Chương 98: 39-3.First Kiss

The door closed behind Vincent without a sound, and in the moment that last sliver of gap disappeared, I had the distinct impression that the air inside the hall had been sealed along with it. Victoria Rosa von Blackwell didn't look at me immediately. She set the folding fan on the table first, then swept the room with a single, unhurried gaze. Not heavy—precise. Like she was measuring everyone's throat with a length of fine wire, determining who could still speak and who would be better served by silence.

The answer, apparently, was nobody. Not even Jessi. Whatever expression she'd been wearing moments ago had been folded away completely. She was now sitting with the posture of a novice at her strictest monastery, though her eyes were still drifting—clearly still stuck somewhere in the vicinity of the princess just kissed Cedric in front of everyone. My sister finally spoke.

"First." Her voice was level.

"What happened just now does not leave this room. Not a word. Not to anyone." No response. She added one more sentence.

"If I hear so much as a whisper of it outside, I won't go after the Tideguards first. I won't go after the palace first. I'll start with whoever was sitting closest to this table." At that, Jessi's spine became measurably straighter. Lucas applied himself to his tea with the focused sincerity of a man demonstrating that he had never in his life engaged in gossip and did not intend to begin.

Kuroga pressed his palms together with an expression of such pure spiritual detachment that it made me want to throw a plate at him. Matthews simply aimed his gaze at the window and used his entire face to communicate: I am old. My hearing is poor. I witnessed nothing. My sister, partially satisfied, turned to Adeline.

"You—back to your room." Adeline startled out of whatever state she'd been in, shoulders jumping.

"Y—yes."

"Everything you recorded last night, remembered this morning, and nearly forgot because of this spectacle—reorganize it from the beginning." My sister's voice didn't change.

"Names in one category. Habits in another. Matching times and locations in a third. Have it with Vincent before midday. Nothing omitted." Adeline nodded vigorously—the nod of someone who had just been handed a task they could actually perform—and retreated with relieved haste. My sister looked toward Alvira.

"You—rest." Alvira frowned, visibly reluctant to be categorized as someone who needed to go lie down.

"I'm still—""Still have a headache. Still hungover. Still just sat through a spectacle you had no business watching." My sister cut her off cleanly.

"And your color right now suggests you're approximately one minute from being sick on my carpet." Alvira's expression immediately darkened.

"I'm not going to be sick."

"Then go back to your room before you are." I nearly laughed. Not at Alvira being outmaneuvered. At the fact that only my sister could deliver go rest with the authority of a field commander issuing a tactical order. Alvira stood. And as she did, her gaze passed over me—for a fraction of a second, barely long enough to register. But even that fraction was enough to make something in my chest sink another degree. She said nothing. Turned, cold-faced, and walked out. Her back was as rigid as always.

But—maybe I was still half-drunk, maybe I hadn't slept enough—her steps seemed fractionally faster than usual. Like she was putting distance between herself and something. I really didn't want to admit that I probably knew what.

"Jessi." If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Jessi snapped upright the moment her name was called, with the posture of a cat grabbed by the scruff.

"Here."

"Out." Jessi blinked, then immediately produced an expression of profound suffering—the suffering of someone being denied the most interesting sequel she had ever been positioned to witness.

"I'm being very quiet."

"When you're quiet, you're louder than usual."

"Madam, that's a logical fallacy."

"Yes," my sister said, without blinking.

"So leave before I decide it's more than a fallacy." Jessi opened her mouth—clearly considering one last appeal—then made eye contact with my sister and immediately abandoned the effort. As she stood, she fired a look in my direction. That look translated, in full, to: You're on your own. I'll laugh at you later. I returned a dead-eyed stare. Get out. She left, visibly suppressing a smile. Then Lucas, Matthews, and Kuroga. My sister didn't even need full sentences.

A single "you three" was sufficient, and all three of them rose with the synchronized efficiency of men who understood exactly how much they did not want to be present for what came next. Lucas paused at the door to give me a small, respectful nod. That nod translated to: Young master, may whatever gods exist look favorably upon you. I wanted to throw my teacup at him.

Kuroga pressed his palms together and bowed with an expression of such compassionate gravity that it suggested he was already performing the relevant rites. Matthews simply walked out without looking at me, his pace steady in the manner of someone who is extremely motivated not to be called back. Right. Not one of them worth anything. The hall held three people. Me. My sister. And Olivia. I felt the instinctive unease immediately. Because if she stayed, I was probably going to die more than once today.

