“Lady Arbois has exquisite taste.”
“Oh, my!
Such a compliment!
But it is only natural.” Triumphant, Felicia snapped her fan shut.
She used its tip to gently lift Iris’s chin.
“Look here.
Miss Iris has a most delicate and lovely jawline, though she insists on hiding it under that dreadful cloth!
My brilliant eyes, however, did not miss it.
And while she may seem a simple country girl, her blue eyes are truly a marvel.”
Ezekiel usually found Felicia’s pronouncements grating, but today, he could only agree.
Her eye for beauty was impeccable.
She had chosen from her own collection with an uncanny sense of what would suit Iris perfectly.
“She may lack a certain womanly fullness,” Felicia continued, “but that only enhances her delicate charm, like a lone flower blooming on a cliff’s edge, do you not think?
Her hands are rough from labor, but her fingers are quite elegant.
And her wrists… here, try on my bracelet.
See?
A perfect fit!”
Carried away by her success, Felicia directed her maids to adorn Iris with various accessories.
If not for her broken arm, she would have likely insisted on dressing Iris herself.
Iris looked distressed.
“Lady Arbois… I have nowhere to wear such things.”
“If you have nowhere to go, we shall create an occasion!
Let us have a party!” Felicia declared, ignoring Iris’s discomfort.
She twirled a lock of Iris’s hair around her finger.
“And this long, flowing hair would look divine, swept up like so!
What do you think?
Of my taste?”
Her question, full of smug satisfaction, was directed at Ezekiel.
Pleased by his earlier praise, she sought more.
Without thinking, Ezekiel spoke the truth.
“…You are beautiful.”
A moment later, heat flooded his face.
Unable to control his blush, he turned and fled the room, and so he missed it: the sight of Iris’s own face turning the color of a ripe tomato.
In the room Ezekiel had just vacated, the remaining occupants exchanged glances before breaking into laughter.
“Ahaha!
My brother is so hopelessly inept with women,” Etienne roared.
Felicia giggled.
“It is hard to believe His Highness Ezekiel is even your brother, Sir Etienne.
To think one simple compliment could embarrass him so!”
Only Iris was flustered.
Her face still crimson, she turned on Mrs.
Babin.
“How could you ask His Highness something like that?
You made him uncomfortable.”
Mrs.
Babin shrugged shamelessly.
“From what I have seen, that prince is incapable of lying.
He may have been uncomfortable, but it means he was telling the truth.
He thinks you are beautiful!”
“Mrs.
Babin, you are a true sage!” Etienne exclaimed, slapping his knee in mock admiration.
Iris pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Mrs.
Babin!
In any case, Lady Arbois, I cannot accept these expensive gifts.
I only did my duty…”
But Etienne cut her off again.
“But you look truly lovely, Miss Iris.”
“Your Highness.”
Etienne saw her discomfort but chose to ignore it, placing an arm around her shoulders.
“A young lady of a certain age needs fine clothes,” he said smoothly.
“And it would be poor form to reject Felicia’s kindness so thoroughly.”
“But…”
“Miss Iris.” Etienne smiled, leaning in until their foreheads were nearly touching.
“Please, try to understand Felicia’s feelings.
If you refuse to accept her generosity…”
Iris gasped, her breath catching at the sudden, invasive closeness.
Etienne’s eyes curved into sly crescents.
“…I shall be forced to invite you to a ball at the imperial palace.”
Her expression shifted to one of disbelief.
He pulled back with practiced ease, widening his eyes.
“Oh?
You do not think I would do it?”
Finally, Iris relaxed, letting out a soft sigh.
She was beginning to understand this prince.
He was precisely the sort of person who would drag her to a palace ball.
Defeated, she lowered her gaze.
“Very well, I shall accept them… Please, do not say such frightening things.”
Yet, a hint of pleasure touched her features.
A fifteen-year-old girl was a complex thing: burdened by the gift, but not immune to the allure of beautiful dresses and jewels.
What Iris did not see, as Etienne murmured, “I truly wonder who will be lucky enough to win such a pretty young lady,” was the venomous look that had settled over Felicia’s face.
Ezekiel tossed and turned, sleep eluding him.
‘You are beautiful.’ How foolish he must have seemed.
He had drifted off for a short while, only to be jolted awake by a dream in which Iris Quillucsia had grown into a stunning woman.
Now, sleep was impossible.
“Hah…”
He swung his legs out of bed, deciding a drink of water might clear his head.
He had assumed the castle was asleep, but a light burned in the kitchen.
“Iris.”
Bathed in the glow of a single candle, Iris was bent over the mead jar.
She flinched at his voice, then turned, a sweet smile blooming on her face when she saw it was him.
Her relief was so palpable it made his heart ache, momentarily erasing the fact that she was the very reason for his sleeplessness.
He stepped cautiously into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Ah, just skimming the impurities,” she explained.
The surface of the mead was covered with floating bits of honeycomb and herbs from his earlier efforts, along with a layer of foam from the fermentation.
Iris was carefully scooping it all away with a wooden ladle.
“You taste it periodically, and once the flavor is right, you skim it clean.
If you leave it too long, the liquor turns bitter.”
“I see…”
She scooped a small amount of the cloudy liquid and offered it to him.
“Would you like to taste it?
I am deciding whether to stop the fermentation now or let it become stronger.”
Ezekiel smiled awkwardly, holding up a hand.
“I know very little about liquor.
My brother is the expert in such matters.”
“But we can hardly wake Prince Etienne, can we?” she said with a soft laugh.
“Most people can tell if something tastes good or not.
Please, try it.
It is the mead you made, after all.”
The liquid in the ladle carried the faint scent of herbs and honey, followed by the subtle, hot kick of alcohol.
But more intoxicating than the liquor were the blue eyes fixed on his.
Eyes as deep as the sky, as clear as a mountain lake…
He bit his lip, and Iris, holding the ladle steady, blinked.
“What is wrong?
Does it taste bad?”
She seemed oblivious to how close they were.
Her breath, carrying her question, ghosted across his chin.
Was it the alcohol making his face burn, or something else entirely?
“No… it is delicious.”
“Oh.
But…”
As if his confusion was not great enough, Iris took it a step further.
She leaned closer, her cool fingers brushing his cheek.
“Are you sensitive to alcohol?
Your face is so red…”
Their eyes met.
She gasped, snatching her hand back as if burned.
“Oh!
I am so sorry.
I was not thinking straight…”
Why did he feel a pang of disappointment as she moved away?
On pure instinct, Ezekiel’s hand shot out, his fingers closing around her wrist.
She flinched but did not pull away.
He whispered her name.
“Iris.”
She fell silent.
“If you do not want this… you can push me away.”
She did not want to push him away.
Her long lashes fluttered against her cheek as she watched him, then her gaze drifted shyly downward.
The candlelight softened the lines of her face, illuminating the blush on her cheeks and the elegant bridge of her nose.
And below that, her small, parted lips.
He was a handsome boy, charming enough that nearly every noble girl in the capital had, at some point, harbored a secret crush on him.
Yet he had never felt a flicker of interest in any of them.
This moment, then, was deeply disorienting, but one thing was terrifyingly clear.
He wanted to kiss those lips.