The Most Perfect Stranger (8)

"Shall I turn off the light?"

He asked, looking toward Siena, who lay with her back turned at the far end of the room. But she must have already drifted off, for no answer came for quite a while.

He hesitated, and just as he reached to dim the lamp, Siena spoke in a voice heavy with sleep.

"It's fine. Leave it on."

Truth be told, Siena had dozed off for a moment.

The bed was more comfortable than she'd expected, the bedding languidly soft, and she had nearly lost herself in it before catching hold of her senses just in time.

Ordinarily she could have sat bolt upright in bed and stayed awake well past dawn without a flicker of fatigue, but she couldn't quite bring herself to whip a body already worn down by a week of relentless travel.

At the blurry edge of her fading vision, she caught the reflection of Claude Marcel in the glass display cabinet.

Siena watched as he dimmed the lamp, rolled up his sleeves, and kneaded the stiffness from his forearms.

"……"

The small rustle of his movements, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scratch of a pen nib across paper came one after another.

Siena rested her head on the pillow and blinked slowly, her mind drifting.

What on earth is this situation?

It struck her suddenly as odd that she was lying here at all.

What change of heart had made him approach me, offer me kindness like this?

She knew at least this much: his conduct in the past hadn't been a matter of his own will, but of circumstances forced upon him.

Duke Marcel must have warned him sternly against growing close to the daughter of a woman like Ferensa.

That was why he had brushed her off so coldly at her debutante. And even then, it had been before her grandfather's passing.

To openly snub someone who stood backed by the Emperor himself—what a brave, reckless way to navigate the world.

Duke Marcel had known, even back then. He had known of her mother's scheme to seize the throne with Hassar as her instrument.

He had known that that glorious naval battle, stained red with the blood of his eldest and second sons, had been Ferensa's horrific trap, designed to shake House Marcel to its very roots.

Yes—Siena's discomfort around Claude Marcel had begun there.

Only four years ago, from gossip overheard in the corner of a salon, had she learned the full story of that battle—and the fact that he had known it all eight years before she did. But regrettably, she felt no guilt.

It was much the same reason House Marcel had spent every waking moment proving its loyalty under the imperial family's watchful eye.

At the crossroads between traitor and founding hero, the first head of House Marcel had chosen the founding hero—and yet to this day, relations between the house and the crown had never been cordial.

For hundreds of years, countless schemes and plots had breathed between the two families, and along the way there had been casualties, time and again.

She had simply believed that the turn to collect was coming back around to the imperial family.

Only—only after learning the truth behind it all had she felt every last thread connecting her to him snap.

In childhood, Claude Marcel had belonged to Siena. They hadn't been particularly close, but she had held him in a fair measure of fondness.

And so she had thought that even if their relationship twisted, someday it would right itself again.

Each of them married, each with children of their own, they might cross paths by chance at some banquet and exchange a light greeting as they passed.

That had been her only hope—a hope that would prove the memories of their childhood hadn't all been lies.

Until she realized that hope was nothing but delusion.

What came on the heels of that broken hope was a new understanding.

Young Siena, raised to worship her mother as the center of her universe, had never once treated him as a person.

"Can't you sleep?"

The soft scratch of the pen nib roused her from her reverie. Not that she had any intention of disturbing a man at work.

She made no reply to his question, only blinked quietly at the ceiling—until at last, in a voice drowsy with sleep, she spoke slowly.

"Claude."

"Yes."

"Why are you talking to me?"

At that question, the soft noise cut off at once. The faint figure reflected in the glass cabinet tilted its head, just barely.

"What business could you possibly have with me?"

"…Am I required to have business with you?"

"It would be strange if you didn't."

Siena laughed, a small, shaking sound. Then, having stared at his blurred silhouette long enough, she closed her eyes and burrowed her head deep into the pillow.

"If you didn't…"

She held her breath for a moment, as if choosing her words.

"It would be frightening."

"Are you frightened?"

"The daughter of a man accused of treason, drawing the attention of an imperial inspector—how could I not be?"

To that, Claude made no answer.

"I don't know what you're planning, but just leave me alone for a year. There's no need to rush."

"Why one year?"

"Because in one year, I'll be married."

This time, too, he said nothing.

Perhaps it was the haze of sleep. Her tongue, freed from the rein of reason, moved busily, as though it wanted to finish a story left untold.

"You know him too—Agrio Falen."

"I've heard of him."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Yes."

"He's handsome, isn't he?"

At that, he fell silent again. For an instant, she thought she saw the reflection lift its head. The back of her neck prickled.

After a pause, he turned over a page of his documents and replied.

"Hard to say. Isn't the standard for handsomeness rather subjective?"

Is it, now.

Through that silence, sleep seeped into her ever more deeply, and Siena answered through a mind gone hazy.

"You… you count as handsome, I'd say."

"……It's late. You should sleep."

"And yet, Claude."

After another long silence, he urged her toward sleep again.

Half-drunk on slumber, Siena blinked her eyes several times before pouring out a question she had kept buried in the deepest chamber of her heart.

"Why do you keep using formal speech with me?"

