POV: Evangeline
I meet Lina by accident.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I see her standing near the well in the lower square, sleeves rolled, bargaining calmly with a vendor who looks twice her age and twice as loud. Alexandro is nowhere in sight, delayed by another round of lessons and expectations, and for once I am alone enough to make a choice that belongs to me.
I step closer.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I say lightly.
She glances at me, recognition flickering. “You’re the sister.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Evangeline.”
She nods once. “I remember.”
“I hoped you would.”
She finishes the exchange, tucks the bundle under her arm, and turns back to me. “Does he know you’re here?”
“No,” I say honestly. “This isn’t about him.”
That earns me a look—sharp, assessing. “Everything with him is about him.”
I smile faintly. “That’s not true. Some things are about love.”
She snorts. “You sound like someone who’s never had to choose between love and bread.”
I don’t flinch. “I sound like someone who believes love doesn’t belong to one class.”
She studies me more carefully now. “You believe that.”
“I do,” I say. “I’ve watched rules destroy people who deserved better.”
She shifts the bundle higher on her hip. “Rules don’t destroy people. People do.”
“That’s convenient,” I reply. “It absolves the system.”
“And blaming the system absolves individuals,” she counters. “We could do this all day.”
I laugh softly. “You’re quick.”
“Necessity,” she says.
We fall into step together without discussing it, moving through the square as if this were the most natural thing in the world. She walks with purpose, eyes forward, but she listens. I can tell by the way her pace adjusts to mine.
“He talks about you,” I say after a moment.
She doesn’t look at me. “I know.”
“He thinks you’re free,” I add.
She exhales through her nose. “He thinks freedom is not having to answer to anyone.”
“And you don’t?”
“I answer to hunger,” she says evenly. “And weather. And time.”
“That doesn’t sound like freedom,” I admit.
“It’s honest,” she replies.
We stop near a stall selling dried flowers. She reaches out, fingers brushing petals thoughtfully.
“He wants to change things,” I say. “He wants to choose you.”
She finally turns to face me. “Does he?”
“Yes.”
“And what does that cost him?” she asks.
“Everything,” I answer without hesitation.
She tilts her head. “You say that like it’s noble.”
“It is,” I insist. “He’s willing to defy our father. The house. Tradition.”
“For me,” she says quietly.
“For love,” I correct.
She shakes her head. “Those aren’t the same.”
I feel a flicker of irritation. “Why are you so determined to make this smaller than it is?”
“Because small things survive,” she replies. “Big promises attract storms.”
We resume walking. I notice how she keeps a careful distance from me now, not rude, just measured.
“You don’t trust him,” I say.
“I don’t trust what he wants,” she answers.
“What he wants is you.”
She stops abruptly. “What he wants is escape.”
The words land heavier than she intends.
I soften my voice. “Alexandro isn’t cruel.”
“I never said he was,” she replies. “He’s earnest. That’s worse.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because earnest men believe desire is destiny,” she says. “And destiny rarely asks permission.”
I cross my arms. “You think he’ll ruin your life.”
“I think he’ll ruin his,” she says. “And then resent me for surviving.”
“That’s not fair,” I say sharply.
“Neither is reality,” she replies.
We stand in silence for a moment, the hum of the square filling the space between us. I search her face for something—fear, hope, longing—but find only resolve.
“You don’t have to decide now,” I say finally. “You could let him court you. See where it leads.”
She smiles faintly. “That’s what scares me.”
“Being loved?”
“Being claimed,” she corrects.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Alexandro would never cage you.”
She meets my gaze, unwavering. “Every golden door is still a door.”
I want to argue. I want to insist that love can break anything, that choice matters more than circumstance. The words crowd my tongue.
Instead, I say, “I believe in him.”
“I believe you,” she replies. “That doesn’t mean I believe in the ending you imagine.”
We sit together by the river later, sharing bread and quiet. She tells me stories about her childhood—about learning to read by candlelight, about helping her father count coins after market days. I tell her about palace corridors and the way silence echoes when you’re taught not to fill it.
“You don’t seem bitter,” she says.
“I was taught early to make peace with disappointment,” I reply.
She laughs softly. “That sounds like bitterness dressed well.”
“Perhaps,” I concede.
She watches the water. “He talks about leaving,” she says suddenly. “Did you know that?”
My heart skips. “Leaving?”
“Yes. Running. Starting over.” She shakes her head. “He says it like it’s simple.”
“It won’t be,” I admit.
“And you encourage him anyway,” she says.
“I encourage him to be brave,” I reply.
She looks at me then, truly looks. “Bravery isn’t always running forward.”
I hesitate. “What would you have him do?”
“Think,” she says. “Longer than a heartbeat.”
I nod, though unease coils in my chest.
When we part, she touches my arm briefly. “You’re kind,” she says. “And dangerous.”
I smile. “You’re careful.”
“And that’s why this won’t end the way you want,” she replies gently.
I find Alexandro waiting near the gardens when I return.
“You spoke to her,” he says, eyes bright.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?” he asks eagerly.
I choose my words carefully. “She’s cautious.”
“She should be,” he says. “So am I.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I reply.
He waves me off. “She just needs time.”
“Alex,” I say, placing a hand on his arm. “Listen to me.”
He stiffens. “You said you believed in us.”
“I believe in you,” I correct. “I’m not sure she believes in anything you’re offering.”
“She doesn’t have to,” he insists. “I’ll show her.”
The certainty in his voice sends a chill through me.
“You can’t convince someone to love you,” I say.
“I’m not convincing,” he replies. “I’m choosing.”
“And what if she doesn’t choose back?” I ask.
He smiles, confident and untested. “She will.”
I look at my brother—the hope blazing in him, the way he’s already building a future without her consent—and something tightens painfully in my chest.
I should stop this.
I should warn him harder.
Instead, I nod.
“Be careful,” I say.
He laughs. “You worry too much.”
As he walks away, already planning his next visit, I remain where I am, watching the sun dip behind the palace walls.
Love can transcend class.
I still believe that.
I just don’t know anymore whether it can survive refusal.
And I ignore that doubt, the way I’ve learned to ignore many things here, because believing in him feels easier than facing what might break him.