Chapter Text
Well, it took Dorothea’s life in Mistria barely over a year to wither up and die right in front of her. It was only the second day of the second spring of the second year she had been here. Not even enough time to see her fruit orchard fully come to fruition (ha!), or to buy a sheep. She was really excited about the sheep. None of it mattered anymore, however, because there was an angel of judgment hovering above her as she was kneeling on the ground, pulling weeds from around her crops. It was over, and she had dirt on her jeans, dark circles under her eyes, and she hadn’t even felt up to the task of taming her thick curls in the morning.
Her older sister Marisol looks exactly as she remembered, as she’s always remembered her: perched upon an elegant brown steed, not a dark hair out of place in her elaborate updo, and a determined look in her eyes that meant she wasn’t leaving until she got what she wanted. She wore a lace shawl around her shoulders and a blue gown that reminded her of the mysterious waters in the Tide Caverns. Marisol had come to take her back home, and she had the audacity to smile at Dorothea about it.
“Well? Aren’t you going to act like you miss me?”
And truthfully, even if Dorothea was about to be very angry with her sister, she didn’t have to act at all. Dorothea stands up as Marisol dismounts and promptly hugs her with such ferocity that the two of them nearly topple over. Marisol smells like lavender and fresh linens.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Dorothea remarks. When she pulls back, she reaches for Marisol’s hands instead. “Is Moonshine everything I said it would be?”
For a second, Dorothea is struck by insecurity, an urge to disappear under her bed covers and write all of this off as a pleasant dream with vaguely unpleasant undertones. Her eldest sister was a brilliant scholar of folklore and an accomplished lady. While she’s never looked down on Dorothea, Dorothea couldn’t help but feel quaint in her presence sometimes.
“It’s beautiful.” Marisol says it in a way Dorothea knows is truthful, just as she knows her sister’s tone when she’s trying to flatter someone important, to build relations between their families. “Mistria is very beautiful too. I can tell it’s been healing since the earthquake.”
“I do really love it here.” Then one more time, for emphasis: “Like, really really love it here.”
“I know. You’ve always spoken very fondly of it, and its people, in your letters.” Dorothea had realized pretty quickly after making her impulsive decision to leave the Capital and her family to come here that she couldn’t lie to her sisters. The three of them have been corresponding for as long as she’s been in Mistria. For a time, it was enough for her parents to know she was alive and well. Until Dorothea’s letter at the end of winter, which informed her that she would be coming to Mistria to take her back to the Capital on the second day of spring. “But you know what I’m here for.”
Dorothea drops her hands with a sigh. “I don’t understand. They’ve allowed it until now.”
“Yes, well, they know you’ve never been… very committed.” Her temper flares. She puts it out as best as she can. “They thought that you were just going through a phase, so they decided to entertain it, but it started looking like it wasn’t going to end any time soon. Plus, they want you back for the wedding.”
“Your wedding.” She crosses her arms. “To Lord Xavier.”
“Yes.”
“Whom you love.”
“Yes.”
Dorothea squints. The last she remembered, Lord Xavier was the son of a count, and notorious for his love of partying and hatred for any sort of work. He was so unlike her sister, who preferred to take a glass of wine with her to the archives and got woozy whenever things got too loud. She was quite surprised when Marisol wrote to her of their engagement, especially when she never explicitly mentioned that his character had changed.
It was bizarre to her in every way, especially when Marisol so deeply admired the deep love that their parents shared. Their parents have never been the most passionate people — perhaps that is why Dorothea has never felt understood by them — but they shared an earnest and steady affection for each other. For as long as she can remember, her parents have been constant companions. Marisol was a romantic at heart, and so Dorothea simply had to believe it was true love between her and Lord Xavier, because the sister she knew wouldn’t accept anything less.
This is when she realizes a way out. One that is at least less humiliating than begging and crying on her knees to stay.
Perhaps it was a little manipulative, to take advantage of her dear Marisol’s sentimental heart, but Mistria has become a home that she never wishes to be parted from. In time, she could visit her family in the Capital, or they could visit her here. She knew she needed to stay firm and committed to living here, so that they could all accept it.
“To be honest,” Dorothea starts, dishonestly, “there is a reason I can’t leave Mistria. I’ve fallen in love.”
Marisol doesn’t look convinced. And in her panic, Dorothea digs herself an even deeper hole, and says, “And we’re engaged.”
Dorothea moves so fast towards the Forge that one might mistake her for a small tornado. It’s a true miracle that by the time she’s reached it, she hasn’t left a trail of damage in her wake.