Claude Marcel's role as Siena Vice's playmate had ended long ago.

At first she'd assumed he addressed her formally out of regard for their social positions—him the Young Duke of Marcel, her the Acting Count Victe—and the appearances each had to keep.

But the more words they exchanged, the stranger it became. If he had truly meant to draw a line between them, he never would have tolerated her speaking down to him.

He shouldn't have been the one to strike up conversation again. He shouldn't have offered advice laced with worry and concern.

Whether she slept outdoors in the open or not, he owed Siena—the daughter of the woman who had stolen his brothers' lives—not one shred of interest.

Hadn't that been exactly how he'd behaved for the past eight years? That was the attitude the next Duke of Marcel ought rightfully to take.

And yet… why, why now, of all times, was he speaking to her, showing her kindness?

"Does it bother you?"

"No."

Siena, face pressed into the pillow, mumbled slowly.

"It's just…"

Her voice trailed off, and as the familiar scent of fabric teased the tip of her nose and she surrendered her whole body to the bedding, she murmured softly.

"It reminds me of the old days."

Then the long-enduring drowsiness finally claimed her.

"Siena!"

Hassar shot to his feet and hurried out of the officers' quarters.

It was only natural that he was alarmed to hear that the younger sister who had greeted him late last night had come calling at the crack of dawn.

It was five in the morning—barely time for the morning shift of guards to finish changing over.

Hassar ran out to the checkpoint without stopping once, and the sight of Siena in a fluttering chiffon dress and an adorable little hat wrung a sigh from him before anything else.

"What on earth brings you here this early? How did you even get in?"

"That's my question—why are you only just getting up? Weren't you supposed to show me around the base?"

He answered her imperious manner with a look of mild disgruntlement.

"I meant to start the tour this afternoon. You're on leave, and you couldn't even sleep in—"

"Hurry and get ready. I hear there's a wonderful brunch place around here. I want to go."

Siena promptly hooked her arm through his and stepped into the base, urging him to hurry and prepare for an outing.

Flustered by her bearing, Hassar could only stammer in protest—which was, of course, exactly how he ended up stumbling along with her all the way back into the officers' quarters.

"Come on, hurry! I hear it's popular. I refuse to wait in line. Get moving!"

Siena ignored Hassar's dumbfounded stare and, with a resounding thump, shoved him through the bathroom door.

Perhaps the broken man had rebooted at last, for the sound of running water soon came from within. The moment it did, Siena bent her knees and began crawling across the floor.

"Ah, it should be around here somewhere?"

Unlike a moment ago, her voice was urgent now, her expression more desperate than it had ever been as she pressed her cheek flat to the floor and swept her gaze over every corner.

I definitely threw off my coat… so if it fell, it should be around—

As her hand groped blindly along the space beneath the bed, Siena's eyes flashed.

Found it!

She snatched the key up in her fist, rose from the floor with a long sigh of relief.

Her new dress and gloves were smudged with dust, but who cared? It wasn't her dress.

Siena went straight to the window, stripped off her gloves and beat them clean, then slapped the dust from the knees of her skirt with her palm.

It was a little past four in the morning when Siena opened her eyes again. She blinked blearily into the darkness and the silence that surrounded her.

She turned her head carefully—and there was Claude Marcel, reclining at length on the sofa, eyes closed.

He'd said he had work to finish overnight, but however dutiful he was, no one who had just completed more than a week of train travel could stay up another whole night without cost.

For a moment she felt a twinge of guilt that he'd gone without proper rest because of her—then the memory of the things she'd babbled at him in her sleep came rushing back, and her face flared red.

I've lost my mind. Siena Vice, you've lost your mind! What on earth did I say to him?

She hadn't even been drinking. To ramble on about nothing, all because she was drunk on sleep and nothing more.

She hadn't produced a single embarrassing memory since coming of age, and yet here she was again, caught in an undignified moment in front of that man. She wanted to crawl into a mouse hole and hide.

She resolved to slip out of the room quickly—and as quietly as possible. She was just climbing down from the bed, adjusting her slippers, when—

"Change into those before you go. Hassar will recognize you at once."

"!"

She was so startled she couldn't even scream. When had he woken? He was already rising from the sofa and walking toward the door.

"Weren't you asleep?"

"I only had my eyes closed."

The man who had, in fact, stayed up the entire night said it as though it were nothing, then stepped outside and returned carrying something. Astonishingly, it was a beautifully wrapped set of women's clothing.

When she demanded to know how on earth he had procured it, he only said that the servants would be reporting for duty soon, told her to hurry, and left the room with his bag in hand.

By the time Siena had changed and come down to the first-floor lobby, he was nowhere to be found. But as if he had arranged it in advance, a hotel servant promptly called a carriage for her, and she made it safely to the base.

She'd put it on in her hurry, and yet it was truly a strange thing—the dress he had ordered fit her perfectly.

Siena gazed down quietly at the sky-blue lace at the hem of the dress, then let out a long breath.

What was she supposed to make of a man who had warned her not to cross the line—only to cross it himself, whenever it suited him?