The secret lasted barely more than two seasons of the year; as a result, everyone was rushing back and forth through the main building.
The Legatus of House Noxirian—namely, the representative of the ruler of the continent and of one of the moons—was about to arrive without prior notice, which boded nothing good.
Malcol crashes into me as he comes running and then stops to wait at my side in the entry hall.
—Decorum, Malcol, decorum. We must act impeccably in front of the Legatus, remember that—Katlya shouts from afar, simply at the sight of him running.
When she reaches us, she adjusts a lock of my hair and the collar of Malcol's shirt, while her citrus perfume overwhelms my nose.
—Laila, you could have worn something more elegant. I don't want to give the impression that we are poor or that I am slighting you—she reproaches me, raising an eyebrow.
—I wore the best thing I had— I reply, glancing at Malcol, and we both burst into laughter.
—Oh, gods, help me! Without a doubt, neither of you is beyond remedy—she feigns scandal, though she suppresses a smile.
And although her words are exaggerated, they are not without truth: Malcol is far too good-natured to be a proud and dignified heir, and my black dress is far too simple—something that becomes even more noticeable without almost any adornment. With all the problems we face, who has time to think about fashion?
A servant approaches to inform us that the carriage is already visible at the entrance, so we go out to receive it. We position ourselves between two rows of immaculately dressed servants, bent in reverence, stretching all the way to the carriage, which stops in front of us.
The carriage is one of ours—the finest we have—since the Legatus arrived in our nation aboard a vessel from Lunagran, the largest moon in the firmament, which can sometimes be glimpsed even during the day, though not today.
The man who steps down appears imposing in his elegance. He is tall and slender; his green hair is neatly combed back. His clothing is as ostentatious as that once worn by the former Regentus Mallory, but with a sophistication the latter never achieved.
He walks down the corridor with such confidence that he seems the owner of the place, followed by his guards and servants, all perfectly coordinated.
—Katlya of Mallory, it is always a pleasure to see you—he says in a tone that sounds amiable, as Katlya offers him a slight bow.
—You may call me Regentus Widow, Legatus Krownwell. It is undoubtedly a great honor to have you here—she replies, feigning as much cordiality as he does—. These are my children, Laila and Malcol Mallory.
—An honor to meet you—Malcol and I say in unison, bowing.
—Lord Krownwell—I add at the end.
Katlya shoots me a look that no one else would notice, but which I recognize instantly as a reproach for my attitude. What can I say? I find pompous people who believe themselves superior deeply unpleasant.
—Follow me, Legatus Krownwell. The meal awaits us, and I'm sure it will please you after your long journey—Katlya says, heading toward the doors.
Upon entering the hall, she proceeds toward the main dining room, while Malcol and I go up the stairs so as not to make further mistakes, just as we had agreed.
—Ah, young Mallory, will you not delight me with your charm during dinner?—the Legatus asks, as though such an absence might sadden anyone.
At first, I think he is addressing Malcol, as the heir, but when I turn, I realize he is looking at me.
Shit. Me and my big mouth. This is what I get for calling him by name so casually. Or is the rumor that he prefers them very young true? May the gods help me… what if he knows something?
—If the Legatus of House Magnus so desires, I shall do so—I reply politely, as though I had a choice, and follow them into the dining room.
The man takes the seat at the head of the table as if he were in his own home. Katlya occupies the seat to his right, so I decide to sit beside her.
—Oh no, young Mallory, better sit to my left, at my side—the Legatus requests.
His saccharine voice begins to irritate me in earnest, but I obey without protest.
The dishes arrive one after another, the finest our nation can offer. Though I had not been hungry, my mouth waters at the mere scent of them, while the innocuous conversation flows and I try to remain silent.
—Well, Lady Katlya, it must truly have been difficult to keep the nation from collapsing without a husband, wouldn't you say?—the Legatus remarks.
—Governing a territory is never an easy task, but I believe I have risen to the occasion. My children and I have kept it more than stable all these years, if I may say so—Katlya replies without hesitation.
—It is said that young Mallory has had to assume the role of hostess and protector of the household. She must surely be exhausted… and eager for Lady Katlya to resume the duties that befit her, so that you may finally leave the nest—he continues, attempting to extract from me the answer Katlya refused to give.
—In truth, I am comfortable with things just as they are, Legatus Krownwell—I reply with a smile before taking another bite.
