The Most Perfect Stranger (3)

The fact that he had once been her playmate was known to everyone except, perhaps, a newborn infant.

Such a relationship would ordinarily be defined as 'childhood friends,' but theirs had been a bond dictated, down to its very bones, by social rank and station—so no one had ever called the two of them friends.

She dredged up a voice from the far edge of memory, the last time anyone had spoken Claude's name to her.

"Is that really true? Claude actually snubbed Lady Siena?"

"That's what they're saying! He just walked right past her—you have no idea how icy the whole room went."

The debutante who had once set the salons abuzz became the first crack in the glass.

Back then, Siena had spent nearly two years in seclusion on the family estate, and had made her society debut in the Imperial Capital only after her father's death.

Imagine how glad she must have been to see Claude Marcel again after those two long years.

"Claude!"

A girlish voice rang through the hall, a hand stretched high overhead, a face flushed with the warmth of reunion.

It was a time when whispers abounded at how swiftly he was adapting to his role as heir. Siena didn't care in the least.

Third son of a dukedom, heir apparent—he was Claude, wasn't he? That was all that mattered.

But against every expectation, he passed her by with a face cold as winter stone.

Everyone in the ballroom could barely conceal their shock at Claude's manner.

From that day on, the rumor that Siena, riding on her mother's back, had tormented her childhood playmate Claude hardened into accepted fact.

No wonder, people said, the third son of Marcel was never floated as a prospect for Siena's betrothal—how suspicious.

This, despite the fact that even a prince of a foreign kingdom had made the shortlist, and the late Emperor had held spirited discussions over the candidates—gossip that had long since seeped through every drawing room in the capital.

In the end, House Marcel sent a letter of apology along with lavish gifts to soothe her mother, Ferensa's, wounded pride—but a small fracture had opened between him and her all the same.

And Siena, for her part, saw no reason to acknowledge him anymore.

Then rumors began to circulate that the late Emperor had left behind a secret will, and the discomfort between them reached its absolute peak.

Even if the contents were never made public, whispers of the sort—you know, they say the Emperor's private testament contained something rather interesting—were bound to spread on their own.

The new Emperor and Duke Marcel knew exactly the best way to quiet that restless public sentiment.

Tear the weed out by the roots, crush it underfoot, and spread it as fertilizer for the strengthening of imperial power. The quarry was Princess Ferensa, the thorn that had long been lodged in their eyes.

When all of it was over, the County of Victe had been left a hollowed-out ruin.

The Emperor had placed the order, and the ducal house had roasted and plated it so beautifully—for the world at large, it must have made quite a succulent meal.

Siena took a sip of warm tea and steadied her breathing.

There isn't a soul here who doesn't know we share this history.

This is torture.

If the seating were merely uncomfortable, they'd at least have the decency not to make conversation.

Siena's gaze swept coolly across the table—over the Emperor first, then the Empress, the princess and the prince, and the rest of the imperial in-laws.

"What is it, Siena?"

Feeling her eyes on him, the Emperor addressed her first with a kindly smile. To his question, Siena answered with a picture-perfect smile of her own.

"It's just been so long since we've met, Uncle. And Aunt, it's been far too long for me as well. Have you been keeping well?"

"Siena, I told you to visit often, and yet you only show your face when occasions like this force you to. It truly wounds me."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty the Empress."

"Enough with the pleasantries."

And there Siena sat, perfectly composed, in the middle of a veritable minefield. She distinctly remembered requesting that, whenever there was an imperial function, she be seated off to the side if at all possible.

She was sorely tempted to award a generous prize to whoever had arranged today's seating.

"So tell me, Siena—what do you think?"

To hide the fact that she hadn't been following the conversation, Siena tilted her head slightly and crinkled the corners of her eyes.

With a deep sigh, the Empress handed her exactly the answer she'd been fishing for.

"The reforms His Majesty is pressing forward with. Amending the succession law in so short a span worries me somewhat, you see."

Watching the Empress's anxious face and listening to her troubled voice, Siena smiled brightly.

The motive behind putting this question to me is obvious as day.

Every inch of this room is a minefield.

"Does it? I heard the Empire's citizens are responding rather favorably."

"Everyone says it's far too radical, and they're all trying to talk him out of it, but—"

Just as the Emperor's face began to cloud with displeasure at the Empress's continued needling—

"Well, I for one believe His Majesty is being wise."

"Hm?"

