The Friend of a Friend
1. A Bond That Could Never Become Strangers
A friend of a friend.
Had she expected too much when she’d hoped that such an awkward relationship—one so vaguely defined even in its name—wouldn’t feel strange?
Sylvia stood frozen, unable to move a single muscle, and stared at the sleeping face far in the distance. His golden hair was tousled like a child’s, his cheeks looked as though they’d caught and held the sunlight, and even his long lashes were as familiar as ever—yet now, for some reason, it felt as though she were spying on something intimate.
Right. It was probably because he was asleep, and because he was lying there with his back completely bare.
When she checked beneath the blanket, she found that she was undressed too. And as the memories of last night gradually rose to the surface, there was no denying it any longer: she had done it with him.
“If you don’t lift your hips, it’ll be hard for me to get in, Sylvi.”
“I want to bite you... Is that okay?”
His signature gentle tone, that voice like a whisper. His groans, his touch—no, not exactly a touch, more like the merciless way he’d seized her—came back to her in a rush.
“I really...”
Her overused throat rasped out the words, then closed again.
At the memory of how he had looked at her and touched her through the night, of the hand that had traveled up her leg in the dark and the amber eyes that had gleamed sharply in the moonlight, she felt an almost desperate urge to burrow under the blanket and die.
How had they ended up like this?
Sylvia curled in on herself, gripping handfuls of her hair.
It wasn’t the how that she could guess at. It was the cause.
Of course, she knew alcohol had been the primary culprit.
But what she wanted to know was why, of all the men in the world, it had to be that man.
He was someone she had known for five years, and yet still a man who wore the awkward disguise of being only a friend of a friend, always keeping his distance. And precisely because of that, she couldn’t simply cut him off after a disaster like this. So long as she stayed at Heston’s side, she would keep seeing this man too.
Oh, dear God, Heston.
At the sudden thought of his name, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Now that her senses had returned to her completely, a glance around made it painfully clear that she hadn’t left Sodern Castle at all, and that she had made this terrible mistake here.
Of all places—here, where Heston’s engagement ceremony had been held, and of all people, with Heston’s friend.
She wanted to half die of guilt.
I need to get out of here quickly.
That thought in mind, Sylvia hurriedly gathered her scattered clothes. Like someone who couldn’t bear to have a single inch of bare skin exposed, she wrapped the thin blanket around herself and dressed as best she could. One hand would slip out of the blanket heap to grab a stocking, another would emerge to snatch up her chemise, as though a monster were devouring its meal piece by piece.
Her entire body ached with sore muscles, and especially the insides of her thighs and her lower back hurt so badly that every movement brought out a cold sweat, but she forced herself through it on sheer willpower.
How on earth did that end up in there?
Sylvia blushed as she looked at the pair of white drawers tucked beneath the bedside table.
It was better not to think about whose hands had taken them off.
After finally retrieving the drawers on her knees, Sylvia fumbled to gather the rest of her clothes.
“Mm... Sylvia?”
Just then, the sleepy voice of a man drifted out, and her spine straightened as if it had been scratched.
There was the sound of movement on the bed. The rustling of the blanket, as though he were checking the empty space beside him, made her tense so hard she almost couldn’t breathe.
Sylvia flattened herself against the floor as much as possible and tried to vanish from his line of sight. She was half-undressed, clutching the drawers in one hand, and the shame of it all made her want to pass out on the spot, but it still seemed better than facing the man directly.
Fortunately, her efforts didn’t seem to be wasted, because she heard him flop back down on the bed.
“Did she leave?”
His voice, muffled beneath the blanket, slipped out briefly into the silence.
Sylvia didn’t blink. She bit her lip and stared at the ceiling until his breathing evened out at last, and only then could she finally move again.
Stepping outside was the second blow that finished her off; the remnants of the engagement ceremony still clung to Sodern Castle, rubbing salt into the wound.
She was about to hurry home when she realized that a noble young lady who had already debuted in society could not possibly return without a carriage, and so she turned her steps toward the room of Heston’s younger sister, Rosaline.
“Rosaline.”
She murmured it so softly it was barely more than a whisper, and there was no reason for a reply. Still, without waiting for one, she opened the door and went in. Rosaline was still fast asleep. With her long black hair spread out like Heston’s, she looked like a beautiful doll as she slept. But Sylvia showed her no mercy and shook her awake.
“Rosaline. I need your help. I couldn’t go home last night.”
“Mm? Sylvia?”
“Yeah, it’s me. No one contacted the house?”
If she had been late coming home, someone from the family should have gotten in touch.
Rosaline, still looking at her through half-awake eyes, suddenly shot upright and cried out, “Of course they did!”
She grabbed Sylvia, then pinched her nose and shoved her back.
“Ugh, you reek of alcohol. Just how much did you drink? Did you pass out somewhere after getting drunk, and only now wake up?”
“T-that’s more or less it.”
Sylvia stammered awkwardly, but Rosaline paid no attention to such small details. She got up, draped a shawl around her shoulders, scribbled something on a sheet of paper, then tugged a cord to hand it over to a maid.
Sylvia sat on a small one-person sofa embroidered with flowers while Rosaline moved briskly about, taking care of Sylvia’s mistake for her.
Her head felt like it might split open, and she couldn’t even lean back. It was the first time she had ever drunk enough to lose the memories, so all of this aftereffect felt strangely unfamiliar.
