Having finally managed to slip away from the adults, Prince Alfonso gestured toward the backyard. Ariadne followed him without hesitation.
“You had a hard time getting out.”
Ariadne offered a sympathetic word to the prince, who had just forced his way through the crowd.
“Not at all!”
Despite having physically elbowed through a throng of noblemen, the prince denied it vehemently, his face brightening into a smile.
“I didn’t know you were coming today. How did you manage to get here? Did you come with… your mother?”
Ariadne shook her head.
“My tutor, Madam Romani, acted as my chaperone for the day. She’s a relative of the Marchioness Cibo.”
“Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re here. How have you been? And do you like the outfit I’m wearing?”
Ariadne blushed, the memory of their last encounter in the zelkova tree rushing back.
“I think it’s better than the last one.”
“And the hair clip I gave you?”
Ariadne blushed again—this time out of pure embarrassment. To put it kindly, her features were delicate and elegant; to put it bluntly, they were a bit sharp, and the cute, bright pink, flower-shaped gemstone clip simply didn’t suit her. Yet, she felt too guilty to tell that to the person who had given it to her.
“It was pretty, but… it doesn’t go with today’s dress. I’ll make sure to wear it next time.”
The two continued to exchange trivial pleasantries as they wandered the gardens of the Cibo estate. They spoke of their recent days—conversations that, strictly speaking, contained important tidbits like Ariadne’s standing among the court nobles—but ultimately, the dialogue could be summarized as entirely inconsequential.
Because, in truth, the words themselves, the structure of their sentences, and the content they conveyed mattered very little to them in that moment.
Alfonso saw only the smooth texture of Ariadne’s skin, the sheen of her jet-black hair, the depth of her green eyes, and the way they crinkled into half-moons whenever she laughed. He watched her, despite his best efforts not to.
When Ariadne laughed at some absurdity, her white front teeth pressed against her full upper lip, making her look remarkably like a rabbit. The sudden thought of pressing his lips to hers sent a sharp thrill down his spine.
But he could go no further than that. He was a prince, a future monarch. The country would be his, but in exchange, he had to offer his entire self to the state. That was what he believed was expected of any proper ruler. His marriage would be settled by his father and mother. In all probability, the woman he would eventually meet would be the daughter of some monarch from across the sea.
He did not know if she would be beautiful, or kind, or a good person. But she would come to him as a bride, bringing gold and jewels and the promise of peace, her dowry arriving in ships or piled high in wagons and carriages. In exchange for him submitting to that arrangement—by attaching his affections to a stranger, building a family, and siring heirs—his nation and his people would be safer and more prosperous.
“Alfonso, isn’t that pretty?”
Prince Alfonso suddenly broke free from his reverie. Ariadne had turned to him, her expression radiant as she pointed toward the hydrangeas in full bloom.
They stood before a narrow path, banked on both sides by a dense, flowering wall of hydrangeas.
“Let’s go over there!”
The Boy and Girl in the Hydrangea Garden
Following the girl’s lead—and justifying that as long as he wasn’t the one who initiated it, this much would be fine—he took a step forward. The hydrangea path was a spectacular sight. Thickets of white hydrangeas, grown tall and heedless of the sky, obstructed the view of anyone who stepped inside. As they ventured into the passage, all that remained was a tunnel of white blossoms and dark green leaves, with only a fragment of deep blue sky visible if one tilted their head back. It was just them. Only the two of them.
Amidst the waves of white, a single purple hydrangea caught his eye. While the surrounding colors shifted in subtle hues, this was the only blossom that had deepened into an exceptionally vivid shade.
He told himself he shouldn’t. His reason warned that if he didn’t touch it, didn’t get too close, didn’t pick it—if he simply watched from afar as a good acquaintance, delaying the moment of decision as long as possible—he would be able to keep watching her smile. He should maintain a safe distance. Yet, his mouth moved of its own accord.
“Do you want that?”
“It’s the Cibo family’s flower. Is it really all right to pick it as we please?”
“Let’s pick it secretly.”
Ariadne burst into a clear, bright laugh.
“How are we supposed to take it away secretly if we pick it? Are we just going to throw it away right after? What a waste.”
“Hide it in the folds of your skirt and take it inside.”
Ariadne let out her signature refined laugh and gave Alfonso a playful tap on the shoulder. At the girl’s touch, the fuse in Alfonso’s brain blew white.
When he had met Ariadne earlier at the abandoned fountain in the Queen’s Palace, he had helped her into the tree without much thought. He could truly swear that he had grabbed her arms and held her in his embrace without any ulterior motive. But ever since that moment, every night before falling asleep, he would see the black-haired girl in the white dress. The sensation of gripping her arms, the breath that escaped her lips, the scent of her soft skin and hair—all of it would wash over him as he lay in bed.
Once he had become aware of it, there was no stopping it. Objectively, Ariadne’s touch today might have been nothing, but subjectively, it was everything. Alfonso could not restrain himself, and he called out to her in a low voice.
“Come here.”
“H-huh?”
Alfonso grabbed Ariadne by the waist and lifted her up. Now, he couldn’t even use the excuse that he wasn’t the one who had reached out first.
Ariadne, who had seemed surprised at first, found herself at a height advantage thanks to Alfonso, and she used it to pluck the purple hydrangea blooming at the very top of the thicket with her own hands.
