As Kasha drew closer, his face came into sharp focus.
“A little late, aren’t you? Did you dress up all this for me? Well. I’m flattered.”
He said it in the indulgent tone of someone humoring a child — but inwardly, Simon was slightly thrown.
What is that look.
Today, the pink eyes Kasha turned on him were unsettlingly cold. She wasn’t blushing, as she usually did at the sight of him.
And she looks…well. More than well.
Her hair, neatly brushed and gleaming. The subtle change in the curves of her body — she’d put on a little weight. Her shoulders, held straight and level.
She looks like a different person.
Kasha used to appear the moment she heard him at the door, like a cat running toward the sound of a feeding bowl — then stop a few paces away and shuffle toward him with that halting shyness of hers.
Disheveled hair. Colorless face. A thin, angular frame with nothing to recommend it.
Absolutely nothing attractive about her, by any measure.
So why has the air around her changed. And that rumor — surely it can’t be true.
Simon’s brow furrowed slightly.
The Duke of Tyrot’s ball, held a week ago, had been one of the largest events in the capital. He would have attended himself, if he hadn’t been worried about their connection being exposed.
But the rumor that had circulated immediately after the ball was baffling, to put it mildly.
That something was going on between Grand Prince Leon and Miss Kasha Rüschino.
He’d laughed it off when he first heard it.
Whatever mass hallucination had gripped the city’s nobility, it was simply absurd. Kasha Rüschino — that bumbling, hopelessly awkward woman — entangled with Leon Aranias?
Not worth a second thought.
…It shouldn’t be worth a second thought.
Thunk.
The woman setting her teacup down across from him felt like a stranger wearing Kasha’s face.
Even the air she occupied felt different.
Simon leaned back on the sofa with practiced ease, concealing his unease. Kasha looked at him from across the table and spoke.
“What is it you want?”
“…….”
That was strange. She never used to open her mouth before he did. Too shy for that.
Sip.
Kasha lifted her teacup and took a slow, deliberate taste. Then she asked again.
“I asked what you want. Did you not hear me, Lord Blanche?”
“…What did you just say?”
Simon wasn’t sure his ears were working properly.
Lord Blanche? Never mind the informality — since when did she call him that? She had always said dear Simon in that soft, tentative voice of hers.
“Why the surprise. You address me however you please, despite being the third son of a minor barony. I’m the second daughter of a marcher house — the Emperor’s own shield. Why on earth should it be strange for me to address you in kind?”
“…….”
Simon was caught off guard enough that words temporarily failed him.
What on earth had happened in the past few days, for Kasha Rüschino to be sitting there looking as though someone had swapped her soul out?
Could it actually be because I didn’t escort her to the ball?
In fairness — she had, in her way, hinted that she wanted him there. After the humiliation of her debut, of course she had.
But he had no intention of appearing in public beside her. Not a chance.
Besides, the more thoroughly she was ground down by society, the more she would depend on him — and the easier she would be to manage. He’d had it all worked out.
And now she’s gone and grown a spine. Well.
He suppressed a snort.
Handling Kasha Rüschino was child’s play for Simon Blanche.
“Ah — Kasha. You must have been so hurt that I couldn’t go with you. Of course you were. You’re a woman, after all.”
He stood from the sofa as he rambled, crossing toward her.
He knew exactly when she was most easily flustered: the moment he made physical contact. Touching her hand, smoothing her hair — something small like that.
She was so inept at human closeness, or perhaps her feelings for him were so overwrought, that even the most insignificant touch reduced her to a malfunctioning doll.
He intended to manage this situation the same way.
He walked around the table and dropped down beside her on the sofa with what he imagined was a masculine kind of ease. Without hesitation, he laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Kasha. If not for that wretched fever, I would have taken your hand and gone to that ball without a second thought. I was just as heartbroken as you. Do you know how many times I called your name through the night, burning up with fever?”
The kind of sweet-talking she couldn’t resist. He congratulated himself, as he often did, on the smooth facility with which lies came to him.
“…….”
She’s filled out a bit, actually. Her skin looks much better than before. Smooth. Nice.
Simon thought this as he rather openly began running his hand along her shoulder.
Then —
Kasha took hold of Simon’s hand.
