## Valquiterre's Obsession
*"He says she can be trusted?"*
Valquiterre found Kaian's words incomprehensible.
Politics demanded suspicion. A ruler who believed his subjects' words became blind, his ears plugged. It was easy to be deceived by those planning betrayal or manipulation.
Unless he'd witnessed and heard something himself, Valquiterre trusted no one.
He maintained three separate communication lines from Rowen—spies who didn't know of each other's existence. By comparing their reports, he identified which ones lied. Most reported similar information, never suspecting his meticulous surveillance.
*Kaian would do the same.*
Both had learned from their twin-mother aunts, who'd studied governance together. Princess Silvia, the elder, had become Queen. Lady Elise, having produced few heirs, had carefully raised Kaian as a potential successor to the throne.
If Valquiterre had sent three agents to Rowen, Kaian had certainly sent three to the capital and Valmonde. Possibly five, if his suspicions ran particularly deep.
*"I believe,"* Kaian had said. But Valquiterre doubted even those words.
*Not that he believes. That he wants to believe.*
And the woman shaking his cousin's certainty was small, fairy-like, precious.
---
Valquiterre had imagined Claudel countless times since their lake encounter.
*Possessed,* he thought, as memories replayed despite himself. Perhaps glorified by unfamiliarity. Yet the image remained vivid—her slow walk through the palace hallway, a massive butterfly dancing before her like an escort.
A butterfly escaped from the gardens, likely. A common occurrence. Yet it seemed a messenger illuminating her path.
The woman he'd seen half-submerged in water—barely contained within wet fabric—was even more beautiful when dry.
*Her red hair. When had that color become so striking?*
The Duke of Vermont had complained about it, wasting his tea time. Yet that same red had imprinted itself on Valquiterre's memory.
And her eyes—deep gold becoming brilliant gold as dawn broke, small hands gripping golden bars.
When he'd stood too close, accidentally bumping her as she rushed to bow, he'd realized: there were almost no reports about Claudel from Valmonde.
Everything concerned Princess Irena. Claudel was barely mentioned.
After investigating old reports, Valquiterre found no enemies, no controversies surrounding her.
*"The kingdom's best bride is Princess Irena?"*
When he'd met Irena, she'd seemed aristocratic but ordinary. Nothing remarkable. Not the all-consuming presence Claudel created.
The first time Valquiterre had heard Claudel's name was when the Duke of Vermont, enraged by Kaian's war preparations, announced his adopted daughter would die from Herzol.
*"She doesn't look mortally ill."*
Valquiterre hadn't known about the three carefully timed meals Kaian fed her daily, nor the crocodile injury she'd survived. Her gait seemed perfectly normal.
That realization infuriated him irrationally.
*I was trying to make the marriage fail.*
Learning that Kaian had taken the woman who'd touched his heart drove him near madness. Curiosity alone, he'd told himself. A king endured nothing.
But curiosity transformed into something else when he saw her at the lake, confirmed she wasn't Irena, and ordered her brought to the capital under the guise of the King's Birthday celebration.
It could have remained mere curiosity.
Then she'd questioned him with those golden eyes wide open, challenging him as though he were accountable. When had anyone last done that?
Valquiterre laughed—actually laughed—something he couldn't remember doing. Not the refined, distant smile of power, but something genuine, touching his heart.
*Perhaps I came to Rowen simply to meet her again.*
As he left the hanging gardens, he called to his courtier Makie.
"When will Bianque return?"
"She said before the birthday ball, Your Majesty. Three days."
"Summon her back immediately."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Valquiterre needed to understand that woman more deeply.
---
## Claudel and Kaian
When Kaian returned to find me dressing, he immediately objected. "Why bother? Stay comfortable."
"I can't believe I saw His Majesty looking like that," I said, embarrassed. "I must have looked terrible."
I was too focused on my appearance in the mirror to notice Kaian's expression darkening.
"It's finished, Lady," Hannah announced, and both she and Madame Marcel quickly excused themselves.
"Do you have no desire to look beautiful for me?" Kaian's tone was suddenly cold.
"What?"
"You dressed like this to impress the King."
The dress was new—something Kaian had never seen. I turned to face him. "I wanted to avoid seeming rude. I was thinking of your reputation."
"Then you've already failed." He lifted my chin. "You only need to be beautiful in my eyes."
*This dress was meant to please him?* I hadn't considered that angle.
He studied me—my small frame, the weight I was gradually regaining, my delicate bones. Something almost protective flickered across his expression before he masked it.
"You're pretty," I said softly, trying to lighten his mood. "Why not just say I'm pretty?"
Claudel seemed to interpret his intensity as a compliment, reaching up to kiss his fingertips.
Kaian's response was immediate. "This makeup won't work."
"Why not?"
"I can't kiss you as much as I want."
"I can reapply it afterward."
When my lips—painted with red rouge—parted like flowers, he kissed me deeply, thoroughly, until the artificial rose scent faded and my natural fragrance returned.
Only when I caught my breath and smiled up at him did he pause.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You look so sexy with my makeup all over your face."
I laughed, and when Kaian glanced in the mirror, he saw rouge transferred to his lips, around his mouth.
"Wipe it off," he commanded.
I gently cleaned his face with my handkerchief, shaking my head. "There's not enough time. I'd rather kiss you again."
"No."
"Is there anything I can't do?"
"Today is your first day in the capital," I said, pulling away. "I want to explore."
"Who said you could leave this room?"
"You promised to show me around."
When I pouted, Kaian's facial muscles twitched—barely suppressing a smile.
*She's so cute,* he thought, feeling the familiar urge to tease her. She'd pout, he'd soothe her, and she'd relax instantly. This wasn't the silent, expressionless woman from Rowen Castle's early days.
*Are there two sides to the Duchess?*
She openly showed joy here, but later reported territorial matters to the Duke of Vermont. Even Kaian, raised as Temnes' heir, would be no different as a hostage to the enemy. He understood, even as it bothered him.
"All right," he said finally. "I'll be ready soon."
Her undisguised joy made him sigh internally.
---
## The Salon
Kaian took me to a quiet residential area away from the busy streets. Yet row upon row of carriages lined the road, and I wondered about the commotion.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"The capital's most famous and largest salon."
"A salon?"
Unlike Valmonde, where the harsh climate prevented frequent gatherings, salons were essential to capital society. Northern nobles met rarely—too cold to travel, too expensive to heat large halls. We held balls and tea parties at Valmonde Castle exclusively, and outdoor activities when the ground thawed.
But the capital, with its many nobles, brokered everything at salons.
"The owner, Madame Cronac, recommended Madame Marcel to us," Kaian explained.
I immediately felt gratitude toward this woman I'd never met—the one who'd brought me my favorite seamstress.
The townhouse was surprisingly bright, decorated more cheerfully than expected.
"I read that salons were dark, with poor lighting—that kind of atmosphere," I observed.
"That depends on the owner's taste."
Seeing Kaian smile, I realized I'd been inadvertently rude again. *I really should learn to think before speaking.*
A woman's voice called out: "I thought I'd see you in a few days, Duke of Temnes. What brings you?"
I turned at Kaian's greeting and froze.
---