Chapter 10
As time flows, memories fade.
And if it was but a fleeting encounter, all the more so.
Romea, in recent days, would sketch and erase over and over the designs she meant to send to Violette before bed.
Though Violette had pressed her endlessly for them, it was still something that required Romea’s own affection to make possible.
On nights when all others slept, relying on a single candle’s flame, each time the thick black line swept across the white paper, a faint smile lingered at the corner of her lips.
A hat befitting Isabella, lively, yet with a touch of maturity and A hat for Madame Merige, prickly, yet responsible and steadfast in her duties.
Romea’s pen moved without hesitation. Designing with someone as her muse was enjoyable, until her thoughts strayed to Herén Potamia.
The scratching pen came to a halt midway. She sighed, staring at the two freshly completed sketches.
Herén Potamia was a woman who lived in a world far too different to be captured by her designs.
As easily as a button drops, so too had her self-esteem and confidence plunged to the ground that day, feelings she could never forget.
To him, she had been a mere passing breeze. To Romea, Jihardi had been a tidal wave, a violent gale.
The moment of passing had been brief, but the traces he left within her were countless.
And she lived in constant dread of it happening again.
˖⁺.꒷꒦♡꒷꒦˖⁺.
The same time. The same place. The same routine. Keeping to it was not difficult. Indeed, to move with such precision and efficiency was the best way to divide the little time she had.
Cutting away what was unnecessary, shortening every path to deal with her immense duties within a day, listening to advice as issues arose, and constantly pondering the prosperity of Kathas, that, Olivia often said, was what it meant to be a king.
But this… this was different.
Herén knew his tastes well. She must have heard as much from the royal cooks or the attendants who served him day by day.
He was not fond of sweets, and preferred bitter teas or strong, acrid coffee. Even the small confections served alongside, he would take but a bite or two of a not-too-sweet biscuit or Earl Grey cake and leave it at that.
But upon the familiar silver tray lay sandwiches, garishly heaped, unlike any of the refreshments brought before. Alongside was a fruit juice, sweet and tangy, that he had scarcely touched in his life.
Each time Jihardi moved his head, Romea shrank back like a frightened deer, no different.
Her attire made one wonder what task she had rushed from. Clutched to her chest along with the tray, her hat was miserably crushed.
Ah, so that was it, she wore that hat then, too.
Neither wide-brimmed nor narrow, the hat was wrapped round and round with a long, slender ribbon of pink fabric, far too meagre to cover her unruly brown curls.
Jihardi’s gaze flitted for a moment to her hat, then withdrew. Romea, at that same instant, asked him.
“Do you not care for sandwiches?”
“No.”
If only he would say why he stared at them without eating, she thought. Romea stole uneasy glances at him, her anxiety mounting.
As on other days, when he dismissed his aides and spent a brief moment tasting the refreshments Herén had sent, yet today he showed no intention of touching the sandwiches.
Since that day, Herén often sent Romea to bring Jihardi’s refreshments, and Romea dutifully carried back his words to Herén each time.
So this routine had become familiar to them both. Yet his reaction to the sandwiches was so unlike before that Romea swallowed dryly.
When he set the sandwich he had picked back down, she gave a small involuntary gasp.
“Will you not have it?”
“No.”
His curt reply, without hesitation, made Romea pout without meaning to.
All had believed that if Jihardi and Herén were formally wed, theirs would be a match celebrated as the most harmonious of couples.
Yet in Romea’s eyes, his feelings for Herén were far from the love others so loudly proclaimed.
He left only short remarks about the refreshments she sent. Not once did he ask after her doings, or whether she had eaten.
Is that not what love is?
To care, to wonder after the daily life of the beloved. Romea’s face hardened with an unspoken question.
When all but herself clamoured that the crown prince and the Potamia lady were bound not only by betrothal but by true affection, she began to doubt even her own understanding of love.
Looking at Jihardi before her, she felt anew how far beyond her reach he truly was.
“Then… may I take my leave now?”
“Do so.”
Having received his answer, there was no reason to linger. As she reached to place her hat upon her head and depart,
“That hat.”