—Come now, Miss Mallory, you may be honest with me. No one would be offended if you confessed that you miss how things were when your father was alive… when there was a man in the house—he says in an intimate tone, as though that might coax my secrets from me.
It irritates me that he takes me for a foolish, imprudent girl. Perhaps I have earned it, but that does not mean I enjoy it.
—The loss of my father has been profoundly painful—I say, as though the words press tightly against my chest.
When I meet his eyes, he smiles, convinced he has me.
—But, truthfully, I prefer things as they are now, even as I mourn his loss.
For an instant, the man's affable mask reveals something irritated… but only for a blink.
—Without a doubt, you have done the best you could. However, the Inferus Arkitectus Noxirian is concerned about the future of Nova Gaelia after the death of Regentus Mallory XIX, being one of the weakest nations on the continent—his face takes on an air of affliction—. But there is no need to worry. In his greatness, the Arkitectus thinks of everything. He has already found a suitable spouse for you, Lady Katlya: the decorated admiral Crastor, who has also recently been widowed. A man accustomed to commanding and leading. There is no Excelso more honorable or better suited for the task. Thus, your family will have nothing to fear. Is it not wonderful?
The room seems to shrink around me. So this was why he had come.
—The… the admiral Crastor, cousin to Regentus Garcian?—Katlya stammers, letting her cutlery fall. The fear in her eyes is unmistakable.
—I see you know whom I speak of. Splendid. Though it would be strange if you did not, after all his feats in the name of House Noxirian. In one month, you will be happily betrothed… once again—the Legatus adds, animated.
Katlya does not reply. She stares at her plate as though it might bite her.
Before the man can continue, I interrupt him:
—I know I promised not to say anything until you announced it, Mother, but I believe the Legatus deserves to know the truth—I say with feigned innocence.
—What do you mean, Miss Mallory?—he asks at once, straightening.
Katlya still appears absent, as though reliving the day she accepted an imposed marriage, which allows me to continue speaking.
—My mother and Sir Flenton, captain of the guard, were betrothed beneath the village chapel, with me and others as witnesses. A ceremony befitting their rank has yet to be held, but a promise made for love before the gods is unbreakable—I add, bringing my hands to my cheeks—. It was truly romantic.
Color drains from the Legatus' face as his gaze flickers between Katlya and me. She looks at me with eyes wide open.
—What kind of joke is this, Lady Katlya? How could you possibly betroth yourself to a man of such low status?—he exclaims, scandalized.
I fear Katlya will contradict me until she looks at me, processes the lie, and straightens.
—What can I say… we share guilty tastes—she replies firmly—. Or was it not you who, in your time, became engaged to a young woman of low status?
—Lady Katlya!
—I remind you that you may call me Regentus Widow… or Regentus Katlya—she says with a sharp smile—. Unless you have come to undermine my authority in my own house.
The tension thickens. When the Legatus looks at me, I return an innocent smile. He no longer believes my façade.
—That man is unfit to govern—he insists—. The Arkitectus will not be pleased.
—Of course he will not govern. I will, as I have until now, at least until my son turns sixteen—Katlya replies, as though he had just uttered something monumentally foolish.
Dessert arrives: a red-berry tart with rose-colored glaze. Tart, sweet, cold—like a carefully measured threat.
—And do you trust that your betrothed will be content?—he asks, venomously.
—Trust… what a curious word. My betrothed knows that his sole function is to please me, or he will die of sorrow. Just like that young woman who was once engaged to you.
The Legatus chokes on his dessert.
—Of sorrow she died, of course. Isn't that right?—Katlya adds, lifting her glass.
—How romantic!—I say, imitating her—. Making them die of love for you.
The man looks at us as though we were unhinged, when it is he who buries young women beneath broken promises. How convenient sanity is when it comes from a man with power.
—I believe it best that I take my leave—he murmurs at last—. The journey has been exhausting.
When he departs, I devote myself to my dessert until I feel Katlya's gaze fixed on me.
—What?—I ask.
—That now I will have to force a man to become engaged to me—she whispers.
—Come now, it could have been worse. At least Sir Flenton is handsome, young, and kind. Have you seen him train without a shirt? Because I have.
—Gods, Laila!—she scolds me… and then nods—. But you're right. At least this way, there is no danger to Malcol.
She pauses.
—For now.