Or more precisely: she caught the edge of his sleeve between her thumb and forefinger — two fingers only — and lifted his arm away from her shoulder.
With the air of someone handling something unavoidably unpleasant.
Embarrassed, Simon compensated by raising his voice more than he intended.
“…Kasha? Ha. So it’s going to be like that, is it? You’re really this selfish? I told you I was ill. Was I supposed to drag myself to that ball half-dead and come back with something worse?”
Right — when other approaches fell flat, guilt was always the surest lever. A method that had never once failed on a woman with her level of self-worth.
He thought this and moved to cup her face in his hand with a look of practiced concern.
Splash.
“Ow!”
Simon leapt to his feet.
Drip. Drip.
His hand blazed red. He shook it in the air.
Kasha had poured the tea from her cup directly onto his hand.
It had cooled somewhat since being poured, which was the only reason the damage wasn’t worse. If it had been freshly brewed, he might have had a serious burn.
He was staring at her, face flushed, eyes bulging, when Kasha said:
“Oh. Sorry.”
“What — what do you—”
“I thought I felt something crawling on me. I startled.”
She said it while looking him directly in the eye.
Simon actually flinched.
He had always thought of those pink eyes as simple and guileless. When had they developed the ability to burn like that?
“Sena — some ice, please.”
Kasha waved toward the maid, who was standing nearby in a state of barely contained alarm. Then she calmly straightened her posture, as though the entire incident had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and appeared — inexplicably — to be in a better mood.
Simon forgot to keep being angry. He was staring at her, still dumbstruck, when she gave him an unexpected smile.
“Right then. Shall we get to what you actually came here for?”
“…What do you mean, what I actually came for?”
“You came to check how close the offensive magitools are to being finished.”
Simon felt the impact of that like a struck bell.
She was right, of course. But Kasha had never raised the topic of the magitools herself. Not once. And that tone — as though she could see straight through to his intentions.
For the first time in his life, Simon found himself nervous in front of Kasha.
“What — what are you talking about, Kasha. I just came because I was worried about you—”
“Actually. Speaking of which — there was something I wanted to confirm with you.”
“What?”
“The offensive magitools. You’ll need a separate set of designs for mass production, won’t you. Is that going to be all right?”
“Mass production? What are you talking about? Where did that come from?”
Simon frowned, pressing an ice-cold cloth to his hand while somehow still making sure his discomfort received full dramatic attention.
“You say it came from nowhere?”
Kasha repeated it slowly.
“Yes. You’ve been having another one of your strange imaginings, clearly. Forget all that and just bring me the finished designs already. I’ll review them.”
Kasha had been quiet for a moment, and Simon had taken the opportunity to reclaim his footing, prattling on with his usual confidence.
She said nothing. She simply watched him.
…He doesn’t know that the offensive magitools are meant for mass production.
His manner suggested he was not lying.
Then there’s nothing further to confirm.
As she had expected — Simon was nothing more than a puppet for whoever was pulling strings behind him. He didn’t have access to the real information. And if he didn’t have the information, he wasn’t about to reveal the mastermind’s identity on command. Which meant there was nothing worth extracting from him.
Which meant there was no reason to keep sitting here, suppressing her revulsion and her fury.
Lucky. If I’d stayed much longer, I might have actually tested one of those offensive magitools on him.
Kasha left Simon to his monologue and stood up unhurriedly.
“Where are you going all of a sudden?”
Simon asked, genuinely bewildered. Kasha gave him what she considered a reasonably courteous reply.
“Don’t come back, Simon Blanche.”
“What — what?”
“Every time I see your face, I feel such a surge of rage that I think I’ll keep pouring tea on you. Indefinitely.”
Still clutching his ice cloth, Simon’s fury flared — and then he caught her eyes and his mouth closed again.
“Get out. Ah — I’ll call the house physician before you go. Get that treated.”
She added this as an afterthought, in a voice like winter.
“I tend to have at least a shred of sympathy for people. Unlike some.”
Kasha turned her back and walked away.
Every single thing you did. I’m going to return all of it — not one crumb left unreturned. Look forward to it, Simon. I’ll be your villainess, and yours alone.
She was walking on that thought when his voice cracked out behind her.
“K— Kasha! If you walk out now, you’re going to regret it!”
