A Sister's Extended Hand
"That suits you better."
"I kinda like that one too?"
"How about this one."
Three women with their strikingly unique hair colors each hold a garment in one hand, pressing it against my body while nodding to each other, then dart off again in search of something new.
Finally, I sink into the sofa prepared just for me, soothe my throat with the cookies and black tea the building's owner brought personally, and let out a sigh.
—Hey!! Bow freak!! What about this one?
—That one's not as good as the one next to it.
—Hmm, yeah, maybe?
—Why not just take both?
—Ah.
—Indeed.
At Ardella's words, Siron and Giena nod as if they've just had an epiphany. They look awfully chummy. Just before we left the castle, Giena and Ardella had been glaring at each other like they wanted to kill one another. How did they end up this close? No idea. Even right after leaving the castle, things were tense between them. But for some reason, neither seemed all that upset with Siron, the one who'd provoked them both. I'd seen them asking her directions now and then while walking the streets or just chatting casually.
Siron strode confidently ahead, gripping my interlaced hand, answering their questions with half-hearted grunts as we went. She'd spent a good chunk of last year in this city on a commission, so she knew all the major spots inside out. We just followed her lead.
We ended up somewhere pretty far from the castle. The streets were lined with uniformly luxurious buildings, and the people strolling about were decked out in pricey outfits you wouldn't spot easily in ordinary districts—jewelry dangling everywhere.
Siron marches straight into a five-story building without a hint of hesitation. The whole place is dedicated to clothing. As soon as we step inside, women's undergarments and apparel catch my eye, so I figure she's here to buy stuff for herself. That illusion shatters in under five minutes.
We climb eye-searingly ornate stairs to the fourth floor, and the women's clothes vanish, replaced by men's wear with some bizarre designs. Siron doesn't stop there—she drags us up to the top floor, the fifth.
And damn, the top floor lives up to the hype. Black-and-white marble floors, chandeliers adorning the ceiling—nothing cheap in sight. Most surprising? We're the only customers up here.
A woman in a impeccably crisp suit approaches us with a polite bow. She's the owner and manager of the building. The courteous manager explains the floor: handmade limited-edition pieces stitched by famous artisans, one-of-a-kind stuff—at sky-high prices. In short, "You got the cash?"
As the manager smiles at us, Siron starts reaching into her bosom to show something. But Ardella steps forward, flashing the ring on her left hand. The manager's eyes widen to the point where I'm wondering if that's structurally sound, then she bows at a perfect ninety degrees.
That ring must prove Ardella's status or family—the manager recognized it on sight. After that, it's smooth sailing. I park myself on the sofa and table set up just for me, munching on snacks the manager brings while the three of them hold up clothes against me now and then.
So when exactly did the three of them get so tight? Like I said, no clue. They started exchanging a few words after a few clothing trials, and before long, they're chatting amiably, calling each other by name like now.
I wet my throat with black tea and rise again as the three sneak up on me once more.
"Ah, this one's a bit small."
"Smith's not exactly the manly type anyway."
"That's his charm."
"True that."
They crowd around me again, fiddling with their latest finds before vanishing once more. Only now do I realize Siron dropped the formal speech with Ardella at some point. More importantly, how long do I have to play mannequin?
"More tea?"
"...Please."
"Right away."
The manager materializes silently, taking my empty cup and slipping away. I glance over— the floor's littered with plain paper bags, not overly flashy. Three hours straight. Three hours as a dress-up doll, and by a quick count, over thirty outfits already bought. I'm itching to die of boredom. I wanna beg to leave right now.
"Haa..."
I sigh and turn back. In the distance, the three chat amiably. As long as they keep not fighting and stay this close...
"A bit longer won't kill me."
Two more hours pass before I'm freed from mannequin duty.
"We'll rush the rest to the castle as fast as possible. Thank you for your patronage—it was a great honor."
The manager personally escorts us down to the first floor and sees us off. Five hours total to escape that place. Shockingly, the clear blue sky we entered under is now smeared with orange sunset like watercolor.
"Lady Ardella."
A soldier approaches us right outside.
"They want to know when you'll return to the castle."
Ardella glances at me and says, "Smith. If you're tired, we can head back now."
"Wait!!"
Before I can reply, Siron butts in, poking Ardella's side gently with her elbow and whispering conspiratorially.
"Since we're out, let's get that wild hair of his sorted before we go."
"...?"
Ardella stares at my face again—no, specifically my roughly swept-back hair.
"His hair looks fine now, though?"
"No no, look."
Siron hops up onto my back. With her small, cute hands, she ruffles my hair, pointing out, "This bit's too long," "This looks messy."
Even mentally exhausted as I am, I feel the need for a trim. I've been hacking at it with scissors haphazardly, so it needs shaping up. And with the weather warming, maybe buzz it short while we're at it.