Marisol’s romantic nature was truly her weakness: when Dorothea told her that she had a lover here, she was much too excited to question it. Dorothea just had to make sure that she could take full advantage of this opportunity. She just didn’t know how. She would figure it out later. For now, what she needed wasn’t a scheme.
She needed comfort. She needed someone to tell her that what she did wasn’t totally insane. She needed Olric’s sunny disposition and ever-present smile.
Unfortunately, she gets March. March, who still acted shocked to see her at the Forge, even though she’s always blacksmithing, and when she’s not, she’s hanging out with Olric. Really, it was a miracle she and Olric got along so famously, when that wasn’t the case with his younger brother.
“Hi, March,” she wheezes. There’s a sharp pain in her gut from running too fast. “Where’s Olric?”
“He’s in the capital.” March gives her a once over. “Did you just roll out of bed or something? Your hair’s down.”
“Oh, spare me, March. It’s not like you’re seeing me naked.” Despite the bite in her voice, she runs a hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious. She’s always had the thickest and most unruly locks in her family. Once she came to Mistria, she traded the elaborate updos for a simple braid. Sometimes two, if she was feeling spicy. She’s never left the farm with her hair down, but considering how her day was currently going, it made a lot of sense that today was the day.
March turns almost as red as his hair. “Sorry for trying to warn you that you look like a mess. What do you want?”
“Your brother, obviously.”
“He went to the Capital.”
Oh, joy. Perhaps she could make him deliver a cease and desist message to her parents’ doorstep.
“Fabulous. Of course he disappears when I’m in a crisis.”
“A crisis?” March tilts his head. “What, the great Dorothea, savior of Mistria, is in a crisis?”
“Your inferiority complex sickens me.” Even in her exhausted and disheveled state, Dorothea finds it in her to make fake vomiting noises at him. She could never pass up an opportunity to get one over on March. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to know that everything you said about me was right.”
“What?” He’s taken aback. There is no way in hell that he’s forgotten his own words, though, not when she remembers them all too well.
“My eldest sister has come to fetch me and bring me back to the Capital. Because I’m the youngest daughter of a noble family.” She fidgets with her hands. They’re sweaty. March already looks shocked, but not shocked enough for her taste. “So I guess you’re right, March. I was way in over my head. A spoiled rich girl with no experience, and a little money, faking my way through running a farm. And now things are looking very difficult, and so I might be leaving soon.”
She’s not sure why she says it to him. She supposes that since her life seemed to be slipping out of her control, she wanted to gain some semblance of it again by playing her hand. There was another more sinister and uglier truth, which was that perhaps she wanted him to say that she proved him wrong.
That in spite of everything, she’s done a good job.
March doesn’t say anything, though, and Dorothea remembers precisely why she detests him so. Because he had the audacity to see right through her. Out of everyone in town, he saw the whimpering creature beneath her fire, and even told her so to her face. It remained disastrous that the Copper Hoe he gave her was so useful.
Now here he is, looking at her, surely remaking her in his mind based on this new information.
She can’t take it. “You know what? Forget I said anything.”
She scurries back towards the door when a hand clamps around her arm. “Wait—”
She whirls back around to face him. “Get off of me, you—”
Dorothea steps backwards in an attempt to free herself from him. And then she ends up stepping on her untied shoelace.
The both of them topple to the ground.
This is when the door to the Forge opens, and this is how Marisol finds them: with March on top of a flushed Dorothea, who is slotted conveniently beneath his thighs.
“Oh!” Marisol gasps.
Dorothea shoves March off of her, stands up, then remembers she was raised as a lady. She offers a hand to March, who takes it. Dorothea clears her throat and smooths her hair down (unsuccessfully). “Marisol. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon again.”
“Well.” Marisol is clearly attempting to pick March apart with her eyes. “I checked into the Sleeping Dragon Inn, and the folks there told me that you’d likely be here, if you were still in town.”
“Yes, I’m here very often…” Dorothea will blame it on the adrenaline and the panic later. She’ll swear that what she says next was merely the most convenient thing to say. “...To see him. This is March. My fiancé.”
She puts a hand on his horribly toned bicep.
“What?” he stammers.
“Oh, darling, you don’t have to be so nervous around Marisol.” Dorothea gives him a look that is supposed to convey to him that if he didn’t go along with it, she would kill him in his sleep. “She’s very kind.”
And by the gods, it works. March looks afraid. One of his better looks, Dorothea reckons.
