Gabriel looked at me strangely.
Those eyes reflected such a pure, impossibly clear blue, as if not a single speck marred their depths. I had always thought they resembled a cloudless sky, but when you see yourself reflected in them, it becomes something else entirely—more unsettling. As if it weren't sky at all, but a smooth surface of water that nothing would ever dare disturb.
"My beliefs, my philosophy, my ideals... everything I built from the ground up, brick by brick, suddenly seems meaningless."
It wasn't about Misa. Or the dress. Or even beauty.
It was suddenly, entirely, about *him*.
I didn't immediately understand what was happening. Why was he speaking as though we stood in the middle of a tragedy that had materialized from nowhere? A sharp pang of awkwardness made my heart clench unpleasantly. It seemed I had a congenital allergy to romantic scenes—the moment they began, my entire body started to resist.
Gabriel appeared oblivious to my inner turmoil. He continued speaking in a flat, low voice, as though trapping himself, step by step, within his own words:
"You burst into my world and destroyed it, and now you're rebuilding it exactly as you please. From the very foundation."
We turned, and the hem of my dress swung wide, gently wrapping around my legs like a warm wave. He held me as if I truly were a natural disaster from which there was no escape. It was clearer in his gaze than any words could be.
He was powerless.
If you weren't paying close attention, it could easily have been mistaken for a painful declaration of love. The kind of confession that makes a person's voice tremble—not with tenderness, but with the sound of something breaking within.
"That sounds like a confession," I said, trying to lighten the mood with a joke.
But Gabriel did not object.
And *that* was what threw me off course.
I had known beforehand that he cared about me. I understood that, from a survival and logical standpoint, the safest path was to stay by the protagonist's side and reach the ending together, avoiding collapse and catastrophe. I had accepted this intellectually.
But when this "confession" suddenly materialized right before me—without preparation, without a pre-rehearsed scene, without the usual comfortable distance—I was overcome by sharp dizziness. So strong that nausea rose in my throat.
Everything inside twisted.
It wasn't tenderness or awe. It was the sickening sensation of encountering something *living*, something *real*, something that had previously existed only as text.
"Do you love me?"
And it was at that moment I realized: to me, his words didn't sound like *"I love you"* at all. They sounded like a confession of self-destruction.
He lowered his lashes, but his face remained calm—and there wasn't a drop of happiness in it. Rather, it felt like a man weighed down by heavy guilt. Too quiet. Terrifyingly doomed.
If he had smiled, if he had whispered sweet words, if he had simply *acted*, it would have been so much easier. Then it would have been flat, safe love on the pages of a book. Feelings would have seemed scripted, like a necessary plot point.
But now everything was different.
It felt as if a ghost, previously existing on the other side of the screen, had suddenly reached out. As if, on an open page, the black, motionless letters had begun to stir, sprouting thin arms and transforming into living creatures, crawling in a slender column straight toward me.
Not toward the character "Evangeline," whom he was obligated to love according to the plot, but... truly toward *me*?
"Without even knowing who I am?"
I looked deeply into Gabriel's eyes. Evangeline's face was reflected in their transparent depths. All he knew for certain was that I had possessed her. Perhaps that was why his confession sounded so painful.
But were these his own feelings? Or merely a response to given conditions—to Evangeline's appearance, to the role he had been forced into?
Gabriel's body tensed, his dance movements becoming almost imperceptible. This time, I led.
He didn't answer. He just pressed his lips tightly together and looked away. The desire to escape was all too clear, but he continued dancing.
And the fact that there was no answer unexpectedly calmed me.
_So you sense it too. That something is wrong here._
This thought made the silence inside grow quieter.
"You, Sir Gabriel, need only remain by my side. Play along with me within the bounds of propriety. That will be quite enough."
I don't need heavy, naked sincerity. I would rather avoid it entirely.
I stay by Gabriel's side for protection—to avoid facing whatever fate might lie ahead. And it's enough for him simply to be there. To feel sympathy for Evangeline. To ask for help when he needs it. Just as he asked me to be his partner at the ball.
I don't know if I pushed too hard, but Gabriel's face turned so pale that from the outside, one might have thought it wasn't Evangeline standing on the brink—but himself.
"Perhaps that's enough for today?"
It felt as though continuing the dance would cause something to simply collapse. We had only managed two tunes, but if I could maintain the tempo without faltering, I could handle the rest. And I wasn't planning to dance to the point of exhaustion. This was more than enough.
And yet... there it was. I had intended to strengthen my position today. Instead, I got carried away and built a wall with my own hands.
I went too far.
From his perspective, things weren't looking good. He had been carefully guiding the conversation toward a confession, and the object of his affection had suddenly made it clear she wasn't quite there yet. No wonder he was flustered, falling silent. Surely he was thinking: *What suddenly happened to her?*
When the endlessly drawn-out waltz finally ended, I held up my hem, curtsied, and added almost in a whisper:
"You know, I quite like you."
It was unlikely to fix everything, but it was still worth saying. Pushing him away too harshly would no longer be managing the relationship—it would be destroying it. The blow needed to be softened, at least a little.