She held the flower in her hand like a bouquet.
“How is it? Is it pretty?”
“It’s truly beautiful.”
The conversation between them seemed to flow smoothly, but in reality, they were referring to different objects. The question the girl asked was whether the bouquet was pretty, but the answer the boy gave was that the girl was beautiful.
Other guests from the salon who had come out for a stroll could occasionally be seen nearby. It reached the point where, to the two of them, anyone else felt like an inanimate object—a wall clock or a piece of furniture. Yet, if one were to pick out a common trait between the wall clocks and the other guests, it was that they signaled the passage of time.
A man and a woman could naturally walk through a garden together, but if they lingered too long or vanished into a secluded corner, they would immediately become the subject of gossip. A “natural stroll” meant that the guests who were in sight when they started had to remain in sight to stay within the safe zone. Ariadne and Alfonso now realized, little by little, that familiar faces were appearing only sporadically, or had already faded away.
“We should get back quickly.”
Alfonso reluctantly agreed with the hurried Ariadne. The sensation of her waist, which had fit perfectly within his palms only moments ago, refused to leave his mind. The yellow satin of her dress had slipped through his grasp like a phantom; the sudden absence left him feeling as cold as a room plunged into shadow after a brief, brilliant flash of sunlight.
* * *
“I would like to offer my thanks to the Marquis and Marchioness Cibo for arranging such a wonderful event today, to His Highness Prince Alfonso De Carlo for gracing us with his presence, and to all the ladies and gentlemen here.”
Finally, the art auction began. The merchant presenting the items was a man in his fifties with a sharp, calculating gaze, his beard pointed and meticulously groomed, and his attire ostentatiously flamboyant.
“I am Vincenzio from the Republic of Porto. I am honored to announce that I am the nephew of Venacio of the Del Gato family, who serves as the Minister of Finance in the Republic of Porto. Thanks to those connections, I am able to present these fantastic pieces of art here today! I believe you all know what is about to be revealed, don’t you?”
Although he emphasized his ties to an influential family in the Republic of Porto, the man possessed the unmistakable aura of a common street peddler. Yet, the rumors surrounding *Vittoria Nike* were formidable enough that the invited guests, gathered in the hall, stirred with palpable anticipation.
“We shall begin with small, beautiful things. These are paintings by a newcomer from Urbino. Even if they do not quite satisfy your discerning eyes, I ask that you look upon them with generosity, as if you are patronizing a youth full of potential. This is *Madonna of the Daffodils*.”
Ariadne let out a soft snort. The artist, Bernardo of Urbino, was destined to be scouted by the Holy See after his portrait of the Marquis of Urbino—which would not be unveiled until next year—received widespread acclaim. His career would soar; within a few years, he would be entrusted with the expansion and renovation of the Great Basilica of Trevero and its frescoes. His value was set to skyrocket.
Bernardo’s brushwork and composition were already so masterfully stable that calling him a “fledgling” was an insult. Now, in the peak of his youth, his style was even bolder. If an art lover found this piece lacking, they were either utterly blind to beauty or possessed standards so loftily unreachable that they ought to have been painting the masterpieces themselves.
“We start at 5 ducats! Is there anyone?”
Because the merchant had opened with such an absurdly low price, the room fell silent. No one called out a bid, blind to the fact that the painting’s value would multiply by the coming year, and within five years, even a nobleman of means wouldn’t dare dream of affording it.
Ariadne, careful not to draw undue attention, waited for one full turn before raising her voice.
“5 ducats!”
“Oh, who might this be? Ah, the second daughter of the De Mare family, I see. The Cardinal’s second daughter has bid 5 ducats! Is there anyone else?”
Perhaps because he was an outsider, his address lacked all refinement. She could, however, let that pass.
“If there are no other bids, I shall begin the count. 5!”
“4!”
“3!”
“8 ducats.”
The second bidder was the man who had just taken the seat directly beside Ariadne.
He had bustled in late while the count was already underway. Although the hall was nearly full, there were still vacant seats elsewhere, making his insistence on sitting immediately next to her feel deliberately intrusive.
It was against etiquette for a lady to stare openly at the person beside her, and with the bidding already in full swing, Ariadne had not bothered to check his identity. Instead, the merchant from Porto leaned toward the man to inquire.
“And who might the gentleman who made the second bid be?”
After a brief murmur, the merchant received confirmation from the organizers and announced, “Ah! Count Cesare De Como!”
Ariadne felt as though she had been burned; she snapped her head toward the seat beside her.
Count Cesare De Como was in the process of sitting down, removing his hat and smoothing his attire. Beneath his auburn hair, the sharp ridge of his nose and a delicate jawline came into view. He swept his hair back, turned his head, and locked eyes with Ariadne, who was staring at him in utter shock.
He raised his left eyebrow and the corner of his lip, offering a faint, mocking nod—a look that hovered somewhere between a smile and a sneer.
It was a look Ariadne knew all too well.
The merchant from Porto was already scanning the room for the next bidder.
“Count De Como has bid 8 ducats! We have 8 ducats! Are there any other ladies or gentlemen who wish to bid?”
Before the merchant could even finish his sentence, Ariadne retorted instantly.
“10 ducats!”