My sister turned to her.

"Miss von Eisenberg." Olivia raised her eyes, expression serenely, infuriatingly composed.

"Madam."

"You as well. Step out." I almost exhaled. Then my sister's next sentence sealed it back in.

"Return in a quarter of an hour." Olivia's brow shifted, barely perceptibly. Not surprise—calculation.

"And if he doesn't survive that long?" I nearly choked on nothing. My sister didn't look at me.

"Then it falls under the category of domestic discipline," she said, "and the Eisenberg house need not concern itself." Olivia actually nodded.

"Understood." She rose with her customary composure. As she passed my chair, she didn't stop, didn't look—but in the moment she moved past me, a quiet sentence drifted back.

"Good luck." I kept my eyes forward.

"If you actually meant that, you'd stay and die with me."

"That doesn't serve my interests."

"How refreshingly honest."

"You're welcome." She left. The door closed again. Clean, this time. Just me and my sister. And Vincent, standing at the far wall like a shadow—the kind of presence that was somehow more unsettling than absence, because you never knew whether he was waiting for instructions or waiting to see when you'd kneel. My sister didn't rush. She stood, slowly opening the black-ribbed fan, then slowly closing it. Click. Click. Click. Each one landing precisely on my temple. I broke first.

"If you're planning to keep doing that until I confess to something, I'll save us both the time. I confess to everything." She looked at me.

"Oh?"

"I confess I didn't step back. I confess I was still half-drunk last night. I confess my brain wasn't functioning properly this morning. I confess that my face today has probably been asking for this."

"And?"

"... I confess I have terrible luck." She made a sound. Not quite a laugh. But not nothing either. The kind of sound that was considerably more unnerving than being shouted at. Then she sat down.

"Come here." I didn't move. Not because I didn't want to. Because I understood that walking over there wasn't going to lead anywhere good. She said it again.

"Cedric. Come here." Full name this time. Fine. No room to negotiate. I walked over with the resignation of a man who didn't know yet whether he was about to be scolded or hit, and sat down across from her. The moment I was settled, she cut straight to it.

"What is going through your head right now?" I nearly choked on the question. This was harder to answer than a direct accusation. Because if I was honest, my head currently contained at least three things in active conflict. First: what exactly Erina's kiss was supposed to mean. Second: whether I'd read Alvira's expression correctly. Third: which part of me my sister was planning to address first. I was silent too long. She smiled. No warmth in it.

"Good. Clearly there's quite a lot in there."

"Can I answer the safest one?"

"No."

"Can I at least know which one you're asking about?" She closed the fan. Tapped the tip against the table once.

"All of them." I closed my eyes and genuinely considered whether dying would be more efficient. My sister looked at me, and when she spoke again, the last trace of anything light had left her voice entirely.

"Let me save you some effort," she said.

"I'll tell you what actually matters right now." She paused.

"It's not why the princess kissed you. And it's not which woman you're currently tangled up about." My eye twitched. She'd seen that too? No—of course she had. She'd been watching me since I was born. If I could actually hide anything from her, I wouldn't be sitting here.

"What matters," she said, holding my gaze, word by word, "is that from the moment that happened, you stopped being simply the son of the Marquis of Acros. And you stopped being simply my brother." My throat tightened. She continued.

"Erina's kiss landed in front of the Commander of the Tideguards. In front of House Eberhart. In front of House Blackwell. In front of House Eisenberg. You think she was kissing you?" A pause.

"She was writing you into other people's minds." The cold moved down my spine in one clean line. Because she was right. I'd been too stunned in the moment to think past the surface of it. But the moment I turned it around and looked from the outside—the meaning was entirely different. The princess kissed me before her departure. In public. Not a touch of the cheek, not a brush of the hand. The kind that no one in the room could pretend to have misread. What did that say? That she had feelings for me.

That I, at minimum, had not retreated. That this event could now be interpreted—by anyone who wished to use it—in a dozen different ways. My throat had gone completely dry. My sister watched me with cold, steady eyes.

"Are you awake now?" I exhaled slowly.

"... Halfway."

"Good," she said.

"I'll handle the other half." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze settling on my face like the flat of a blade pressed against skin.

"Answer me, Cedric." Her voice was even, and precise, and left no angle of escape.

"Do you actually understand why she did it?"