Chapter 6
“How long must I stand here like this…?”
Zakhar stood with his arms spread wide, his expression steeped in discontent. The tailor, however, paid him no mind, too busy taking his measurements.
Henriette reclined against her private couch, watching the scene with a faint glimmer of amusement, as if even Zakhar’s displeasure was a small delight.
Charlotte, standing just behind the Empress and observing alongside her, widened her eyes in amazement. Leaning close to Henriette’s ear, she whispered in a voice full of wonder.
“I have never seen a measuring tape look that short, Your Majesty…”
Indeed, such a towering figure was rare to behold.
Henriette laughed aloud at Charlotte’s excited whisper.
At last, the flustered tailor approached Henriette, holding a swatch book with neatly cut samples of fabric pasted within.
Zakhar was still voicing quiet protests, but Henriette ignored him entirely and began selecting the fabric herself.
It was not that she had intended from the start to dismiss his opinions, but humans had clearly underestimated how little sense of human aesthetics a dragon who had spent centuries holed up in a cave might possess.
The trouble had begun during their morning walk the previous day.
Henriette had asked Zakhar what sort of clothing he wished to wear in the palace, including for the upcoming festival.
From his mouth had come an answer so bizarre it had left her momentarily speechless.
In Charlotte’s words, it was “a dreadful fashion one hopes never to hear described twice.”
The gulf between dragon and human taste was as vast as the difference in their lifespans.
Both Charlotte and Henriette had turned pale listening to him, and from that moment, Zakhar was forbidden from setting foot in the dressing room alone.
Officially, as a man presented to the public as the Empress’s human consort, he at least needed to appear in clothing that could be shown in polite society.
Of course, this requirement had nothing to do with Zakhar’s wishes.
“For the coat and waistcoat, this deep blue silk will suit you best. And if we add silver embroidery, it will look even more elegant.”
“Your Majesty, I believe this silk will work far better for the silver embroidery. The tone is similar, but the fabric is less limp, and it will drape more cleanly.”
Leaving the actual wearer abandoned to one side while the others discussed among themselves was hardly to Zakhar’s liking.
He wanted nothing more than to flee this stiff, uncomfortable human space.
Damn it. I cannot very well say I am leaving in the middle of this… and besides, that crazy woman is here too.
His eyes slid toward Charlotte.
Though he had taken on human form, Zakhar knew his power had not diminished to mere human levels.
Even so, he could not help but recall the fierce determination with which she had nearly swung a chair at him that morning.
Had Bertrand’s explanation come even a moment later, he might truly have been struck.
Zakhar slouched into a nearby chair, his expression one of open boredom, watching the three in silence.
Cuffs? Cravats? Every garment and term was stranger than the last.
Unable to bear it any longer, he spoke, his voice laden with displeasure, though he still managed to keep the tone just within the bounds of politeness.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Shh.”
It was Charlotte, not the Empress, who pressed a finger to her lips, warning him not to interrupt Henriette while she was absorbed in her choice of colours.
Irritation flared to the roots of his hair, but Zakhar decided to endure it.
It was not that he found these humans particularly trustworthy, only that for now, keeping silent seemed the wisest course.
He looked away with a cough, trying to distract himself with more pleasant thoughts.
The clothes he currently wore “to look human” were all borrowed from Bertrand. Which meant, naturally, that they did not fit him properly.
The knight’s consideration in lending looser garments so Zakhar could move without hindrance had not been unwelcome.
Still, if he tore any more of Bertrand’s shirts, the man might well be subject to strange rumours.
Others gathering their opinions solely for my sake… how long has it been since I last saw such a thing?
His mind wandered to the dragons who had once stood at his side, sharing memories.
The setting now was different, the species different, yet the faint smile tugging at his mouth came unbidden.
When he thought on it, the moment was not entirely unpleasant.
“Send the bill to the Imperial household, as always.”
“My deepest gratitude, Your Majesty.”
It seemed at last this tedious process was over.
