the satisfaction of someone observing a curious creature.

"There's likely no poison, so please, eat without worry."

"..."

That assurance somehow killed her appetite more effectively than hunger ever could.

Under Mikhail's watchful supervision, Adelheid had no choice but to push the entire plum into her mouth.

Setting aside the lingering unease that clung to her like damp cloth, the plum's chewy texture and honeyed sweetness were undeniably excellent.

As Adelheid carefully wiped her honey-sticky fingers on her handkerchief, the Crown Prince—who had been observing her in silence—twisted one corner of his mouth upward.

"There's a matter where I'd like to borrow your wisdom."

"...What matter?"

"No need to tense up. It's a simple problem. Quite an old story, actually."

"An old story?"

"Well. Perhaps... a thousand years ago?"

"Please tell me. If my opinion can help Your Highness, I'll gladly offer it."

Adelheid nodded tensely, and Mikhail's expression sank into something more serious—a weight settling over his features like shadow.

"A pearl lies fallen in the mud. To bend down and retrieve it seems too base, but to leave it there—it catches the eye, glittering so. Upon closer inspection, it might not be a pearl at all, but a jewel."

The riddle twisted like smoke—it could have been a metaphor about people, or perhaps simply about objects. Or maybe it concerned the current succession crisis haunting the throne like an unquiet ghost...

"So I'm watching it carefully when some beggar comes along and picks it up without hesitation. Even poverty-dimmed eyes can recognize value. So then—who does the pearl belong to? The one who first discovered it? Or the base beggar who understood its worth?"

She answered without much deliberation, the words spilling forth simply.

"If that's the case, wouldn't it belong to whoever dropped it in the first place?"

"Let's say that person is dead."

"Then in my opinion, it belongs to the one who recognized its value and picked it up."

A smile stretched across Mikhail's face like something drawn with a blade. Yet Adelheid couldn't shake the impression that the expression was somehow twisted—distorted at its edges.

The impression, too, that Mikhail despised her answer with an intensity that lived beneath his skin.

The Crown Prince's voice—always so perfectly upright—descended into something cold and sharp as winter iron.

"Wrong. No, you're mistaken."

"..."

"I believe it belongs to the one who first recognized it. From the moment of discovery, it was that person's possession—then someone else came along and stole it while they looked away."

"..."

"Like a crow that only knows how to recognize shiny things, without understanding true value."

Well. It was difficult to agree easily with such reasoning. Yet the sense of violation radiating from the Crown Prince was vivid as bloodstains—real and freshly made.

This wasn't some story passed down through a thousand years. He spoke with the raw fury of something that had happened yesterday, wounds still wet and weeping.

Adelheid murmured, somewhat bewildered by the emotion bleeding through his words.

"If Your Highness thinks so, then it must be so."

"Yes. That's what I've decided to believe."

"..."

"So everything must be returned to its rightful place."

Adelheid couldn't form any further response. Instead, she tangled her fingers together in her lap, fidgeting—a habit she knew was poor, yet one that emerged unbidden whenever discomfort wrapped around her like chains.

The Crown Prince's words were riddles layered upon riddles, and the meaning beneath them felt anything but positive—dark currents moving beneath still water.

In situations like this, any words she added would only multiply her missteps, turning solid ground to quicksand.

"..."

Fortunately, the oppressive silence didn't stretch on forever.

"Ah. We've arrived at Pragma's main square."

When Mikhail spoke, Adelheid nearly released a breath of relief that had been trapped in her chest like a caged bird.

True to his word, the carriage was entering Pragma's city streets.

Along the center of the straight road, the carriage finally came to a complete stop at the round plaza.

Adelheid descended from the carriage with assistance from Sir Donovan and Margaret, their hands steadying her as her feet found solid earth.

The moment she touched firm ground, she turned back and offered the Crown Prince a proper curtsy, her skirts pooling around her like spilled wine.

"I'm grateful for Your Highness's generosity."

The Crown Prince remained seated, chin tilted upward with casual arrogance, studying her with eyes whose depths she couldn't begin to measure—dark water concealing whatever moved beneath.

Each time she met that gaze, Adelheid felt like a mouse frozen before a snake's unblinking stare.

Finally, he spoke, words falling slow and deliberate as drops of poison.

"What about your return journey? How do you plan to get back without a carriage?"

"I intend to hire a carriage in time."

The expressionless mask cracked slightly, and faint amusement flickered across his features like distant lightning.

"Always so... particular about maintaining appearances."

Mikhail burst into laughter—sharp little sounds that might have been pleasure—but his eyes remained cold as winter stars, untouched by warmth.

When his laughter died, he nodded with languid ease.

"Very well, then."

With a brief command to depart, the Crown Prince and his knights rode off, raising dust that hung in the air like ghosts before slowly settling.

Pragma's main square was hosting a small festival in celebration of the victory.

The streets bloomed with colorful canvas stalls and flags snapping in the wind, while lute and flute music spilled from every corner—notes tangling together like ivy.

Food stalls sent steam curling into the air, and makeshift taverns had arranged old oak barrels as tables, selling cheap beer to anyone with coin.

"What in blazes possessed you to come out here so recklessly?"

Donovan pressed close to Adelheid's side, vigilant against the crowd pressing in from all directions, his voice rough with worry.

He kept scanning their surroundings as if expecting pickpockets to materialize from the very air—which, in crowds this dense, they inevitably did, swarming like flies to honey.

Adelheid looked at Donovan with something close to dejection shadowing her features.

"Do you think I was reckless?"

"Well... rumors about Your Grace have been rather vicious lately, haven't they?"

"..."

"You should understand that right now, there are people just waiting for you to stumble. They're desperate to find any excuse, eyes red with hunger for scandal. If word spreads that you rode alone in the Crown Prince's carriage at a time like this..."

Donovan shuddered as if the mere thought contaminated him.

"Whether you like it or not, gossip will be unavoidable. The rumors about Your Grace have already grown so poisonous."

His voice sounded almost cold, yet his face held no hostility or displeasure toward her—quite the opposite, in fact. After a moment's hesitation, Adelheid asked quietly.

"Don't those rumors bother you at all?"

"Which rumors? That our Grand Duke was deceived into a fraudulent marriage?"

At this answer—equal parts jest and impropriety—Margaret jabbed Donovan's ribs with her elbow, trying to salvage discretion. But Donovan ignored the warning entirely, continuing as if nothing had happened.

"What's the use in caring? The Grand Duke cherishes Your Grace so deeply. These days, even if the sum were three or four times higher, he would have been deceived willingly—enthusiastically, even. Completely of his own volition."

Adelheid stared at Donovan, bewilderment written plain across her face. She'd known the attitudes of the knights and servants had shifted mysteriously, understood it was Valentin's doing—but she hadn't realized they held such specific thoughts on the matter.

"Then it wasn't fraud to begin with."

Margaret was nodding beside them with complete seriousness, which only made it harder to suppress the laughter threatening to escape.

"In any case, please don't wander about alone. And maintain awareness that you could be in danger at any moment."

"I understand. Thank you for worrying."

When Adelheid readily agreed, Donovan scratched the back of his head, looking somewhat embarrassed by his own concern.

"So what exactly are you planning to do today?"