POV: Evangeline
The capital smells different during festival days.
Spiced wine and roasted nuts drift through the streets, mixing with perfume and dust and the heat of too many bodies pressed together. Music spills from every corner—lutes, drums, laughter—loud enough to blur the sharp edges of the palace that looms behind us like it’s pretending not to watch.
Alexandro hates crowds.
He says it’s because people stare. I know it’s because crowds feel like rules without faces.
“Stay close,” he mutters as we descend the palace steps, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
“You’re the one who insisted we come,” I remind him.
“I insisted on you coming,” he corrects. “I tolerated the rest.”
I grin and hook my arm through his. “You’ll survive.”
He glances down at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I am,” I say without apology.
Our father walks several paces ahead, already surrounded by advisers. Our mother follows at a measured distance, her expression serene and unreadable. Guards flank us loosely. The city bows and curtsies as we pass, a wave of deference that makes my skin itch.
I pull Alexandro slightly to the side, toward a stall bursting with ribbons and painted masks.
“Can we?” I ask.
He hesitates, scanning for Father. “Quickly.”
The vendor beams. “For the lady? Or the lord?”
“For me,” I say, reaching for a mask streaked with blue and gold. “And him.”
Alexandro snorts. “I don’t need a mask.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “Everyone does.”
I hold it up to his face. He rolls his eyes but lets me tie the ribbon.
“There,” I say. “Now you look like a normal person.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that what normal looks like?”
“Better than heir,” I reply.
The vendor chuckles. Alexandro shakes his head but smiles despite himself.
We move deeper into the festival, the noise swelling. Jugglers toss fire into the air. Children run past with sugared fruit in their hands. Someone grabs my wrist, laughing, pulling me into a circle of dancers before releasing me again.
Alexandro watches, amused and slightly horrified.
“Careful,” he says. “You’ll scandalize someone.”
“I hope so,” I reply.
We stop near the fountain where petals float on the water’s surface. That’s when I notice the girl.
She’s standing at the edge of the crowd, a basket hooked over her arm, dark hair braided simply down her back. Her dress is plain linen, faded at the hem, but she holds herself like she belongs exactly where she is.
Alexandro freezes.
“Alex,” I say, following his gaze. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer.
He’s staring at her like the rest of the festival has fallen away. Like the music has quieted just for him.
I turn fully toward her, curious now. She laughs at something a man beside her says—her father, I assume—and the sound is unguarded, easy. She doesn’t look impressed by the palace procession. She doesn’t look afraid.
She looks… uninterested.
“Alexandro,” I say quietly.
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
He flushes. “I am not.”
“You are,” I insist. “Do you know her?”
“No,” he says quickly. Then, slower, “But I want to.”
Before I can respond, Father’s voice cuts through the air.
“Alexandro.”
We both turn.
“Come,” Father orders. “You’re needed.”
Alexandro nods, but his eyes flick back to the girl. She’s turned away now, speaking animatedly to someone else, unaware of the attention she’s drawn.
“Later,” Alexandro murmurs to me as we follow Father. “I’ll come back later.”
“Be careful,” I say.
He scoffs. “Of what? Talking?”
I don’t answer. The knot in my chest tightens anyway.
We find her again near the bread stalls.
Alexandro pretends to browse while I linger a step behind, watching him struggle to form words.
“You dropped this,” he blurts suddenly, holding out a ribbon he must have picked up somewhere.
The girl looks at it, then at him. “It’s not mine.”
“Oh,” he says, deflated. “I thought—”
She tilts her head. “Are you lost?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“I’m not,” Alexandro says stiffly. “I’m Alexandro.”
She nods politely. “Good for you.”
“I’m the Duke’s son,” he adds, as if that explains everything.
Her expression doesn’t change. “I see.”
“I wanted to ask—” He falters, glancing at me for help.
I step forward. “I’m Evangeline,” I say brightly. “We were hoping you might show us the best place for honey cakes.”
She studies me, then smiles faintly. “That one,” she says, pointing. “But you’ll have to wait.”
“That’s all right,” I reply. “We’re not in a hurry.”
Alexandro beams like he’s been given a crown.
“My father sells spices,” she adds, adjusting the basket on her arm. “We come every year.”
“That’s wonderful,” Alexandro says. “You must know the city well.”
She shrugs. “Enough.”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
She hesitates. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me,” he insists.
Her gaze sharpens, just slightly. “Why?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. “Because I asked.”
She laughs, short and incredulous. “That’s not a reason.”
I step in gently. “We don’t mean to be rude.”
She glances between us, then sighs. “Lina.”
Alexandro repeats it like a vow. “Lina.”
“Enjoy the festival,” she says, already turning away.
“Wait,” Alexandro calls. “Will you—”
She’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.
He stands there, stunned.
“She didn’t even ask your name,” I point out.
“She doesn’t have to,” he says softly. “She’s different.”
I study his face—the spark there, the hope. “Different doesn’t mean interested.”
“She spoke to us,” he argues.
“She spoke to me,” I correct gently. “And tolerated you.”
He frowns. “You always ruin things.”
“No,” I say. “I notice them.”
Later, as the sky deepens to violet and lanterns are lit, Alexandro drifts back toward the fountain again and again, searching for her in every face.
“You’re going to get caught,” I warn him.
“I don’t care,” he replies.
“That’s new,” I say.
He finally looks at me, eyes bright. “Evie, what if this is it?”
“It?” I echo.
“What if this is the thing that matters?” he says. “More than all of it.”
I think of Father’s voice. Of rules. Of endurance.
“Love isn’t a thing you take,” I say carefully. “It’s something that meets you halfway.”
He waves me off. “You sound like Mother.”
I laugh. “Then you’re in trouble.”
A horn sounds, signaling the end of the public hours. Guards begin guiding people away from the palace approach.
As we head back, Alexandro lingers, glancing over his shoulder one last time.
“She didn’t even look back,” he murmurs.
I take his hand. “That might not mean anything.”
He nods, unconvinced.
At the top of the steps, Father calls his name sharply. Alexandro straightens at once, the spell broken.
The festival continues behind us—music rising, laughter echoing, color spilling into the night.
As we cross the threshold back into stone and silence, I glance back once myself.
I don’t see the girl. But I see the space she left behind. And for the first time, I understand that some seeds don’t need encouragement to grow. They just need time.