March plasters on a smile for Marisol. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
It was a strange sight to see Marisol bounding up the steps to the Museum with her dark fuchsia skirts in one hand. But it wasn’t one that Dorothea was opposed to. Marisol had written to the Capital that she would be staying through the season to “observe Dorothea’s life here” more. Though it didn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t decide to spirit Dorothea away when summer came, it did buy her more time. Plus, distracting Marisol with all the cool things in the Museum meant that Marisol wouldn’t think to press Dorothea about her, uh, beloved March.
“I will say that this is what I’m most excited to see,” Marisol says. “I was quite surprised when you mentioned how much you’ve been donating to the Museum. I suppose you do take after me in some ways.”
It would never be Dorothea’s favorite activity in the world, but she had to admit that there was a certain high that discovering a new artifact or fish species gave her that made her understand why people dedicated their life to studying.
When they enter, Eiland is behind the counter.
“Hi, Eiland!” Dorothea greets him.
Eiland looks up with a smile. “Good morning, Dorothea.” His gaze shifts. “And… Marisol?”
Dorothea does a double take. She did go to the Mines last night. There’s a chance she’s somewhere in there, passed out, dreaming of an absurd scenario in which her sister and Eiland know each other. But Marisol merely curtsies and replies with a polite, “Eiland.”
“Okay. What?” She points between the two of them. “You know Eiland? Eiland, you know my sister?”
“Sister?” Eiland’s eyes widened. “With the two of you standing next to each other, I can see the resemblance now. I suppose your hair threw me off the trail.”
“It’s dye.” While the dark purple was originally meant as a form of concealment only, she has become partial to it. “Does anyone want to explain to me what, exactly, is going on here?”
“I met Eiland and Adeline two summers ago, when they were in the Capital. I showed Eiland around the university library. We corresponded for a year after that, though… Not so much, recently. That is why I didn’t mention it to you, Dorothea.” Dorothea’s eyes dart back and forth between them. Eiland appears cheery, as always, and her sister’s tone doesn’t indicate that there was any sort of falling out between the two of them.
Still, what was happening to her sister perplexed her. Between her engagement and this, she had the bigger issue of her fake engagement to think about.
“She explained it quite well. We talked a lot about archaeology and folklore.” Of course they did. “Your sister is one of the most enthusiastic translators I’ve ever met.” He addresses Marisol next. “I remember you were working on a translation on The Legend of the Dragonsworn that stayed faithful to the original meter.”
“Yes, I’m almost finished with it. It’s been an ordeal.”
“Well, I would love to read it when it’s finished.” Dorothea swears that if Eiland had a tail, it would be wagging at mach speed currently. “What brings you to Mistria? Your sister, of course, but anything else?”
“She’s been sent by my parents to take me back to the Capital,” Dorothea explains. “They would like me to be part of urban society again, in time for Marisol’s wedding.”
“Oh! I had not realized you were engaged.” There’s a pause that’s not quite awkward, or comfortable, but certainly notable. “Congratulations.”
“Yes. We’re going to have a summer wedding in the Capital, at Saint Sebastian’s Chapel.” This is the most excited about the wedding Dorothea has seen, which is a given, considering she had been talking about getting married in the Capital’s oldest chapel since they were children. There weren’t many brides that would want to say their vows above the crypts of several saints and war heroes, but her sister was one of them.
Their parents, of course, had to indulge her, as the first and perhaps only daughter to be married. Dorothea had been a lost cause for years. And Linnea, the middle sister, loved the stage more than she could ever love another person.
Eiland’s eyes light up. “Ah! I’ve always wanted to see the crypt of Saint—”
Dorothea claps her hands together as if she has any sort of authority here. “Well! I’d love to stay and chat about all of this, but I do have quite a few requests that I need to get done in the Mines today. Eiland, if you don’t mind, I’m sure my sister would love a tour of the Museum.”
Once she’s stepped out of the doors, she only has one thing on her mind: mining her way into March’s complete and total agreement to help her.
Dorothea knocks on the door to the Forge at 10:30 pm with a fucked up braid, courtesy of the monsters in the Mines, and a bag full of enough perfect ores to appease even the most hateful of blacksmiths. This time, it’s Olric who answers, still cheery even with her rather late intrusion. “Dorothea! I missed you the other day.”
“Oh, Olric. Seeing your face is like seeing the sun after a rainstorm.” Dorothea can’t help but smile back. When Olric smiled, one just had to join in on it, because it was hard to let Olric be alone in anything. Her smile falls when March appears at his side. “March. I need to talk to you. In private.”