She clearly remembered sneaking away with plenty of alcohol and hiding where no one would likely come looking.
Had Owen happened to pass by where Sylvia was hiding?
If he had, then with his kind nature, he couldn’t have simply walked past her and pretended not to know her, Heston’s friend. They weren’t close, but he would sometimes strike up a conversation with her all the same. Always so naturally. And then Sylvia could exchange a few awkward words with him in return.
Sylvia liked his distinctive atmosphere. Like the season of summer, fitting for the house of Summers, he had a warm, languid air about him. Perhaps because she’d been drunk, and because it had been the day Heston—the man she loved—announced his engagement, Sylvia had surely clung to him first. Maybe, driven by loneliness, she had even kissed him.
Even if you were drunk, that was truly beyond foolish.
Resting her face against her knees and curling in on herself, Sylvia thought bitterly. A kind man like Summers probably wouldn’t have been able to push her away. Knowing that she loved Heston too, perhaps he had pitied her and held her close instead.
There’s a mole here.
Suddenly, she remembered his voice whispering so close while he held her in his arms. He had brushed back Sylvia’s disheveled hair and toyed with her earlobe. She remembered his large hand on her bare back, the solidity of his body.
Sylvia blushed at the memory and drew her knees in even tighter. Rosaline, apparently finished dealing with whatever she had been doing, came over while giving Sylvia’s strange posture another look.
“Are you coming down with something, Sylvi? You look sick. Your face is red too.”
The nickname Rosaline used for her blurred, in a strange way, with Owen’s voice from the previous night. Sylvia scratched at her ear and lifted her head.
“I’m just a little hot.”
“Hot? It’s morning. Get up already. After you wash up, I’ll give you some medicine, so go to the bathroom first.”
“The bathroom?”
Sylvia repeated dumbly. She had been planning to bolt the second a carriage was ready and leave this castle behind forever. But Rosaline, with the stern expression of a proper young lady despite having only just awakened, gave her a severe reprimand.
“And you want to go home reeking like alcohol? What if you run into your father like that? Knowing his temperament, he’d lock you in your room that very day. Then he’d sell you off to some mage you haven’t even seen once in the last three months.”
It was a savage assessment of a friend’s father. But it wasn’t wrong. No matter how well Sylvia did her work, enough to receive a medal from the Emperor himself, so long as she remained nothing more than a Supporter, what mattered most to her father was her value as a woman who could marry and bear the child that would produce a “real” mage.
She shuddered, imagining the harsh future Rosaline had described. If her father found out she and Owen had slept together?
In this day and age, for a man and woman who felt mutual attraction to share a bed before marriage was nothing more than a trivial scandal—but not, she was certain, in her father’s eyes. To him, it would mean staining the noble mage blood flowing through Sylvia’s veins, and worse, tarnishing the reputation of the family itself.
The shame you’ll force me to bear is endless.
She could already picture the clear expression of disgust on her father’s face when he looked at her.
“So hurry up and get moving!”
Noticing Sylvia’s sinking expression, Rosaline seized her arm and hauled her to her feet.
The moment her feet touched the ground, Sylvia’s body stiffened noticeably, whether from the pain in her lower back or something else. Rosaline looked over at her as though wondering why she couldn’t even walk properly. Sylvia was grateful for Rosaline’s obliviousness and forced a smile onto her face.
“I slept in some weird position yesterday. My whole body aches.”
“Really? Where did you sleep? You didn’t collapse in the dressing room again like last time, did you?”
“Well. Something like that.”
“Honestly. Why do you keep crawling off to weird places whenever you drink? Even if it was a chance to drink for the first time in ages, that’s still too much.”
At Rosaline’s scolding, Sylvia smiled without saying anything.
Almost everyone knew about Sylvia’s one-sided love, and so even though she had vanished with a bottle of liquor the night before, no one had gone looking for her. But Rosaline and the object of that love, Heston, were the only two who, no matter what, had never noticed it.
Seeing that the siblings were both like this, Sylvia had once guessed that perhaps indifference ran in their bloodline.
Yes. Indifference.
Otherwise, how could they not have known?
It had been a full ten years. During that time, Sylvia had come to know Heston’s habits, the shape of his thoughts.
That he did not easily let others close, but that once he did, he was kinder than anyone else. That his kindness was like a low, lingering warmth, hard to notice at first. Ten years was a long enough time to learn all of that about someone hidden so well from the world.
And yet in all that time, Heston had never once noticed even the feelings Sylvia held for him. Even though the only thing left in her heart whenever she looked at him was affection—nothing but affection.
You said I was the most precious person to you.
Sylvia bit down hard on her lip and held back the swell of emotion. But Heston’s face, long buried away, kept rising before her soft heart and tearing it open again.
I trust you. Even when I try not to, I end up trusting you anyway, so I suppose that could be called a curse. But I rather like it. Being together with you, I mean.
When he had said that, smiling so gently.
It had been a scene she’d wanted to keep forever. On nights when she was especially exhausted, Sylvia would fall asleep with the memory of him as her constellation.
His tenderness, revealed only to her. That unique smile, lifting only one corner of his mouth. His boundless devotion and loyalty—she had mistaken all of it for something that belonged solely to her.
I’ve agreed to become engaged to Her Imperial Highness the Princess.
Not until Heston confessed that to her.
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