Chapter 34
"Who is that?" a soft female voice asked—almost too innocent to be sincere.
A polite silence stretched.
Conversations came to a discreet halt, like a fan closing with a practiced flick of the wrist. The ladies present turned their heads ever so slightly, feigning indifference while straining to listen, quietly irritated that someone had dared interrupt a tea so carefully arranged. The breach of etiquette was vexing… but curiosity proved stronger than decorum.
All eyes turned toward the subject of the question.
A young man was crossing the gardens with a light step, clad in an immaculate uniform—white adorned with silver detailing. His posture was proud, his gaze unfocused, lost in reveries to which no one held the key. The natural elegance of his movements went unnoticed by no one—nor the nobility of his features, nor the faint unrest that seemed to inhabit him.
A murmur rose, discreet yet unanimous in thought: Charming.
Nine young ladies blushed. Some immediately lowered their eyes; others dared follow him with barely concealed interest.
One of them, bolder than the rest, leaned toward the hostess of the gathering, her fingers tightening around her porcelain teacup. She made no effort to hide the hopeful tremor running through her.
Lauréline slowly set her cup down on its saucer, her movements measured and controlled. Then, without bothering to mask her irritation, she followed the white silhouette with her eyes as it vanished behind a rosebush.
"My maternal cousin, ladies," she declared flatly, almost disinterested.
She deliberately let a pause linger, watching the faces brighten at the announcement. Then, with a glint of boredom in her eyes, she added more sharply:
"And he isn't interested in relationships… unfortunately."
Shoulders tensed, then sagged in a ballet of restrained disappointment. A few girls looked away, failing to hide their embarrassment. The remark landed like a gentle—but firm—slap.
Everyone returned to their cups, their fans, or their conversations.
Everyone except one.
She did not blush. She did not look away.
Her gaze was fixed, intense—burning with something far more dangerous than a simple crush.
She wasn't wondering who he was.
She was wondering how to obtain him.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
Angela raised an eyebrow.
So this was him? The loyal, blind knight described in the absurd lines of that cursed book of fate?
She had reopened it the night before out of idle curiosity, hardly believing it would yield anything. For months, the pages had remained stubbornly blank—or worse, filled with dull, meaningless trivialities. But this time… a strange prophecy had appeared:
"After seeing her for the first time in so long, his heart has not ceased racing. Her scent intoxicates him, and the inability to speak to her or touch her consumes him. He does not know her, yet he already dreams of a future at her side. He wishes to protect her, even if it means remaining unknown to her eyes. He will protect her… and die for her."
Angela reread the passage three times.
Drama, pathos, sacrifice… What a waste of time.
And yet, beneath her annoyance, an idea had taken root. If this "unknown knight" wished to devote himself to her body and soul… why not? A loyal guard dog, ready to die for her, was not something one refused.
She smiled.
After all, she was the future queen.
It was only natural for others to kneel before her.
"Oh, but he was wearing the Greenwood knights' uniform, wasn't he?" a feminine voice remarked.
Isaline—Lauréline's closest friend—smiled gently. She turned her head toward the hostess, then casually toward the blue-haired girl seated a little farther down the table, right at its center.
Angela froze.
Greenwood?
Her fingers clenched around her porcelain cup, her lips still locked in a false smile. A flash of fury crossed her eyes.
So there he was—her so-called protector. Already marked by Camélia?
Her gaze hardened. That idiot… Was she trying to steal everything from her? Even glances? Even admiration?
Everything belonged to her.
"It's true you haven't visited in a while, Isaline," Lauréline replied lightly. "Victor is his parents' pride these days."
Angela nearly shattered her cup.
"And above all, he's still as faithful to his principles as he was when we were children!" Lauréline added with a laugh.
The laughter that followed was accompanied by a wave of comments:
"It's strange—we never hear anything about him…" one girl mused.
"He really is quite charming to look at," another added, earning several nods of agreement.
"You're right…" Lauréline sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Victor never attended balls or receptions before. Then, three years ago, he had a burst of curiosity—he began appearing at a few teas and galas… and then poof, nothing. He shut himself away like an oyster. Our parents no longer know what to invent to make him enjoy society."
She laughed again, drawing the rest of the guests into a wave of complicit giggles.
Angela did not laugh.
Her gaze remained fixed on her cup, her smile frozen, her jaw clenched.
Victor is mine.
He is not a toy for Camélia.
And if I must restore order to this dollhouse of a kingdom, then I will. One by one, they will understand.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
Conversation resumed and the tea carried on, wrapped in a veneer of calm. Angela forced herself to participate, her smile rigid, but rage simmered within her. She needed to revise her plans. Quickly.