When the tailor and Charlotte left the room with the selected fabrics, Zakhar let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Do you humans go through this bothersome process every time you make clothes?”
“I thought it might seem complicated to you, so I refrained from explaining each step. Was the wait too much to bear?”
“By the time the clothes are done, the sun will have set. Can we not simply wear what is needed? What you have been discussing goes far beyond the purpose of warmth and protection.”
“Birds do not add bright feathers to their tails merely for warmth and protection. Do dragons not adorn themselves at all?”
Henriette met his words with a faint smile.
Zakhar lifted a brow, then let his head tilt to one side.
“…There was one. Long ago. I can hardly remember now.”
In his memories, long faded, lived only his mate, Lanya, who had loved to decorate her wings and tail with flowers and glittering cloth.
Once, when asked who had given them to her, she laughed and said it had been the smallest children of small humans who had come to play with her.
Zakhar had never much liked seeing her ornament her tail with such trifles, yet she would say her appearance was proof that humans and dragons could live together in harmony.
Now, even her image was beginning to fade.
Henriette knew at once which dragon he spoke of. She had no wish to drag open his wounds and so said nothing, though she felt a pang of regret for having touched a painful memory.
“And this business of being your consort must I, at my age, become the second husband of a human? I cannot understand it. A single mate is hardly enough time to cherish until life’s end.”
“Do not read too deeply into it. It is only an act to avoid suspicion. You and I both know you did not come to the palace for love.”
Zakhar shrugged, still unconvinced.
“To live here all one’s life would drive anyone mad. Already the thought of pretending to dote on you through the festival makes me feel short of breath.”
Ah yes, the festival.
The Emperor had announced it would be held in honour of Henriette’s miraculous return. Not that her opinion had been sought.
“In the palace there are two kinds of people: those who have gone mad, and those on the verge of it. Not a few have escaped this place only through death. But…”
She paused.
“At least I am not so weak. As you saw that night, I did not choose that way out.”
Zakhar nodded slowly in agreement.
In the memory he had glimpsed, Henriette had mourned the loss of her daughter, but she was not one to throw away her life in a storm of grief.
“Once the festival is over, even an explanation will sound strange.”
A celebration to mark the Empress’s resurrection, after she had supposedly taken her own life in despair for her daughter.
The intent was obvious: to drown all suspicion and gossip in pomp and splendour.
The Emperor, who would not even meet her eyes, holding a festival for her, Henriette could only scoff.
Even now she was still asking herself why she had been made to die. She knew very well who had driven her to it, yet there was no clear way forward.
Without evidence, she could not accuse Wilhelm outright, and even when she questioned Charlotte and the other attendants about the day of her death, nothing of value came to light.
Zakhar, unable to find words, glanced instead at the portraits on the wall.
At length, he spoke.
“That must be your daughter’s portrait. Emilia, was it? The likeness is fair, though it does not capture her charm.”
Henriette, who had been staring at the floor with furrowed brows, looked up in surprise.
Following his gaze, she saw the familiar image: rosy cheeks and hair of golden sunlight, smiling eternally from within the frame.
“She was ten times lovelier and sweeter than that painting could show.”
“Judging a child’s parentage by hair colour is sheer foolishness. It astonishes me how many could not recognise one who looked so like her parents.”
“As you know, humans see only what they wish to see.”
Zakhar gave her a look of utter incomprehension.
“And I hear you were involved with that weakling who only looks strong?”
“Do not speak so of Bertrand.”
Her laughter escaped despite herself. To call the Knight Commander of the Empire “a weakling who only looks strong” was a description she had never heard before.
“…I wonder if my child, when hatched, will resemble me?”
Henriette raised her brows, studying him for a moment before smiling faintly in reassurance.
Beneath the ruthless dragon king, he was still a grieving father.
“You need not ask. I am certain your child will be as beautiful and as brave as his father.”
“Is that so.”
His reply was short, but the faintest smile touched his lips.