It took but a moment to realise that the hat he pointed to was the one she wore. Romea pressed it down against her head with her hand. Her heart pounded to know what words would next leave the crown prince’s lips.
“You wore it before as well.”
His emerald eyes, clear as gemstones, flickered.
Impossible. Unlike herself, the crown prince was ever surrounded by people. Receiving the attention of important dignitaries, he could not possibly remember one such as she, met briefly in the far-off border town of Beredroz.
Or perhaps… perhaps she had only wished he would not.
She remembered the button that had come loose, her attire so relentlessly criticised. Romea pressed her burning face into her palms.
“…You remember me?”
“I recall everything I once hear or see.”
She had underestimated the crown prince’s memory. Foolishly so.
Whether it was the hat he remembered, or her, Romea could not tell. Either way, she found little comfort in the thought. While she silently berated herself, Jihardi withdrew his gaze.
“Is it precious to you?”
His question was idly asked, but it left Romea breathless. Sharing the same space was enough to make her feel as though he bound her in chains.
At that moment, a breeze swept through the open window. Papers rose weakly into the air and fell, lifeless, to the floor.
Romea’s voice trembled as she spoke.
“It is the first hat I ever made with my own hands.”
“As expected of a ‘hat-maker Perlos.’”
His level voice spread smoothly through the air, yet the words struck like a dagger to her chest.
Hat-maker Perlos.
It was a phrase oft on the lips of those who slandered her family. Whether the crown prince knew its sting or not, she could not tell.
Romea’s eyes quivered, filled with fear and reproach as they turned toward him.
It was the crown prince who had wounded her, yet it was left to her alone to interpret, to brood upon those words. From the beginning, he had always pierced through her weaknesses.
Biting her twisted lips, she clutched at the hat in her hands with all her strength. She longed for his interest in her to wither swiftly, for everywhere his gaze touched upon her burned and ached.
Thankfully, his attention fell away quickly enough, turning back to his papers. Grateful for his disinterest, Romea began to breathe once more.
And when she came to her senses, she had already fled his study. She ran and ran, desperate to escape the suffocating air that bound her.
I’m afraid.
Every nerve in her body seemed to cry out, warning her to flee from him. She felt again that same searing heat that had passed through her skin back at the hat shop.
Her heart pounded wildly, beyond her control.
Hotter than the midday sun beating mercilessly down, the heat within her seared her whole. Under the blazing sun at two o’clock, Romea wiped away the sweat beading upon her brow.
Never again. I will never go back.
She prayed with all her might that Herén would cease sending her on errands with the crown prince’s refreshments.
˖⁺.꒷꒦♡꒷꒦˖⁺.
The hat. It had been nothing more than that.
It had caught his eye, no more.
The way she clutched it to her chest as though it were a treasure had, for a brief moment, twisted his temper.
Setting aside the papers he had been reading, Jihardi’s lips curved into a crooked line.
He had not bothered to watch her retreating figure as she fled, yet it was clear enough in his mind’s eye, and that alone amused him.
So she would rather flee than endure my gaze upon her.
He remembered well how Romea flinched each time he looked her way, as though scalded by fire. When their eyes met, she would drop her head, staring at the floorboards, as though such an act could free her from his attention. That, too, struck him as laughable.
Romea was unlike any he saw in the capital or the palace. She wore none of the latest fashions, carried herself plainly, country-bred through and through, as befitted one from Beredroz.
He set down the pen he had been twirling, uncharacteristically, with a sharp sound and rose to his feet.
Perhaps it was mere curiosity. Perhaps it was simply the amusement of watching emotions that showed so plainly upon her face.
Her first hat. Why did she cling so to the word first? Everyone has their first, in time, it fades. If it is destined to fade, what meaning does it hold?
When he had spoken of her hat, it felt as though he had become some brigand bent on stealing it. When her hand rose to clutch it tight against her head, she had been desperate, as though he truly might snatch it away.
Had I really taken it, would she have wept then?
He imagined her wide emerald eyes, a meadow in bloom, clouded and stained by opaque tears. Suddenly, his chest grew tight.
Adjusting his cravat, loosening it a little, he finally returned, more at ease, to his papers, resuming his work.