The young ladies rose and wandered through the flower-lined paths of the garden, their laughter—genuine for some, false for others—filling the air. Lauréline, known for her blunt honesty within high society, tolerated neither lies nor pretenses. Yet she remained gracious, smiling, and terribly influential. Engaged to the son of Marquis Pavris, Minister of Finance, she was envied, feared, and sought after.
No one wished to incur her wrath.
Everyone wished to earn her attention.
They returned to the veranda, drawn by the aroma of fresh tea and delicately arranged sandwiches. Lauréline and Isaline walked at the back, exchanging quiet words.
"Oh, how is our sweet cousin?" Lauréline called out with genuine warmth, immediately capturing everyone's attention.
It was impossible not to know whom she meant.
The mysterious Reinhardt niece. The girl who had vanished, then reappeared. The one whose fragile health had kept her confined to the family manor. Rumors abounded: celestial beauty, gentle temperament—or a spoiled girl who had squandered a fortune purchasing an empty mine?
The truth? Unclear.
But fascinating.
Angela sniffed, instantly drawing shocked, cutting looks. She had not forgotten. That idiot had supposedly ruined her family by purchasing a useless old mine… and thanks to that, Angela had acquired an entire collection of custom gowns and ruby jewelry. She almost felt like kissing her in gratitude.
Isaline crossed her arms, a tight smile on her lips.
"She's my cousin," she said, irritated yet amused. "And she's doing better, thank you for asking." Then, turning to Lauréline with mock petulance, she added, "She asked about you. My cousin adores my friend—but now my friend wants to steal her from me!"
Lauréline burst into laughter, flattered, running an elegant hand through her hair.
"Your cousin is… ill?" a blonde asked timidly.
Isaline offered a polite smile.
"Unfortunately, yes."
"I'm sorry to ask, but… is it true that she is… beautiful?" another ventured.
Angela stiffened. Her fingers tightened around her napkin.
Lauréline smiled broadly, to everyone's surprise. She seemed genuinely fond of this cousin.
"She is beautiful, kind, and remarkably intelligent. But alas, she cannot go out. That is why you do not see her here today." She sighed softly, eyes dreamy. "Being with her is like walking along a beach under moonlight. Gentle, peaceful, almost unreal."
Isaline nodded at every word.
The girls exchanged impressed glances. If Lauréline herself said so… it must be true.
"It sounds like you're in love with her, Miss Lauréline!" someone teased with a laugh.
Everyone laughed… until the silence fell abruptly.
"The ocean isn't always calm," Angela muttered sharply as she bit into her sandwich. "Sometimes, it's just the calm before the storm."
A tense hush descended. Shocked gazes turned toward her. How could she be so… vulgar?
Isaline's eyes darkened as she stared at her, as though she might decapitate her on the spot.
"Mind your language, Miss Angela," she snapped coldly. "You have no right to judge someone whose face you have never even seen."
She added acidly:
"But it is true—you only ever listen to rumors when they concern you."
Behind her cup, Lauréline hid a knowing smile. She knew Isaline well: when it came to defending her family, she became a lioness.
The girls glanced at one another, whispering. Even Sarah—known for her gentleness and neutrality—furrowed her brow.
"That wasn't very kind, Miss Angela…" she murmured, almost regretfully.
Angela's eyes widened.
They dared? They dared oppose her—the future queen of the kingdom?
They would pay for it.
All of them.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
Isaline watched Angela's pursed lips, her eyes clouded with barely restrained fury. She felt neither pity nor discomfort—only contempt.
How could such a venomous creature be the sister of her sweet Vidalia?
How could one mistreat a being so pure, so gentle, with such cruelty?
She could not understand it.
She did not understand why her cousin remained in that family.
Why she continued to serve that… viper, day after day, in resigned silence and with a trembling smile.
A shiver of rage ran through Isaline.
Why, Lia? Why do you stay? Why do you let them hurt you?
She had seen the marks, heard the unspoken truths, observed the heavy silences. And the longer she watched Angela stand there, outraged at being contradicted, the harder it became to resist the urge to fling her teacup at her face.
A word burned on her lips—a word no well-bred young lady should ever utter in public. But she did not care. For her cousin, she was willing to tarnish her reputation if it might one day bring Angela down.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
The clash of wooden blades echoed across the field, the air splitting beneath precise, rhythmic strikes. The footwork of the chestnut-haired boy was impressively rigorous, rendering every attack from his opponent futile. The other—barely two centimeters shorter—seemed almost amused, dodging nonchalantly, a playful smile on his lips.
