This ridiculous farce had shoved her into the spotlight and left her trembling. I stroked her hair, murmuring, “It’s all right. You’re all right.” She hid her face against my chest, as if my coat could shield her from so many staring eyes.
From the crowd, I thought I heard a whisper: “What is that adorable creature?” and, immediately after, another hissed, “Idiot! Show some respect! She’s the crown princess! Though she is adorable.”
Too bad. She’s mine. Not for loan. In fact, I’d lock her away from the world if I could, but then I’d lose that sun-bright smile. So I endure.
“N-Now see here! What proof do you have for such nonsense?!” the queen snapped, pointing at us. “Anyone with eyes can tell Prince Cecil and Princess Consort Bertia are in love!”
Prompted, Ramtak glanced our way and actually faltered for a heartbeat. Then his gaze met mine, and he nodded to himself, as if we’d reached a wordless understanding.
We had not.
Also, I did not nod back.
“Mother, please be at ease,” he proclaimed, swelling with triumph. “We do have proof. Our guardian has blessed our love. He recognized it and has made her the Saintess!”
The hall erupted in murmurs. The queen’s eyes flew wide; she looked from Ramtak to Bertia pressed against me and back again, her expression a mix of shock and hesitation.
It only made sense that things looked this way.
Ramtak proclaimed that he and Bertia were bound by true love and blessed by the guardian, yet the woman in question clung to her husband and refused to move an inch.
Nothing about her posture suggested a lover yearning for Ramtak or celebrating a love fulfilled.
“Ramtak, it seems clear that Lady Bertia is very much in love with Prince Cecil,” the queen said tartly.
“T-That’s not true! Lady Bertia, come to me!”
He held out his hand in melodramatic invitation. Bertia shook her head so vigorously her earrings flashed, pressing herself tighter against me.
There goes the “two fated lovers” tableau. Not even the gods could sell it now.
He had spent days being avoided. Bertia had followed my instructions and fled him at every turn, barely exchanging a single civil word. On what planet does that translate to “she’s in love with me”? His reasoning defied anatomy—no spine, no brain.
“Lady Bertia, please come to me!” he insisted. “Then you can leave the husband who does not love you and live happily here in Seahealby as the Saintess!”
“I refuse!” Bertia cried. “My happiness exists only with Lord Cecil! A-And Lord Cecil l-loves me. H-He loves me very much!”
Her emotions overflowed; she blurted it all with tear-bright eyes, fiercer than the moment demanded. Around us, nobles hovered helplessly, watching a fire they did not dare approach.
Enough. This has gone on long enough.
I looked toward Aleis. He nodded firmly, then rose and offered his arm to Lysonna, guiding her toward us. Coiled invisibly about her neck and visible only to those with the sight, Futamata rode like a living torc, both heads alert. In Lysonna’s eyes burned steady resolve and worry for Bertia, along with an iron will to fulfill her role.
“How disgraceful, Ramtak,” Aleis said, voice cool.
Ramtak’s mouth twisted in annoyance at their approach. “This has nothing to do with you. Stay out of it.”
Aleis’s patience had clearly worn thin. The sigh that escaped him carried every ounce of it.
“Sorry,” he said, voice steady but edged with steel. “But I’m afraid it does concern me.”
“Hah? What are you—”
“Actually, I had planned to announce this later tonight, with His Majesty’s permission.”
At that, Aleis drew Lysonna closer by the hand, his arm settling firmly around her waist as he turned her toward the crowd.
“Allow me to present,” he declared, clear and unwavering, “my wife, Lysonna, who has been chosen by our Guardian Serpent as His Saintess.”
The ballroom exploded. The earlier stir caused by Ramtak’s antics was nothing compared to this tidal wave of voices. Fans snapped open, jewels clinked as nobles leaned to whisper, disbelief rippling from wall to wall.
“Huh?! Don’t be absurd, you fool!” Ramtak barked, his face flushing a blotchy red. “That’s impossible! The Saintess is my Lady Bertia!”
Ah, there it is again. “My Bertia.”
She’s my wife, I thought coldly. Not yours, not anyone’s delusion. Mine.
Alas, this was Aleis and Lysonna’s stage; I forced my jaw to stay relaxed and my expression pleasant. Ramtak’s wild eyes flicked to me, searching for affirmation or outrage.
I smiled.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, mild as spring wine.
I had never said Bertia was the Saintess. Not once.
Lysonna, composure itself, stepped forward with a serene nod.
“It’s true,” she said. “I was chosen by Futa— the Guardian Serpent, our Serpent God, to serve as his Saintess. Isn’t that right, Serpent God?”
Good save, I mused. She’d almost said Futamata, and that would have been unfortunate. The name had stuck so firmly in her head that it was a miracle she’d caught herself in time. Still, if the audience heard her call their sacred guardian by a nickname meaning “two-timer,” we’d have another ice age on our hands.
All that was left was for Futamata himself to make an entrance.
I turned my gaze toward her shoulder, waiting for him to reveal himself as planned.
There he was.
He materialized with both necks coiling gracefully, the two heads bent together into a heart shape right behind Lysonna’s face.
Really? A heart?
Technically, it conveyed “blessing.” And to the citizens of Seahealby, the spectacle of their twin-headed guardian manifesting at all was divine enough that no one questioned his artistic choices. Gasps and reverent sobs spread through the hall.
So, I supposed it was fine.
“B-But how?!” Ramtak stammered. “He was with Lady Bertia before, I swear he was—!”