Chapter 48
***
Lillian knew poverty. Not the cozy, fantasy life of a couple working their asses off for each other and a child who, though hungry, has no shortage of love, but the life of a flea-infested futon in a tiny house with cobwebs on the doorframe, where she hid to escape the angry voice calling for rent.
That was why she understood what Zion was talking about. It was not easy for someone who had escaped such a past to speak truthfully about their poverty. It was like revealing all of their shabby and ugly true selves.
She had never spoken of her past since her escape from poverty, so she admired Zion's courage and understood that he was taking a big step toward her. That, too, required courage.
When she remained silent, he smiled.
"I guess this isn't the kind of story you want to hear, is it?"
"No, no, no. I want to hear it."
She had to decline. She should have stayed within the bounds of what she could excuse in the name of secret friendship.
But Lillian couldn't. She couldn't resist the temptation to share her heart with the charming man, even though she knew she wouldn't feel the same way afterward as she did before hearing his story.
It was no different than taking a night walk together or listening to a story from the past. It was the former that could be dangerous if she got caught, she rationalized to herself.
"Well, it's not a big deal."
Zion tugged at his hat to keep it from blowing away in the night breeze, then removed it altogether in frustration, his silky hair flowing gently.
"My father was at home, but he wasn't the kind of man to take care of a child, so I was often looked after by an older sister in the neighborhood, who was also an unsold dancer."
It was a familiar story to Lillian. In fact, it was a common story. In the slums, there's one for every three families. But for some reason, it made her heart flutter.
"She was a very pretty sister. She was the one who taught me how to brush my teeth properly and how to say hello. She taught me how to sing and dance, and she used to cut up her own clothes and make me clothes."
"I see."
"She often called me Sparrow, and I hated it. Probably because I was so small then, and my hair was darker and bushier than it is now."
Starlight flooded Zion's face as he looked up at the sky and muttered, making his beautiful features white. His reminiscing voice sounded like music from far away.
Lillian forgot to breathe and stared into his face. The story was all too familiar to her.
When she was poor, she had once babysat a neighbor's kid during the day. She had opened the door for him to come in for a few minutes because she felt sorry for him when he ran out of the house while his parents were cursing and fighting.
She couldn't even remember the child's name anymore. But she remembered seeing his bushy brown hair and teasing him that he looked like a sparrow with puffed-up fur.
It was one of the few good deeds she'd done in her life.
"No way."
Zion's index finger brushed against his lips as he began to mumble.
As she stared blankly, he slowly brought his finger to her lips and pressed it. The gesture was part secret, part kiss where her lips touched.
"I used to think that when I grew up, I'd find that person and return the favor."
"I don't think she did it as a favor."
"Still, she was my first love."
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. Lillian felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart pounding not in her ears but throughout her body.
That little connection she'd forgotten about felt like something. Like fate.
So that's how it was from the beginning.
He must have recognized her from the first time he smiled sweetly and handed her the lilies. Children change as they grow up, but the faces of adults don't change much. Moreover, Lillian, who had spent the last twenty years in nobility, had not changed much from her twenties.
But even knowing this, he couldn’t tell her that he'd found her. She was the Empress, with that pretty face, those burning eyes, that happy smile.
All they could do was walk side by side.
Zion asked in a low voice.
"Was that an inappropriate story to tell you, Your Majesty?"
"No, no!"
Lilian shook her head in exasperation. And in that moment, she realized that her heart had already crossed the line.
Her heart had crossed the line first, and the rest was easy. She collapsed into Zion's arms.
***
13. Conspiracy
…
The sound of tearing paper never ceased. Margot, the maid, glanced anxiously at her master, but Lady Zilke remained impassive, tearing the front page of Sunday's Tidings, which announced the success of the Wisteria Annex salon and the presence of the new Count Lutgard.
When at last the pieces of paper were too small to tear any further, she flung them haphazardly from her hand.
Then she scrambled to her feet. She paced nervously for a few steps, then sat back down. But that didn't calm her down, so she stood up again.
"Madam...."
"Don't say anything. It's not that I don't know."
Zilke snapped back with a quick sting.
"Lady Lila's salon and mine are in different fields. Lady Laila's salon's success doesn't tarnish my salon's honor, and my salon's invitations won't be denied just because she's stolen the spotlight."
"Exactly, and that's why you shouldn’t worry...."
Margot replied impatiently. Zilke glared at her, her eyes widening.
"Foolish. I'm talking about it right now. Lady Laila's been the talk of the town for months now, and she and I will never share fame. Don't you see?"
Lady Zilke was thirty-three years old, from the lower nobility of the Kingdom of Belmork. She was beautiful and eloquent, with an exquisite sense of taste and a great sense of theatricality. She knew how to make herself look her most beautiful and wise, and was known for her recitation of poetry. She had brought the culture of Belmork to Sirah society, setting new fashions, and now ran the most elegant salon in the city.
Lady Laila and she had many overlaps. It's one thing to have a knack for presenting yourself impressively to clients, or to be admired for your artistic eye. But there's also the fact that she came from a lower class aristocracy in another country, and that she brought with her the culture and art of her home country.
People like to compare. Now that Laila had her own salon, the comparisons had already begun, and Zilke knew she was at a disadvantage: the fashions she's created have either passed or their sources had been forgotten, and Laila was an up-and-comer.
They were objects of interest, not adoration. So when someone else came along, the interest and attention would fade.
In fact, Zilke's unique status was already gone. Not so long ago, when she went out to parties, everyone followed her, cinched in at the waist in dresses rich with lace and fishnet, but now there were more women like Laila, with dark hair and dresses that flowed smoothly over their bodies.
Margot said thoughtfully.
“But you can’t change trends all of a sudden. Madame, you already have a great reputation and many friends, so it would be more helpful if you showed your generous acceptance of Lady Laila as a socialite.”
On the face of it, Zilke knew it was the best move. The rivalry would be broken, and she could appear to be the generous superior. The accolades would be short-lived, but she could maintain her honor and dignity.
But that could never be. Her benefactor hadn't brought her here to play the dignified lady.
‘I can't help it.’
She clenched and unclenched her fists once, her nails digging into her palms.
“Margo, you should spread the word to your friends.”
***
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