Chapter 38
Heston’s hand paused.
But he wasn’t some ungrateful bastard who didn’t know how to appreciate a kindness. He quickly nodded and told her how Owen was doing.
“He’s fine. The priest even stepped in to help with the healing, so he’ll be fully conscious soon. His wounds have all closed up, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank goodness. I don’t think I could’ve handled it if anything serious had happened to Owen.”
“Owen saved your life, too.”
“Exactly. Now I finally get why you kept saying he was such a good person.”
“He is. People like that are rare.”
“Tell me about it.”
Before long, Sylvia had dragged the blanket up over her head and was babbling about how recklessly, and yet how responsibly, Owen had saved her. Hearing her speak with such complete relief, sprawled out like a puppy that had gone limp with exhaustion, made it feel achingly real that she was back, and Heston buried his face in the hand he was holding.
When Sylvia felt the dampness against her fingers as she absentmindedly stroked the top of Heston’s bowed head, she panicked. Kneeling there, she lowered herself so she could try to see his face through the curtain of hair.
“Heston, Heston. Are you crying? Don’t. Why are you—”
But even then, all she could make out was the red of his cheekbones. He braced his elbows on the bed as if in prayer, his head tucked into Sylvia’s hand, waiting for his heart to settle. He was gripping her so tightly that her hand had gone white.
Sylvia called his name softly.
“Heston.”
His shoulders jerked.
The sight overlapped with the boy he had once been.
When Rosaline had been sinking beneath the heavy blankets of a massive bed, hovering between life and death, the duchess had burst into tears, then harried the doctor and priest mercilessly, clinging to her youngest daughter’s hand and demanding that they do something—anything. She had even fainted once. Heston, however, had simply stood at the bedside with a blank face, his hands folded behind his back, and watched it all in silence.
When Sylvia had first seen that scene at Lockwood House, brought there by her mother, she had thought, As expected of the eldest son who’s destined to inherit the title—cold as ice, even at such a young age.
But one day, when the large dog they’d been playing with in the first-floor drawing room suddenly bolted out through an open door, Sylvia had chased after it and, for the first time, found Heston crouched beside the bushes, knees drawn up as he cried. He was the kind of person who hid his feelings in front of others and only let them spill when he was alone.
That’s such a stupid habit. If no one knows you’re hurting, then you can’t even get comfort from anyone.
Crossing her arms, Sylvia spoke with all the authority of someone who had seen through him, and Heston lifted his head. He scrubbed at his tears and looked up at her, his expression making it painfully obvious what he thought of the idea of comfort: What’s so important about being comforted anyway?
Still, even then, he stubbornly tried to get up, saying something along the lines of, “I apologize for making such a spectacle of myself.” Even when Sylvia grabbed his arm and forcibly made him sit back down, he didn’t complain once.
That was when Sylvia threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him.
Cry.
And she said it with absolute confidence. Back then, Sylvia had been almost embarrassingly bold—bold enough to thump Heston’s stiff shoulders with her hand and tell him to do it like that.
I’m telling you, cry like this. You’ll feel better.
But whether his tears had already dried up or not, Heston didn’t cry the way she’d demanded. He also didn’t shove her away in humiliation or act cruelly. He simply stood there, awkwardly held in her arms, until a voice calling for him arrived too late, and he got up to carry out his duty.
If Sylvia had given up there, it would have been nothing more than one awkward little episode. But after that, she kept showing up every time Heston cried. Once it happened enough times, about a month later, Heston was able to cry even with Sylvia beside him. And after even more time passed, he only cried when she was there. It was an achievement born of Sylvia’s stubborn persistence.
“Heston, don’t cry.”
It was probably the same this time, too.
While she had been missing, he must have worn that same calm face in front of everyone, Sylvia could picture it clearly. He would have held it in, swallowed it down, and endured with idiotic, stubborn grit. And now that he was breaking down in front of her again, what was Sylvia supposed to do? Even though she hadn’t forgotten for a second that he was engaged to another woman, she couldn’t stop herself from wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
Heston let go of her hand and, this time, clutched both arms around her as if he were afraid she might disappear.
He didn’t say a single word about I thought I lost you or anything like that, but Sylvia could guess at the shape of his fear.
“Sylvia.”
Then Heston called her name in a grave voice. When she obediently nodded, he lifted his head and met her eyes, red and wet with tears.
