Yeara broke into soft laughter at his words. She could not even believe what she was hearing right now.
The seriousness on his face made her unable to speak; her laughter was filled with surprise and disbelief. Cedric pouted, clearly displeased by the way Yeara was laughing at him.
"Sister Yeara, what is funny? I did not say anything funny, did I?" he asked with a raised brow.
Yeara cleared her throat this brother of hers had unknowingly made her laugh.
"It's fine, Ced," she spoke as she softly ruffled his hair.
"Let's finish our meal now."
Cedric scanned her face, smiling when he saw that she was no longer crying and that her brightness had returned. He walked back to his seat and sat, and they both ate in silence.
☆☆☆
Night Time
Yeara stood in front of the mirror, staring at the lady before her. She could not even recognise herself anymore.
She was wearing a jet-black gown; the sleeves stopped above her elbows, her hands adorned with long gloves. The gown was long and fancy, but at the waist it clung to her body with a see-through, X-like striped design around it—very different from anything Yeara had ever seen.
Her hair was styled back with an ornamental hair stick of polished black lacquer. It glinted lightly, both sides poking out softly in the most gorgeous way, matching her gown perfectly.
She had seen nothing like this before—perhaps because this time her royal stylist had come all the way from the Kingdom of Gingut.
Her father must have planned this all along.
But why were they not informed?
She shrugged, taking a few breaths. A few strands of hair fell to her face in the most intentional and breathtaking way.
Finally, her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. She turned her gaze as it opened, and a maid entered with a deep bow.
"Lady Yeara, the carriage is already here, and your family is waiting," she said hurriedly still bowing.
Yeara's eyes widened. She had not expected this. Oh heavens, surely her father would yell at her. Moving her silver-black, shiny heels with a clean red colour underneath symbolising wealth without being loud—she hurried forward. The heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she quickened her pace, cursing herself for her carelessness.
"Oh my, Yeara, how could you forget you had family waiting?"
She finally reached the stairs. Carefully, she took purposeful steps, making sure not to fall—because if she did, it would be disastrous, and no one would save her.
"Z… Zalt—"
Yeara slapped her hands over her mouth as she stopped in tracks. Her lips parted just opening and closing. She could not believe she was about to say that man's name aloud. Come to think of it, she had never called his name before—but oh lord, she could not even trust her thoughts anymore.
She walked down the hallway. A maid rushing toward her slowed and bowed; it was obvious her father had sent another maid to call her.
Finally, she reached the entrance. The cool night air swept across her face as the bright light outside revealed the carriage perfectly. Her gaze briefly moved inside, where she spotted a smiling Cedric waving at her from the window, as though she was not going to come anyway. Yeara smiled at his cuteness.
Her eyes then moved to her mother, who was arranging her gown, and then to her father, who looked at her, shook his head, and pressed his lips downward slightly, almost disapprovingly.
Yeara pressed her lips together as she moved down the three steps before walking to the carriage. What had happened to her papa ever since he returned? He had been acting strange… like he was hiding something.
The coachman opened the door. Yeara smiled softly as she placed her gloved hands on his and entered the carriage.
She sat beside Cedric. Her father sat on the other side with her mother. Lady Persophone wore a wine-red gown that matched her skin perfectly. Her hair was packed upward royally with several hairpins. The gown was modest yet extravagant, and she adjusted the hem of her little glove.
"Why did you pick this gown, Yeara? This is an event, not a funeral," her father spoke harshly.
Yeara lowered her head. She had chosen this gown herself. She liked the aura that came with it—the authority it reminded her of… of what?
And her father was correct. She knew she would be the only one wearing this colour at the ball. It was not what anyone would expect. But why did that matter? She was not coming to follow standards anyway.
"But Papa," Cedric pointed out, genuinely confused, "you're wearing black as well."
Heads turned to him in astonishment.
Her father wore a wine-black suit similar to Cedric's. The only thing signifying he matched with Mama was the wine-red kerchief resting in his pocket—and his ring. Cedric wore almost the same, like a miniature version of him.
Duke John turned to his son as the Duchess lifted her head, taken aback. The man was at a loss for words; he had not expected such logic from a six-year-old. He cleared his throat.
"Well, son, I am a man, and men…"
"And she is a woman, Papa," Cedric interrupted cleanly. "In my spelling, the word woman has man inside it, so technically… she may wear it as well."
The carriage fell silent, broken only by the sound of movement across the road. Yeara held back a smile as her papa remained speechless. Cedric turned back to the window, staring at the sky as though he had not just silenced the entire family.
Lady Persophone turned to her husband. Duke John reached into his pocket, took out his glasses, and put them on.
"Pfft.." Yeara held back her laughter, immediately regretting it when both her papa and mama turned to stare at her.
"Pft… pft… pffft," she played it off, shaking her head calmly as though she was only remembering a song.
"Be at your best, Yeara," Lady Persophone spoke. "And do not run when walking. The King has taken interest in you, which is rare. You both will be given a proper introduction."
"Love at no sight," Yeara murmured to herself with a laugh, until her smile died and she straightened.
"Well, Mama, he has not even seen me as you said, and yet he has taken interest. How interesting…"
"Enough," Duke John ordered.
Yeara clamped her mouth shut, lowering her head—not because of the command, but because she had unknowingly shot herself in the leg. She should not have said that aloud. To her parents, she had not met the King… but she had.
And what if he told them?
'How stupid of you, Yeara,' she scolded inwardly, her hands fidgeting with her gown as her heart skipped at the thought.
She looked up at the sky—the stars were indeed beautiful. Then she looked to the side of the road, where forests stretched endlessly…
Until walls appeared.
They had reached the ball.
Her heart stopped—
But why did a part of her feel a sudden, dangerous urge to see those eyes?