“It’s late.” He’s definitely more irate with her than usual.
“It can’t wait. Besides, I have some things that might make it worth your while.”
“You’re incorrigible.” He shakes his head.
“Incorrigible! Looks like someone works muscles other than just his arms, after all. Well, aren’t you going to let me in? Olric, tell him to let me in.”
“I don’t know, bro. I think you should hear her out.”
Dorothea pats Olric on the shoulder. “Thank you, Olric.”
March huffs. “Fine, come inside. We can talk in my room.”
Dorothea’s bravado fades once they’re behind closed doors in March’s bedroom. It was the unearned intimacy of it all that shook her to her core. Despite her upbringing, Dorothea was no stranger to physicality. Her rebelliousness, starting from adolescence, had resulted in a few trysts with men and women in the Capital. But all of them happened in odd places, in alleyways and under bridges. She always thought that the first time she saw a man’s bedroom for real, it would be under more pleasurable circumstances, and it would be in the bedroom of a man she didn’t completely loathe.
Looking at the blacksmithing trophies displayed proudly on the bookshelf, though, she can’t help but feel a tinge of endearment. There’s a faded photograph too, perhaps of his family. She swallows and looks away. “I would like to thank you. For playing along yesterday.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.” He crosses his arms. “So you came to thank me. Can I go to bed now?”
“I was actually hoping you’d help me for longer.” Gods, the plan was ludicrous, even to herself. “My sister is planning to stay until summer. If she sees that I have something, or someone, worth staying for here, I think my family will be more receptive to me staying here.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I mined a whole lot of perfect ores for you, and I will mine all the ore you want for the next year if you agree to help me.” She’s never seen anyone look as unmoved as he did in that moment. No amount of payment could make it worth pretending to love her, apparently. “Two years? Come on, you know it’s a way better deal than whatever Balor is giving you.”
March is looking at her like she’s completely out of her mind. She might be, in a second, when the last of her hope slips through her fingertips. She isn’t quite ready to give up just yet because there is one factor she didn’t account for: March is human. He has to be. She was about to find out within the next minute or so if he had a heart, or if he was just good at mimicking human emotions.
“Look…” She starts with a deep breath. “I know you and I don’t really get along, March. We never have. But we share a deep love for this town. I know that you don’t believe that I love this town, but I do, even though I haven’t been here for long. It’s become home, and I want to fight to stay here. Do you think I don’t think this plan is completely insane? I don’t believe that we can really play a convincing couple any more than you believe it, but it should show you how dedicated I am to living here and continuing to help Mistria. If you have a heart in there, I’m begging you to see that.”
A pause. Dorothea hates it. She hates feeling like she’s leaving her entire future in the hands of someone she doesn’t even trust, but she must.
March’s face remains stony. In spite of it, he says, “Fine.”
Dorothea exhales.
“But you will get me all the ores I want for the next two years.”
When Dorothea presents silver ores and rubies to March and says, “We need engagement rings,” she’s pleasantly surprised at how easily he agrees to it. There are a lot of words she would use to describe March — competitive, abrasive, a bit irksome — but he’s also a man of his word. She’s even more surprised when he fires up the Forge and tells her that he’ll make the rings himself.
“I haven’t really made anything like that before. It’ll be a good challenge.”
So Dorothea sits on a crate nearby and watches him get to work. It’s not the first time. March has the tendency to hog the Forge, and often, she’ll have to wait for him to finish before she can use it. She would describe him as passionate, perhaps even ravenous, for improving his craft. This time, she can’t help but notice him: the tense line of concentration between his brows, the downward curl of his lips. Though all he has is raw ore in front of him, she can tell that he already sees the finished rings in his mind.
Her eyes are also drawn to his arms and watching how all of the little muscles in them move as he strikes with his hammer. Gods forgive her. It’s been on her mind since she touched his arms the other day. It’s suddenly quite hot in Mistria.
“So. Your family,” he says, without taking his eyes off of his work. He’s never struck her as the type to talk while he worked. In fact, she thought he’d actively hate it.
“What about them?”
“Well, I should know about them, right? For our… arrangement.” It might just be due to the physical labor, but his face is turning pink.
“They’re like many other noble families. Our wealth has been passed down from many generations,” Dorothea explains. “My parents often travel together. My father told us many stories about places across the ocean. Their hearts are always in the right place, even if we… disagree sometimes. There are three of us. From oldest to youngest, it’s Marisol, Linnea, and I.”
March hums to show her she’s listening.
