His hand was very white. Almost as pale as her own. And its shape was elegant, beautiful.
Talia instinctively reached toward him—then felt the bird trembling in her grasp. Its wings gave a weak flutter. She quickly shook her head.
"No. I'm holding something right now."
Beneath the sagging hood, rain dripping down its edge, the boy's blue eyes narrowed. His gaze dropped to her hands, clasped tight against her chest.
"Is it important?"
Talia hesitated, then shook her head.
"Not really."
"Then throw it away."
"Even if it isn't important, I can't just throw it away!"
Her outburst drew a faint crease between his smooth brows. He seemed annoyed now, as if he might abandon her and leave.
But instead, he did something entirely unlike his cold appearance. He bent down before her, and in a swift motion, lifted her muddy, rain-soaked body into his arms.
Startled, Talia let out a small cry. He tightened his hold around her back, murmuring bluntly:
"Stay still."
And she did.
She loosened her grip around the bird so it wouldn't be crushed and carefully shielded it while he carried her up the rain-softened slope. His stride was agile, like a cat.
But even so, his clothes weren't spared. He glanced down at his ruined trousers, his boots caked with mud, and the wet hem of his robe. A frown appeared.
"Terrible."
"…That happened while helping me, so I'll compensate you. I can even buy you something far more expensive than what you're wearing now. Actually, I'm the daughter of a very, very important person. I'll even make sure my attendants prepare a generous reward for you."
She meant it out of guilt, but somehow, he looked offended.
Stepping past the muddy heap, he muttered curtly:
"Quite arrogant for someone so small."
Talia's face flushed. Normally, she would have slapped any boy who dared speak to the Emperor's daughter like that. But this time, no words came.
Though cold rain pelted her forehead and cheeks, her face burned.
The boy stopped beneath one of the few large trees Senevier's men had not yet uprooted. At that moment, the bird in her hands let out a faint cry.
As he bent to set her down, his gaze flickered again to her clasped hands.
"What are you holding?"
Now, he was curious.
Talia hesitated, then carefully opened her palms.
"A bird?" he murmured, doubtful.
And no wonder. The bedraggled fledgling, its wings clumped with mud and its pink chest exposed, looked less like a bird and more like a sewer rat.
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. The pitiful creature was ugly—but why did she feel as though she were the one diminished?
"It only looks like this because it fell in the mud. Originally it was…"
…maybe prettier.
But she stopped. Even at its best, this scrawny brown starling would have been nothing remarkable, just a common bird seen anywhere.
Still, the boy seemed moved to show kindness. Supporting her with one arm, he drew her hand—the one holding the bird—inside his hood.
Talia's eyes widened. His skin was warm, like firelight from a hearth. The bird pressed itself against the hollow beneath his collarbone, seeking heat.
"Your fingers are ice. How long were you standing out there?"
Still gazing at the bird beneath his chin, the boy turned his face toward her. Talia found herself staring directly into his eyes.
Up close, they were strange, unique—like a winter sky, strewn with tiny shards of silver.
She whispered, almost without thinking:
"You know… there's a silver crown in your eyes."
His eyes widened slightly. His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. Talia realized he was looking into her eyes, too.
What did he see in mine?
As she wondered, a familiar voice rang out in the distance.
"Young Lady!"
It was her nurse.
Unaccustomed to calling her Highness, the nurse still used the old address, earning frequent scoldings from Senevier and the maids. But the habit had not broken. Her desperate voice echoed through the rain.
"I have to go now," Talia whispered. For some reason, she hated saying it. Perhaps the boy hated hearing it too.
He stood unmoving for a long moment, then reluctantly lowered her to the ground.
As his arms released her, Talia felt a chill sink into her bones. Only then did she realize how warm his embrace had been.
Hesitating, she held the bird out to him.
"Will you take it with you?"
Because my hands are too cold, and you are warm.
She didn't finish the words, but he bent down and gently accepted the bird. Holding it to his pale cheek, he pulled the hood forward to shield it from the rain.
Watching him, Talia asked:
"That bird… will it live?"
"…Yes."
The blue eyes—silver crowns glimmering within—rested on her face.
"It will live."
Though his expression stayed blank, she thought he had smiled.
She turned and ran through the rain-soaked garden. Past uprooted roses, scattered shrubs, and heaps of dirt piled like graves, she finally glanced back. Beneath the great tree, he still stood, unmoving.
Why isn't he leaving?
Maybe he was waiting for the rain to ease. Or maybe he was watching her go.
A sudden impulse struck—she wanted to run back. To hide from the rain with him. To sit together before a warm hearth, watching the bird recover.
But before she could act, her nurse burst from the building, her round face flushed from searching so long.
"Where have you been! Do you know how worried Lady Senevier has been?"
She seized Talia's hand and tugged her roughly toward the annex.
"And look at your state! You'll be meeting His Majesty soon—how could you dirty your clothes like this?"
"…I slipped while walking."
"Walking? In this weather?"
Exasperated, the nurse marched down the corridor that linked to the Detached Palace.
Dragged along, Talia glanced back. But the boy was gone.
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