I knew he was attracted to Evangeline's face, and I tried my best to smile. My facial muscles, unaccustomed to such effort, felt numb, and the corners of my lips threatened to tremble.
I sneaked a glance in the mirror to check my appearance—and what I saw wasn't a soft smile, but something dangerous. Almost predatory.
Startled, I immediately let my expression fall.
_Well. It seems I truly have no talent for pretense._
---
## — Gabriel —
While Lady Rohanson briefly stepped away for a fitting, Gabriel had the opportunity to exchange a few words with Daisy. It was as if Evangeline had deliberately left them alone so they could speak.
"I received the transmission regarding Ms. Ponor. The lady seems to intend to keep the matter to herself."
"Yes. She said she believed Mrs. Ponor was truly remorseful. I believe she's forgiven her."
The fact that she was keeping a spy sent by Bishop Javaniya in her employ spoke volumes. At the very least, information about Evangeline wasn't leaking.
Bishop Javaniya had grown quite nervous about the lack of news from Dolline Ponor. It was no wonder he had been cautiously questioning Gabriel about the tutors Lady Rohanson had hired.
"I answered Bishop Javaniya evasively."
"Really?"
Daisy mentally composed a report for the butler. Then she regarded Gabriel carefully, with slight bewilderment.
She wondered why this knight—whose duty bound him to follow the Sun God—sided with the lady. Unlike herself, he had received no help from her.
As Kanna had recounted, Gabriel had adopted a friendly stance toward the lady from the very beginning. Hearing this, Daisy had realized that, as a nun, she had been mistaken in her accusations. Though thanks to those accusations, she could now keep her mistress's secrets.
"Sir Gabriel, why do you remain close to the lady?"
Gabriel seemed about to evade her unexpected question. But she didn't back down.
"Do you want something from her?"
"Or perhaps it's true, as Sir Raphael suggested—that you're under her spell?" Daisy pressed mercilessly.
Gabriel realized she would not leave until she received an answer.
"Yes. I want something."
Oddly enough, this was true. Gabriel wasn't one to act without intention. He had always expected something from Lady Rohanson. Formally, it was assistance in matters related to the Order of Paralos. But on a personal level...
That day—drenched in flames, when her white hair was stained crimson by the fire—flashed vividly in his memory. If his heart had truly stopped the very first moment he met Evangeline, he wouldn't have defended her. He would have long ago handed over all information about her to the temple.
At first, there had been curiosity. Like a petalless flower blooming on a withered tree, the dead body moving against divine will evoked amazement.
Then came fear. Fear of what she might do if she shed the Evangeline Rohanson persona. So he had tried not to anger her—was cautious, yielding, adapting.
And then everything changed.
Suddenly. Like a tsunami, washing over him in an instant.
When he heard that Lady Rohanson had, against all odds, rescued the children from the orphanage, a faint, almost shameful hope arose within him. When he felt her slow pulse and realized that Evangeline was indeed alive, that hope grew stronger.
And so he dared to feel *disappointment* when she said she couldn't save the Viscount. Because he couldn't help but see his past self in that boy.
Because he had imagined Evangeline Rohanson as a promise of salvation to the child he once was—and he had allowed himself to be disappointed when she admitted her helplessness.
If she were an omnipotent being transcending humanity, she must be capable of performing miracles beyond ordinary people. He himself had forced humanity upon her, and yet, at the most crucial moment, he had again demanded the impossible.
He had arrogantly placed expectations on Evangeline Rohanson that he placed on no one else.
And strangely enough, it was precisely this absurd, senseless disappointment that had allowed Gabriel to understand—with painful clarity—that he was gradually, almost imperceptibly, opening his heart to her.
"Sir Gabriel?"
That was why he hadn't wanted to release the hand she had first extended. He felt ashamed of himself—this ignoramus who couldn't even recognize his own feelings. He was like a child stubbornly clinging to a toy, not understanding why.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Gabriel saw Evangeline return from her fitting.
"Sir Gabriel, how do you find the lady?"
Gabriel looked at Evangeline.
"It suits her very well."
The dress that Artemisia had labored over for days seemed to understand perfectly well who it was made for. It sat flawlessly on its owner.
Gabriel tried not to look at the exposed whiteness of her neck. He felt awkward, stealing glances—as if there really were something more between him and Lady Rohanson.
Unaware of his thoughts, Artemisia insistently demanded that he look at Evangeline. And when he failed to offer a worthy expression of admiration, she began showering the lady with compliments, as if setting an example. One suspected she was simply eager to speak.
Artemisia, unabashed and flushed, circled Evangeline. Her demeanor was painfully reminiscent of Michel, who had whined and tearfully begged to be allowed to greet Lady Rohanson that very morning. Raphael, watching, had merely clucked his tongue, as if to say: *blood doesn't lie*.
Unlike Michel, there seemed to be nothing about Artemisia that would naturally evoke such affection. Had something happened to her during her time living in the Rohanson mansion?