“The three of us have always been very close, even though we’re very different. Marisol has been a scholar her entire life, and even now, she works with other scholars at the university while still being in attendance for stuffy high society events. Linnea is an actress, and she inherited our parents’ thirst for adventure. She’s with a travelling troupe now. I believe she won’t ever settle down. And then there’s me, of course. I don’t think I have to describe myself.”
The arm holding the hammer stutters once before landing true. He glances up at her. “Why did you come here? For Mistria?”
Dorothea shrugs. “We have our own gardens, on our estate. I’ve always thought they were beautiful, but it’s not like I had a say in them. I guess when I saw the ad Adeline put up, it sounded perfect. I wanted to make something of my own from the ground up, the same way my sisters have.”
“...I get that.” Seemingly content with her answers, he falls silent.
Dorothea finds that the quiet isn’t so bad.
Once he finishes, there’s sweat dripping down his brow and his neck. He approaches her and, for a wild second, Dorothea thinks he’ll put the ring on her finger himself. Instead, he drops hers in her palm. It’s a simple silver band with a diamond-shaped ruby in the middle. It fits her perfectly.
She looks down at both their adorned hands, and despite herself, her heart flutters. She felt this way whenever she caught a glimpse of the wedding bands worn by the married couples around town. It was sweet, to be so visibly claimed by another. She felt wistful, trying to imagine what a high it would be, with the real thing.
Dorothea looks up at him with an ill-concealed smile. “Thank you.”
His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows hard. “Why’d you choose rubies?”
“That’s easy. Your hair,” she says. “And I’ve always liked the color red.”
Dorothea still isn’t sure what being one’s fake fiancée entails, even after she and March’s first public outing as a pair on Friday Night at the Inn, but taking a drunk March home does seem par for the course. Keeping one of his arms around her shoulder as she walks him home isn’t so bad, even when the scent of sweat and the spice of his cologne are constantly invading her space, because she has other things on her mind.
Namely how little fanfare their appearance was treated with. She supposes that she and March are still part of the town community, regardless of their relationship status, and so it doesn’t change anything for anyone. Still, considering how much they didn’t get along before, she would’ve thought there would at least be some shock. Hell, even Olric was happy about it. For some reason.
Marisol was too caught up in a game of Dungeons & Drama, and prattling on with Celine and Eiland, to observe them super closely either.
It was worth it, in the end, when Josephine and Hemlock challenged them to a game of couples’ darts. When Dorothea and March won, they both whooped so loudly all activity at the Inn briefly stopped to see what the ruckus was about. Hell, the win even inspired them to high five each other with both hands, in the view of everyone. This plan was clearly foolproof.
Dorothea deposits March on his bed (this is the second time she’s been in March’s bedroom, she notes to herself, rather exhaustedly) and leaves to get him a glass of water. When she returns, he’s sitting up in his bed under the covers. His back is slumped, and his eyes keep falling closed.
She hands him the water. He drinks it. A little bit of water spills down his chin. “...Thanks.”
“Of course.” Dorothea begins to mess with the ring around her finger. She’s starting to feel awkward, just standing here, but sitting on the bed doesn’t feel right either. It certainly doesn’t help that March was using what little energy he has left to stare intently at her. “What?”
She’s never seen anyone’s face as flushed from drunkenness, as his. “Your dress is stupid.”
She gawks at him. “I missed this dress terribly. When Marisol told me she could write to my parents to have some of my clothes sent to Mistria, I knew this had to come. I don’t know why I thought you of all people would appreciate it.”
Admittedly, she missed her dresses dearly. It was one aspect of her upbringing she could never denounce. She only took her nightgowns with her once she moved here. She was more than happy to have more of her clothes back, especially this one — a simple brown dress with a bodice that ended right below her bust, thin straps, and a tiered skirt. It isn’t stupid at all, and is in fact, indicative of her long-standing wish to disappear into the countryside.
“Whaddya mean? We’re engaged!” he slurs.
She laughs in disbelief. “Okay, you don’t have to do that when there’s no one around.”
March makes a frustrated noise. “Still don’t get why you picked me.”
“Picked you? You were simply at the right place at the right time. I was looking for Olric that day, if you remember.”
“...I remember.” March looks sad. Why is he sad? Dorothea didn’t want to be the reason for it, in spite of herself, and in spite of the fact that it was likely just because he was drunk.
“It might’ve been an accident, but it’s worked out.” She prays that he’ll forget what she said tomorrow. “Honestly, I think you were the best choice, anyways. We’re around each other a lot, even if only because I need to use the Forge. We’re… familiar with each other’s personalities.”