Meeting the Empress's startled eyes, Siena said it once more in a voice soft as silk.

"His Majesty is doing a wonderful job."

At that, not only the Empress but everyone seated nearby turned to stare at Siena in open astonishment.

The succession law under revision would replace the old primogeniture—the firstborn heir above all—with a system placing no distinction on gender.

Setting aside the storm of controversy, wasn't there a real risk of reigniting her own mother, the woman who had once plotted treason?

Contrary to every expectation that she would mumble something evasive and slip past the moment, Siena's answer was an affirmation of almost brazen clarity.

"What other ruler in the world cares this much for his people's hearts, this sincere about improving their lot? I support it wholeheartedly. Uncle, you're the best."

When she even raised her thumb along with her honeyed smile, the Emperor, who had been sitting there dumbfounded, burst into roaring laughter.

"Hahaha! Yes, Siena—you've learned to flatter with the best of them. You've grown up."

"I was being sincere! Why would you say that? I'm hurt!"

"Enough, everyone! It's a fine day, so let's keep to fine talk while we're here."

Having taken one glance at the Emperor's restored good humor, Siena smiled along and turned her head to face forward.

Her eyes met Claude's, his expression as dark as a thunderhead, and she playfully flicked him a wink.

It was a reflexive act courtesy of the social mask called the Acting Count Victe—but Claude stiffened as though he'd just witnessed something grotesque.

At the look of sour displeasure on his face, Siena immediately turned her head away and beamed the same smile at those seated beside her.

Seriously, what was that?

He didn't so much as twitch a muscle all evening, and now this.

Having put her expression away, she did not spare him another glance for the rest of the gathering.

By the time Siena—held fast at the table until late in the afternoon—finally managed to slip free, it happened.

Claude Marcel, whom she had assumed had gone home long ago, abruptly blocked her path.

"Lady Siena."

"Yes, Lord Claude?"

Though she smiled and dipped into a graceful curtsy, the corners of Siena's mouth trembled faintly.

"Might I have a moment of your time?"

Quitting time, it seemed, was still a distant dream.

Claude Marcel is a cunning bastard. Of that, there is no doubt.

He knew full well that out in the open she would simply ignore him and walk on—that's exactly why he'd planted himself in front of her door.

She should be back at the townhouse right now, busy preparing for the long holiday that starts tomorrow, and instead she's wasted fifteen minutes just relocating to a drawing room!

I could kill him.

Dusk had already fallen, and it was the hour when a woman caught alone on the wrong street might well be dragged off in a banquet dish.

As she opened the drawing room door, the attendant bowed respectfully at the waist and asked if she required anything.

"Tea has been prepared."

"Then do converse at your leisure."

With that impeccable bow, the door closed, and the two of them were left alone in the drawing room. It was Siena, in the end, who spoke first.

"What do you want?"

"What you said today was a mistake."

"What?"

"You didn't need to go out of your way to voice support for the succession law."

So. Another provocation.

The patience Siena had been mustering in hopes of ending this conversation amicably wore down to nothing in an instant.

"You know what, Claude? There's this thing called a cooldown."

He looked down at her as if she were speaking gibberish.

"It means you don't get to pick another fight before the last one's even healed. That was the deal. That's what we call a social contract. So let's keep it reasonable, shall we? Hmm?"

As her words picked up speed, the distance between them—where they'd stood well apart—shrank with every step. By the time she'd all but fired the accusation in his face, Claude met her head-on, his face frozen hard as granite.

"That attitude of yours serves neither you nor your house."

Siena's jaw dropped.

The sheer audacity of it!

Whether it benefits me or not—what business is that of his?

Between him and her, there existed no common ground whatsoever that would justify dispensing nonsense advice like this, was there not?

Worse, she was the daughter of the former Princess Ferensa—a woman branded as the very seed of treason.

In her position, if she earnestly answered every leading question thrown at her and played the haughty noble, the situation would only grow graver—was that not obvious to anyone?

And least of all before a fishing line deliberately cast to watch how she would squirm.

Incredulous, Siena drew in a long, sharp breath and met his eyes once more.

This kind of meddling was something she could neither understand nor tolerate.

Siena pretended not to have heard a word he'd said, tilting her head and letting her eyes droop into a look ofutter bewilderment.

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, Claude. What attitude?"

"Cici."

The worn, weathered old nickname tumbled out of him, at the very moment she least expected it.