11.The Unexpected
895 Words
As dusk deepened, Cedric unconsciously twirled the silk handkerchief he had held earlier, still faintly carrying a trace of a scent.
It was a scent unlike any known perfume or flower, crisp and bracing like sea breeze—coming from that silver-haired singer.
A look of discerning appraisal flashed in his eyes, mixed with curiosity, interest, and a flicker of fresh intrigue stirred by long-standing boredom.
A mysterious girl, barefoot, sitting by the fountain in the city’s grand square at the height of chaos, exchanging her song for a meager scrap of food.
None of this conformed to any behavioral patterns of women he knew—like a finely wrought painting that had been deliberately misaligned, a scene from a legend suddenly playing out in reality.
Who was she? Where had she come from? Why was she here? What did the sadness and longing in her song signify? And that brief, resolute gleam in her eyes when she looked toward the castle—what did it mean?
He was no stranger to beauty, nor a man indulgent in it. He had seen many women in the court and beyond:
The dignified, reserved daughters of counts;
Fiery, flamboyant daughters of generals;
Learned ladies adept at poetry and painting…
All beautiful, like carefully cultivated flowers in a garden, each petal perfected. They all sang, singing entwined love poems or solemn hymns. They accepted gifts, but with measured coyness or polite refusal, assessing the value of both gift and giver before eventually accepting.
But the one by the fountain…
He savored the thought, yet no single word could accurately describe her.
Even the most proud, spoiled noblewomen he knew moved as if ironed by rules. They knew how to wield a fan, modulate their tone, or use a faint blush to tease, reject, or negotiate. Beautiful though they were, they carried a transparent veil named “status,” beneath which emotions and desires flowed in hidden currents.
Her posture—untutored by any etiquette teacher—was effortless. Free and unrestrained, yet elegant in an unusual way.
Barefoot, clad in tattered clothes, sitting on the stone ledge, she resembled a queen on a throne of rocks kissed by the sea, relaxed to the point of nonchalance. Fully immersed in her singing, she was lost in herself.
Her silver hair was not the pale gold or flaxen hue of noblewomen marking bloodlines or fashion, nor styled meticulously with jewels.
It was a color no dye could achieve, truly molten moonlight, flowing wildly in the evening breeze, full of vitality.
Her long hair was unbound, tossed casually, even slightly messy—bearing raw freedom and striking impact. It seemed never constrained by hairpins, ribbons, or any crown of social status or etiquette.
She didn’t even wear shoes! A noblewoman would never do that. Even the most destitute gentlewoman would cling to the last semblance of decency through worn footwear.
Bare feet in his world were inconceivably crude. On her, they were… honesty. Somehow, a declaration, symbolizing absolute freedom he could never touch or possess—as if shoes were a redundant invention of human society.
And her eyes. He had seen countless meticulously adorned, scheming eyes—filled with affection, pride, timidity, or cunning.
But her eyes… so blue, so clear, like shallow seas penetrable by sunlight. When she looked up, they held only a deep, ocean-like serenity, a calm seemingly not of this world.
When she accepted that meager food, her gaze was pure, simply grateful.
No calculation. No shame bred by charity. No ingratiating expression, no affectation of coyness, no contrived pride.
Whether it was the paltry apple from a commoner or his own silver coins, it was received equally, with simple “thank you.”
She carried no deliberate aura of mystery or seduction, yet radiated an openness, almost childlike, a natural “differentness.”
The curve of her neck was elegant as a swan’s. Her bare feet struck the ground with a rhythmic grace, not as display, but as her body’s natural state. Her tattered clothes hung on her without looking ragged; instead, they added a hint of exotic flair.
She resembled a sprite from ancient legend or a surviving handmaiden from a faded mural, accidentally wandering into a world of dust, disease, and scheming.
She wore no makeup, no perfume.
Her presence was like a crisp, sea-salted wind, clearing away the staleness of the room.
Her beauty was untamed, like a storm-battered cliffside bloom, brimming with salt-laden vigor, heedless of any rules of admiration. Her singing bore no artifice, no attempt to please—only pure emotion flowing from a world utterly foreign to him.
Danger. His reason whispered. Unknown origins, breathtaking beauty, appearing in a plague-stricken capital, singing for survival… every detail worthy of suspicion.
“Interesting…” Cedric pocketed the handkerchief.
He instructed the silent valet who had been following him: “Go check the Silver Salmon. If she went there… keep an eye out. Also, inquire if any unusual traveling performers or pilgrims have entered the city recently.”
He wanted to know more—about this sudden, exquisite, mysterious light that had pierced his tedious life. Perhaps it was the only delight this cursed plague had brought.
Turning, he cast one last glance toward the square, now swallowed by night. Yet that ethereal song seemed still to linger in his ears.
- Writer