A little farther away, beneath the soothing shade of a great oak whose branches danced gently in the summer breeze, a pale cloth lay spread across the soft grass. Upon it, three young girls enjoyed a rare moment of freedom.
Camélia sat upright on her knees, dignified despite wearing simpler garments than usual. She wore an emerald-green dress adorned with discreet floral patterns, cinched at the waist with an elegant black ribbon and trimmed with ivory lace at the sleeves and hem. Her golden hair cascaded in silky curls over her shoulders.
Beside her, Isaline lay on her stomach, a book open before her. She wore a cream-colored dress decorated with pale blue ribbons, a matching apron tied at her waist lending her the appearance of a dreamy porcelain doll. Her feet kicked gently in the air, keeping time with a particularly gripping passage.
Finally, leaning against the rough trunk of the oak, eyes half-closed beneath the caress of the wind, Vidalia simply savored the moment. A straw hat adorned with a beige ribbon rested on her lap. Her dress—an old, powdery rose—was discreetly elegant: slightly puffed long sleeves ending in fine ruffles, a square neckline embroidered with golden thread opening onto a bodice covered by a white tulle plastron, and a light, pleated skirt that danced with every breath of air. Pearlescent buttons adorned the front, adding a delicate touch. A daisy-shaped brooch fastened the light shawl draped over her shoulders.
At the center of the cloth sat a wicker picnic basket from which linen napkins, jars of jam, a bottle of lemonade, and half-eaten pastries peeked out. Wildflowers—picked earlier from the surrounding fields—decorated the corners of the cloth.
It was one of those perfect days—soft and luminous—that Vidalia cherished in silence. The Reinhardt fields stretched endlessly, dotted with poppies, cornflowers, and tall, swaying grasses. The wind played with their hair, carrying their laughter away. In the distance, Arzhel and his cousin continued their playful duel.
If she had to return to the Sullivan manor the next day, she would be miserable until the next holiday—but for now… she was happy. She was free. Until the next break.
A few minutes later, Vidalia blinked slowly, lulled by a familiar warmth. She froze when she realized she was resting on Camélia's lap. Had she fallen asleep? A simple blink had turned into a full nap. Camélia, mid-conversation with Isaline, gently turned her head toward her and smiled. With a delicate gesture, she brushed a few strands of hair from Vidalia's face.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked softly, helping her sit up. "I don't think you sleep enough… You should rest more—you look exhausted."
Isaline lifted her head from her book, watching her with a smile filled with tenderness and curiosity.
"I'm fine—I rested quite well," Vidalia replied with a reassuring smile.
She herself was still surprised by their strange little group. If someone had told her two years ago that she would become so close to Camélia—a cold, antagonistic secondary character in the original novel—she would never have believed it. And yet… Two years earlier, for her birthday, her friends had organized a surprise party in the gardens of the Reinhardt manor. Her family, the staff—everyone had gathered. From that day on, their bonds had become unbreakable. Every holiday, like today, they reunited to laugh, train, picnic… to be together.
The wooden clashes fell silent. The boys returned from the training field, hair tousled, clothes soaked with sweat. Silas, cheeks flushed, panted lightly. Arzhel, meanwhile, wore his usual satisfied smile, his wooden sword resting carelessly on his shoulder.
Vidalia handed them clean towels as Camélia poured the lemonade. Silas blushed furiously when his fingers brushed Vidalia's as he took the towel, quickly averting his gaze from his sister's teasing smirk as she rolled her eyes.
Vidalia glanced at the glasses. The lemonade must be lukewarm by now. She hesitated, then—under her friends' curious gazes—quietly raised her hand. A thin wisp of water appeared in her palm, swirled briefly, then solidified into beautiful crystalline ice cubes. One by one, she dropped them into the glasses with a soft, satisfied ploc.
"You control your magic so much better now!" Isaline marveled, eyes shining as she admired the frosted surface of her drink.
"I've been training a lot in my spare time," Vidalia admitted, blushing, her round cheeks glowing with pride.
"We're very proud of you," her cousin declared, downing his drink in one go, clearly delighted.
But Vidalia was searching for another reaction. Her gaze drifted gently toward Arzhel… who had quite literally fallen asleep on her. His head rested on her thighs, one arm wrapped around her waist, like a cat exhausted from play.
She froze for a moment—then let out a small, stifled laugh. Tenderly, she ran her fingers through his damp hair and gently placed her straw hat over his face to shield him from the sun.
All around them, their friends watched in silence, knowing smiles blooming on Camélia's and Isaline's faces. Silas, arms crossed, observed them with barely concealed, sulky resignation.
But in that golden light—surrounded by laughter, silence, friendship, and magic—Vidalia had never been happier.