Siron hops down, and Ardella nods vaguely at her words, telling the soldier, "Tell them we'll handle dinner and head back."
"Understood. If you need anything, just raise a hand lightly—the nearby guards will come running."
"Make it so."
The soldier bows and vanishes quickly.
"Perfect. There's a nice restaurant nearby—we can grab drinks there after and call it a night."
"Drinks... yeah, drinks sound good."
Siron suggests, Ardella agrees, and Giena nods quietly. Everyone but me's on board.
"What's with that face?"
"Nothing, just..."
I clear my throat briefly. Speaking up against dinner would kill the vibe we'd built, so I zip it. My stomach's bloated from all the tea and cookies up there, appetite gone, but if it keeps these three close, I'll stuff my gut for it.
On the way back to the castle.
"Urk..."
"Sigh, I knew from the way you downed every pour."
"Smith... you okay?"
I focus on swallowing the stuff teetering between my throat and esophagus. But seriously, whose fault is this?
A pro barber cleaned up my hair perfectly. Then we hit the fancy restaurant Siron recommended. Best seat in the house—a private room away from prying eyes. We order simple dishes and a variety of wines.
Food comes first, wine after. We said just a light one, but weirdly, every time my glass empties, Ardella and Siron take turns refilling it. I sense something off, but after ages of shitty beer, this premium wine's subtle sweetness and aroma hook me—I chug every pour like Siron said.
And now I'm paying. Solo'd at least three bottles, feels like. Every breath brings up wine flavors and booze burn—pure misery. Not drunk, just overdid it on a full stomach. Queasy as hell.
Siron and Ardella take turns gently rubbing my back. Probably placebo, but it eases things a bit.
We reach the castle gates without incident; guards salute and clear the way. No checks—we stroll right in.
"Lady Ardella."
The familiar maid awaits us—the one who'd guided her earlier.
"There's a slight issue with preparing the guest quarters; it'll take a bit longer."
"I see."
Ardella nods, and the maid retreats without another word.
"Smith. Like I mentioned earlier, I'll have to impose on your room a little."
"Ah, sure. No problem."
Right, we'd agreed on that at lunch. But wait—Kernax is coming by tonight. Better if I dip out to her room instead; easier for everyone.
"Then I'll head to Kernax's room for a bit..."
"Whoa, hold up."
"...?"
Siron cuts me off.
"Ahem. I, uh, got some private business with her."
"...Okay?"
"Yeah. Once it's done, I'll come let you know—or send her up. Got it?"
"...Sure."
I nod. Siron nods back.
"Alright, let's head up and rest."
I nod again. Mental fatigue plus booze has my body all limp and lazy. We climb the stairs; Siron and Giena bid farewell on the fourth floor.
Squeeze.
Just us two now, and Ardella tentatively reaches out, interlacing our fingers. My haze snaps clear. Strength surges into my languid limbs. Memories of daytime flood back.
"Let's get inside."
"Ah, yeah..."
Hand in hand, Ardella leads me up the stairs. No real talk. Not a peep till we reach my guest room.
Click.
The door shuts.
"...Let's sit first."
"Yes, ma'am."
We settle side by side on the room's sofa. Silence stretches again. Sweat prickles where our fingers link.
"Smith."
"Yes?"
I turn reflexively to Ardella. She's not looking at me—just gazing at the table ahead.
"I told Siron."
"...Told her what?"
"That I have feelings for you."
Whatever booze lingered evaporates instantly. I swallow and ask, "When... did you say that?"
"It hit me while picking clothes. Felt like the moment. She took it seriously, thankfully."
"Whoa..."
I'm stunned on multiple levels. She'd raged hard enough to wreck a district when it was Kernax. She and Siron started off rocky too. The temple stuff still makes my scalp tingle. And clothes shopping for this chat? Unimaginable.
"Since she took it seriously, I was honest too. Told her my oversteps with you and Kernax stemmed from envy and jealousy."
Ardella meets my eyes. Her jewel-clear blue gaze shines brighter than ever today.
"Siron said it's your call, Smith. She—and Kernax too—will respect whatever you decide..."
Slip.
Our grip loosens. Ardella gently withdraws her hand.
"I've always been like this since I was little. Once I decide, I have to act on it right away or I can't settle. Same now... Smith. I know how pathetic it is, calling myself your sister only to say this now. But... still, I have to ask you."
Ardella looks me dead in the eye, extending the hand that held mine moments ago.
"If... if there's even a little part of you that sees me as a woman, then please—take my hand."
Her steadfast gaze flickers hazily. Those jewel-like eyes waver.
"You can refuse. We can stay as sister and brother like now..."
Ardella trails off. Her eyes, which had stared so boldly, drift downward tentatively. There, between us, rest our two hands—nearly touching.