The water was now rising above her knees. Rochelle swirled her hand slowly under the hot water, making gentle splashing sounds, and whispered softly,

“Do you like me?”

‘And do I… like you?’

Now that she couldn’t even grasp her own feelings, Rochelle furrowed her brow and rewound the gears in her mind. Since when, she wondered? She tried to go back, further and further, all the way to the very beginning. Even so, she couldn’t find the thread. Human emotions are so delicate and mysterious; sometimes they move without any clear reason or trigger.

Yet, it was undeniably real.

Emotions can’t be touched or seen, but no one could doubt the existence of something so uncontrollable. The faint sweetness that filled her lungs with every breath proved it.

It was already too late to suppress the subtle warmth that had crept in like a tide through a small crack. It would take too much effort and too long to turn back a heart that had already crossed the line.

She slowly lifted her hand and covered her face.

‘You know, Yevgeny, how did we end up like this?’

‘What am I supposed to do now?’

***

“It’s homework.”

When he handed her the children’s storybook he’d bought at the bookstore the other day, he never imagined she would become so absorbed in it. Rochelle read the small book—about the size of her palm—over and over again.

Yevgeny sat beside her, propping his chin on his hand, gazing endlessly at her profile before finally rising from his seat. He’d been so distracted watching her mumble in a foreign language like a child that he’d missed mealtime.

Arriving leisurely at the lounge, he enjoyed his coffee while taking in the scenery outside as a late breakfast was being prepared. People passed by beyond his line of sight.

When they first left Brittany, the passengers had been distant with each other, but after so many days at sea, there seemed to be a strange sense of camaraderie—groups gathered here and there, chatting away.

What could be so enjoyable? He didn’t really care to know. The ladies kept sneaking glances at Yevgeny, who sat alone. Behind their open fans, their thick lips twisted this way and that.

Yevgeny, a revolutionary, and his suspicious female companion. The gentleman’s odd behavior, always looking after only her. The number of nights the two might have spent together. Yevgeny’s warm gaze as he looked at her…

“Do you think Sir Ivan or General Alexander knows? That Sir Yevgeny has become so bewitched by some woman that he can’t even think straight!”

One elderly lady with a feathered hat, apparently excited, clutched her chest with both hands and shouted. At the commotion, those nearby shushed her, pressing a finger to their lips. The murmuring quieted and gradually faded away.

“…Sir.”

Owen, standing beside him with a displeased look, glanced at Yevgeny and whispered,

“There are bad rumors—no, truly nasty rumors—going around. You should set the record straight…”

“No, Owen. Leave them be.”

“But your reputation is really suffering, sir. People are saying you’re so taken with a woman that you can’t even tell right from wrong.”

“Well, they’re not entirely wrong, are they?”

Yevgeny’s smile deepened as he glanced around. Just then, a servant approached, whispering that his lunch was ready.

“Would you like to carry it yourself, sir? Or shall we set the table for you?”

“Please set it for me.”

Yevgeny led the servants ahead, and after a few steps, turned to look Owen directly in the eye.

“I told you before, Owen. The reason my father, Ivan, and I are celebrated as heroes who saved the country is only in Brittany. It was a sacrifice for the greater good, but in Castiya, the image of us as mass murderers is burned into their minds.”

“…”

“The only people who can vote in the upcoming parliamentary election are the Castians. Unlike Ivan, we need to create a more humanitarian image for ourselves.”

“Through that noblewoman, Rochelle Kotov? A humanitarian image? You know people are desperate to arrest her, right? She’s branded as the villain representing the nobility…”

“Yes. She’s the scapegoat for the Bretons devastated by war. Some of those throwing stones at Rochelle already know. She’s done nothing wrong—they just need someone to take their anger out on.”

“It’s fine to use her, but… interest in a rumored romance will fade soon enough.”

Owen nodded, as if he fully understood his master’s intentions, but his expression grew complicated. Yevgeny’s plan was plausible, but none of this could be solved by him alone.

But Yevgeny just shrugged and smiled brightly, as if it were nothing.

“Well, then I’ll just turn the rumor into truth. Isn’t that simple?”

“…”

“Trust me, Owen. We’ll never fail.”

***

Yevgeny arrived at the cabin with a line of servants in tow and knocked smartly.

Inside, he heard the sounds of a chair and table being moved, followed by the hurried footsteps of someone running into the bathroom. The rush was so fast that he could almost hear the wind through the door.

Once the commotion inside died down, Yevgeny opened the door and let the servants in one by one. They laid a lace-trimmed tablecloth on the table and set out the dishes.

There was not a hint of warmth in the way he watched the servants. Standing at a distance, as if afraid to brush against them, Yevgeny gave a brief nod to one who greeted him.

“We’ll come to collect the dishes as soon as you call after your meal.”

“Thank you.”

Left alone in the room, he waited quietly until Rochelle cautiously peeked out from behind the bathroom door. Her gaze was fixed on the apple pie in the corner of the table. Thinking it was rather cute, he took a step forward.

As if she’d been waiting for his move, Rochelle scurried over and took a seat at the table. She glanced at him, seeming to gauge his mood, then picked up the smallest spoon and carefully tasted the soup.

Perhaps it tasted alright. Rochelle rolled the soup around in her mouth, her eyes crinkling in a smile. Yevgeny studied her charming face. Those dreamy eyes, like clouds turned into jewels, were one of his favorite features.

And then, naturally, their eyes met.

“Ah.”

Yevgeny let out a small breath of surprise, but in the blink of an eye, his expression was perfect again. Like a parent gazing at a beloved child, he lifted the corners of his mouth and smiled with his eyes.

Just then, as Rochelle was about to start her meal, she looked at him with wide eyes and asked,

“Yevgeny, why aren’t you eating?”

“I already ate in the lounge.”

Though, in truth, he’d only had coffee. Having quieted his hunger, he picked up his fork and separated the meat from the bone of the roasted duck leg. Placing the meat on Rochelle’s empty plate, he asked,

“Rochelle, did you finish your homework?”

“Of course.”

Her mouth moved even faster as she chewed the meat. Yevgeny gazed at her plump, red lips. She really was cute… He put down his fork and stared at her face.

After rinsing her mouth with water, she straightened her shoulders and recited the story as if reporting to a teacher.

Rochelle chattered about a not particularly fun or meaningful fairy tale—one in which, if you lied, your nose would turn red. She finished with a bright smile, exclaiming, “It was really fun!”

Her smiling face was certainly charming. Her sad face, her troubled face, or her vacant, dreamy face were all endearing as well. But that bright, innocent smile could turn her into a child and then, in an instant, fill the air with a dreamy atmosphere.

He reached out to her. Her small chin fit in his hand, looking so fragile it might break with the slightest pressure.

So, gently caressing her face, Yevgeny leaned down and kissed her.

At the same time, Rochelle’s hand, which had been stirring her salad with a fork, froze. Yevgeny chuckled and, without hesitation, kissed her warm lips again. Her lips, glistening with oil, carried the scent of smoked duck.

Rochelle, noticing the oil left like a seal on Yevgeny’s lips, blushed.

“Stop it, Yevgeny. You should focus on eating.”

“Right, Rochelle. You should focus on your meal now.”

With that, Yevgeny spooned soup into Rochelle’s mouth. She chewed and swallowed, flustered. He smiled sweetly and brought the spoon to her lips again. Her plump, red lips seemed to give off a sweet scent that kept drawing his gaze—even though he knew there was no honey on them.