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The doors to the cathedral were open, letting in fresh spring air. Barbara breathed it in, closing her eyes. She loved the first spring winds: still sharp from winter, a hint of warmth from the oncoming summer.
From where she was standing at the doors, she could hear a bard outside. They were playing in front of the Barbatos statue: prime real estate at Windblume. She, a little grudgingly, had to admit that they were good; far better than Six Finger José. Windblume was a time for things like this: things like love and dancing and drinking. Not, of course, that she’d know anything about any of those things. She stole glances outside whenever she could, a sigh escaping her despite her best efforts to keep it inside.
She tried not to complain on days like this, even as she felt hard done by. It wasn’t her fault that she had to stay inside and look after the cathedral, but it wasn’t anyone else’s, either. Complaining just got tiring and boring and people were happy. They didn’t want to hear it.
Victoria, thought, must have noticed, because on one of Barbara’s walks to the entrance to welcome the next round of worshippers in, her hand landed on her shoulder. “You can go outside, you know,” she said gently.
The heat rose to her face so fast it made Barbara’s head spin. “I,” she stammered out. “Well, I think everyone’s working so hard, and—it wouldn’t be fair if everyone else had to stay in here and only I got to go outside—”
“Have you had a break yet?”
Barbara paused. Her stomach rolled with hunger. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. “No.”
“Then go take a break.” Victoria pushed her shoulders in the direction of the doors. “Go see sunlight. Eat something. Try not to get accosted.”
Bara brought her hand over her mouth and laughed. She wished she had the strength of will to argue otherwise, but she really didn’t. The cathedral was one of her favourite places in the whole world, but outside was infinitely more appealing right now. “Alright. I won’t be long.”
“I know,” Victoria said. “Now go!”
But really, despite her hunger, all she wanted to do was go to the base of the Barbatos statue and listen to the bard. She took the long route, going under the shadow of the awning, craning her head around to spot whoever it was that was playing—
And then her hands flew up to her mouth.
Her legs propelled her forwards without any conscious thought. She pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, her height helping her along. “You!” she cried. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. “Do you have the Holy Lyre der Himmel?”
The bard stopped playing. She recognised him, but that hardly mattered right now. He held out the lyre with both hands, squinting at it. Then his gaze flicked up to hers. “Ehe,” he said. Then, cautiously: “No?”
“I,” said Barbara. Upon closer inspection, it couldn’t have been the lyre; it was far too scuffed for that; not nearly shining enough. But it looked similar enough that it could have been, and that was what mattered. Her heart sank in her chest like a stone. “I apologise,” she said stiffly. She was close enough that their chests could have touched and she backed away quickly. “Please, continue playing.”
But it didn’t matter. The crowd had changed their attention, focusing on her instead. Their flocked closer, her name on their lips, their eyes bright with excitement. But she didn’t want that: she wanted to apologise to the bard and for them to leave her alone. Then she considered just how un-idol-like a thought that was and suppressed a grimace.
“Hey!” the bard said sharply. “Go away, will you? If you’re going to bother her, join a queue. Or better, ignore her like she’s see-through.”
That usually didn’t work. Somehow, for some reason, this time it did. Their eyes glazed over, and after a second, the crowd backed off, disappearing in groups of two or threes. She stared after them, mouth dropped open. How had that worked…?
“Don’t worry about it,” the bard said cheerfully, so she turned her attention back to him. “I understand why you’re paranoid. Don’t want to get something precious stolen away again, huh?” He bent down to pick up the mora that had been thrown into his hat, counting it quickly and shoving it into his pocket.
He’d been the bard who had returned the lyre, along with the traveller. She remembered him now. No wonder she’d assumed it was the Holy Lyre: his face had gotten mixed up in her memory somewhere, along with the hundreds of other worshippers she saw in a day. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I’ll… somehow make it up to you.”
“No need,” the bard said. There was a hint of amusement in his face, glittering in his bright, bright green eyes. “I’m Venti. You’re Barbara, right?”
“I am. Are you… here for Windblume?”
“Here to earn some money,” he corrected. He took a half-step closer right into her space. “You don’t have any change, do you? Or an apple? I’ll play you something.”
She didn’t carry mora. Somehow, the truth felt worse than lying would have. “Not right now,” she said. “I’ll… speak to my sister. I’m sure I can reimburse you—”
But then there were fingers, warm and callused, and they slipped into her own. His smile was as bright as a summer’s day. “Stop apologising. There’s no need. I get interrupted all the time, and I’ll be back when I need more money. But you’ve been stuck inside all day, haven’t you?”
A part of her—a sensible, rational part—told her to snatch her hand away. It told her that this Venti was part of her fanclub and he would overwhelm her and while he wouldn’t purposefully hurt her, he would by accident, like some of her fans did. But a deeper part told her that this couldn’t possibly be the case. Why would he hurt her? He’d never hurt her.
“I have,” she said, and she wasn’t sure where the words came from. “I… should probably eat something.”
“Right, then. That’s a good start! And I bet Diluc’ll let me get a meal for free if I play for him.” He leaned in and brushed a hair from her face. His face was so close to hers. He smelled sweet: of spring flowers and alcohol and sugar. Her heart lifted like the Anemo Archon himself was making it fly in her chest.
Then he leaned away. With his free hand he put his hat back on. He grinned toothily at her. Then he pulled, dragging her away from the cathedral sharply enough to nearly yank her arm out of her socket. She staggered after, trying not to stumble.
But the day was bright and warm, and a boy had his hand in her own, and really, right now, Barbara couldn’t have found something to complain about even if she tried.