He pouts. She isn’t sure what to make of that, but she’s said her piece. It’s late, he’s alive and safe in bed, and his water glass is empty. Her work here is done.
She approaches him to take the glass from him, only for him to reach out a hand and grab her braid gently. “Why’s your hair different from your sister’s?”
Dorothea’s cheeks heat. “It’s dye.”
He lets go of it with a satisfied smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Marisol looks right at home, getting her hands a little dirty at Moonshine on a Sunday morning. She has, after all, never been opposed to some hands-on work, although harvesting strawberries is likely less exciting than looking through delicate manuscripts of centuries past. Marisol has been nagging Dorothea about helping her out since she arrived, and finally, new clothes from the Saturday Market meant she could do just that. The only indicators that Marisol wasn’t a born Mistrian were her expensive earrings and her insistence on keeping her elaborate hairdos from the Capital.
“There is something on your mind,” Marisol observes.
“I always have a lot on my mind in the mornings. There’s a lot to do.” Dorothea could simply not take her mind off of any of it until it was done. Gods forbid that she forgets to give one of her cows one of their daily petting sessions. Truth be told, March was on her mind.
Her mind was getting too crowded for her liking, but she couldn’t help it, especially when she was tormented by sleepless thoughts of him late into the night. She’s known for a while that alcohol made him much more amiable, and yet she cannot help but wonder if it made him more honest too.
“No, I can tell that it’s something else.” She gasps. “It’s March.”
“What?” Dorothea turns to her. It takes a good ten seconds before she realizes that she’s wasted half of her watering can on a random patch of dirt a full foot away from any crops. Distractions, distractions.
“It must be, with how tortured you look.”
“I am not ‘tortured’.” She puts down the watering can. She finds it hard to lie to her sister, even though that’s all she’s been doing, as of late. “I guess it’s been on my mind. It’s not really March, though. Well it is, but also, it’s bigger…”
Marisol harvests the last strawberry and has nothing left to do except to listen. Dorothea still has a lot of things to do, but she tells Marisol anyways.
“Do you ever get the sense that who you thought someone was isn’t really who they are? And you realize that maybe holding onto that image of them was a comfort to you, but now it’s unravelling in front of you, and you can’t do anything to stop it.”
“Is the new image this person presenting to you good, or bad?”
Dorothea thinks of it. March had been kind to her on Friday. It didn’t seem like it came easy to him, which made it more notable that he was trying. She hadn’t hated being the object of his kindness either. It was unfamiliar, and yet, she hadn’t wanted to run away. Not entirely. “It’s good, I think.”
“Then there is nothing wrong with that.” Marisol stands up. A light breeze makes the baggy linen pants she’s wearing sway. Even in that and a tank top, she looked like a woman who knew it all, much more than her little sister. “I think that when you have any sort of relationship with another person for a long time, you never stop learning about them. It should always feel like discovery, and it should feel fun and exciting, each and every day. That’s what it’s about, in my eyes.”
“And what is ‘it’, exactly?”
“Well, little sister, it’s love.”
It’s hard not to argue with Marisol that what was between her and March was anything but love. She holds back. Instead, she bites her tongue so hard that she’s afraid her teeth might go through her flesh entirely. “Hmmm.”
“A great love should positively challenge you. It’s one that pushes you to grow constantly. It’s comforting, but not stagnant. You’re not one to shy away from a good challenge. March is like you, in that way.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Marisol winks at her. “Just because I was immersed in Dungeons & Drama, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t observing what was going on with your game of darts. You underestimate me.”
Dorothea could only wonder what she and March looked like to Marisol, to any outsider, to be so convincing. Marisol’s words comforted her in some ways, and confused her terribly in others. Despite her sister’s assessment of her, she had to step back from it all. “Is what you described to me the way you feel for Lord Xavier?”
“Such things take time. I’m sure it will come to pass, once we are married, and have more time together.”
Dorothea reluctantly holds her tongue once more. After all, she was the one who fled home a year ago — she had no idea of the events that transpired up until this point concerning Marisol’s engagement. Still, her sister’s expression told her that Marisol was reluctant for the season to end and for to go back to the Capital. Dorothea would go to her sister’s wedding, but she might come back to Mistria afterwards. For Marisol, her fate was already set in stone, either way.
All Dorothea could think about was telling all of this to someone else, and truthfully, there was only one person on her mind. But she wished that it would pass, as even the most beautiful springtime blooms always do.