Chapter 4.2

“I’m much taller compared to the other women in Elendor.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Hmm… I wouldn’t know. It’s never felt like a good thing. Men don’t like tall women. Especially noblemen.”

Her voice sank low, as if it had been plunged underwater.

[Princess Portia is so small and delicate, but her younger sister… Her Highness is rather tall, isn’t she?]

[At that height? She’s practically a man.]

No matter how hard she tried to shut them out, those voices came crashing down on her like a curse.

At that moment, the boy quietly reached for Esha’s hand.

“I like it,” he said softly.

Esha lowered her head, blinking in surprise. The crown of his small head was all she could see.

[Low-born blood always reveals itself sooner or later.]

Her father’s voice rang in her head.

What does “like” even mean? she thought bitterly. Could you still say you liked me if you knew?

“I am a bastard.”

Esha said the words flatly.

The words slipped from her lips on impulse. It was born of a bitter disgust toward Edmund—who, for all his professed love for her mother, a maid, still treated Esha, her child, as nothing more than a byproduct.

She wanted to expose both her own weakness and his to everyone, as if daring the world to judge them.

“What’s a bastard?”

“A child born not of a man’s wife but from another woman.”

“But Your Highness, isn’t your mother the Empress? And your father, the Emperor?”

“No. My real mother was a maid.”

Esha’s voice was flat, emotionless. The boy fumbled, not knowing what to say.

He had been taught that bastards were mistakes of God… Instead of answering, he simply tightened his grip on her hand.

“It’s a secret.”

“Yes…”

“Don’t you have any secrets?”

The boy hesitated.

Moonlight washed over them before disappearing behind the clouds.

“…No.”

“Tell me if you ever do. And when we’re alone, you don’t have to call me ‘Your Highness.’”

“Uh… um… then, can I call you older sister?”

Esha nodded, satisfied.

She was certain he had called her sister Portia “Your Highness” too, but she couldn’t bear to be addressed in the same way as her dead sister.

Buried beneath it all was a selfish desire. She wanted to be closer to the boy than Portia ever had been.

“Then please call me Johan.”

“Alright, Johan.”

“I’ll make sure to prepare cyclamens.”

When Johan spoke with such confident determination, Esha averted her gaze. A pang of regret settled into her chest.

⋆༺˖° ♛ °˖༻⋆

The engagement ceremony was held quietly in the cathedral. Portia’s funeral had only just ended, and propriety demanded restraint.

Despite its modest scale, the pews were filled with nobles.

Esha stood in a white dress facing her groom. The sight of a boy far smaller than her dressed in formal tails struck her as almost laughable.

“Johannes de Bator, do you agree to this engagement, promising marriage to Esha of Elendor?”

The cardinal’s voice echoed.

“I do.”

Pfft. Laughter rippled through the guests’ seats at the boy’s reply, mocking his accent.

Johan’s face flushed scarlet.

The cardinal cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing the ceremony.

“Esha of Elendor, do you agree to this engagement, promising marriage to Johannes de Bator?”

{I do.}

She murmured in Atlanian, and Johan’s head snapped up at the sound of his own tongue.

The cardinal shot Esha a sharp look, and she quickly repeated her reply in Elendorian.

“I do.”

With this, I declare before God the engagement of these two.

As the cardinal’s words came to an end, the guests began to clap one by one.

All that remained was to exchange rings, but Johan hesitated, asking them to wait a moment. From within his coat, he pulled something out.

“I… I couldn’t find any cyclamens anywhere…”

In his hands was a cyclamen painted in clumsy strokes over an ivory sheet of paper. She wasn’t sure whether he had painted it himself, but the craftsmanship was undeniably horrible.

Esha stared at it blankly before breaking into laughter.

Goodness, it’s such an ugly cyclamen.