“I have something to tell you. While you were gone, I kept regretting things. The truth is….”
His face was serious—serious in the way someone looked just before confessing something dangerous. Sylvia couldn’t help tracing back through her memory, trying to figure out what there was about Heston she didn’t know. The truth is what?
Heston hesitated, opening his mouth only to close it again and again. Just how serious could this possibly be? More than anticipation, she felt a stirring of dread. Don’t tell me Owen died? The thought struck like a spark, and suddenly she couldn’t bear it.
Snatches of Owen’s face from the last time she’d seen him flashed through her mind. His calm expression as he took his medicine, as if he already understood something. The knife that had run through his thigh.
Her next breath trembled.
No. Heston already said Owen was fine, didn’t he? So he’s probably okay. Still, maybe I should hurry and go see Owen first.
Once her thoughts drifted toward Owen, it was hard to pull them back. It was the first time she had been unable to focus even when Heston said it was something important.
Meanwhile, Heston looked as though he had made up his mind. The unfocused look in his eyes settled into something sharp and clear, and tension tightened in his hands. He opened his mouth in a steady, unwavering voice.
“Actually….”
“Oh! You’re finally awake!”
At that moment, the door opened and Princess Catherine entered. She must have just come back from outside, because unmistakable energy lit her cheeks, and she carried with her the wild scent of the open air. Only then did Sylvia realize she had been leaning far too close to Heston, and she quietly increased the distance between them.
The one who looked annoyed by that movement was not Princess Catherine but Heston. The atmosphere around him sank heavy again, as if soaked through with water, but Catherine noticed first. She shrugged and, in answer to the irritated look Heston threw her for interrupting, gave him a mocking little smile instead.
“Your Highness.”
As Sylvia started to bow in greeting, Catherine stopped her and came closer.
“Don’t do that. I’ve felt for a while now that Lady Appleton doesn’t seem to think very highly of me. Do I look like someone who expects greetings from an invalid?”
She glanced sideways with amused reproach, then sat down beside Heston and took Sylvia’s hand. After a long, gentle stroke over her fingers, she spoke with quiet sincerity.
“I was truly amazed by the courage you and Lord Summers showed this time. Especially you, Lady Appleton. Saving the knights alone would have been remarkable enough, but to find the real holy relic in the middle of all that—I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to express my admiration for what you accomplished.”
Half as a princess speaking to someone beneath her, half as a warm friend, she said it with solemn dignity. But if Catherine was going to be confusing, Sylvia had no intention of matching her. She hurriedly composed herself and bowed her head.
“I only did what I had to do.”
“You’re a true hero. In fact, I accepted Heston’s proposal because I was so taken with his heroic side, but now I’m wondering whether I may have chosen the wrong marriage partner. Perhaps I should have married you instead.”
“Pardon?”
“Ahaha, I’m joking. As for the men who attacked you….”
Catherine briefly explained how things had developed afterward. They had sent people in the direction Sylvia had indicated before she collapsed and captured the two of them. Those two had turned out to be from the country of Ekevič.
She also said that Courtney Merino had been found as a corpse; she couldn’t go into the details, but there was evidence linking even that body to Ekevič. Sylvia was startled to hear that Courtney Merino had died, but more than that, the implications of the situation cast a grim shadow over what might come next.
Ekevič was the land of the prince’s fiancée, and this place was the domain of Duke Araspe, the prince’s maternal grandfather. Since the unidentified dissidents had been identified as Ekevič citizens, it seemed impossible for the prince to stay out of it.
Guessing from Sylvia’s expression what might be passing through her mind, Catherine gave a light laugh and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Of course, this is all classified, but I’m telling you because we learned about it thanks to you.”
So it would be best to keep her mouth shut, wouldn’t it?
That faint warning was unmistakable. Sylvia swore seriously that she would never recklessly run her mouth, and Catherine, satisfied, nodded and turned a trusting gaze on her.
Sylvia glanced toward Heston with concern. Heston’s twin brother, Lewis, had thrown his entire political life behind the prince in accordance with their father’s wishes, and to further solidify the power of the lesser duke’s title that had passed to him.
In other words, he had become the prince’s dog. But if this incident dealt the prince a severe blow, how badly would it hurt him?
And how much will that madman torment Heston over this…?
She couldn’t help worrying.