Prologue

"Did you know?"

Her cry was met with silence, and the pattering of rain on the windows. Delita's face was reflected on the wavy planes of glass, just a pale ghost lit by candlelight and the fading, overcast light of the day. It seemed that his eyes flickered to her briefly in the reflection, but nothing else inplied that he had even heard her.

Delita's back was becoming a very familiar sight. Too familiar.

"Tell me," Ovelia demanded, rising from the vanity chair to approach him. "Did you know where Alma was? Did you-" her voice caught. "Did you /let/ them-"

He spun around on his heel, so swiftly her voice caught again in surprise. "Did I let them - what?"

She bit the inside of her lip. He'd spoken coldly to her before, and treated her as callously as the other 'Zodiac Braves'; months of exposure had deadened her to the chill of his voice. But he had always treated her with respect, and she hadn't become acquainted with his disdain, until he confronted her now with his brow arched coolly, chin raised as high as any noble's. Goltana would have approved.

Would it always be like this? she couldn't help wondering. Every time Ramza's name came up, or Alma's, he turned cold. If it had been grief, she might have understood - she still felt empty, and mourned their deaths, but he was their childhood friend. What must it be like?

But whatever ate at him, it didn't look like grief.

Ovelia drew herself up and tried to face him as an equal should. He had no right to look at her that way, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting it work. Things couldn't start off on the wrong foot now - they just couldn't. "Did you let them have her?"

Another moment of silence passed, and he turned back to the window. "No."

She waited, but nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. It was the most direct answer he'd given her lately, and she was tempted to press a little further. Maybe he was finally in a mood to talk. But doubt kept her by the vanity, and after staring at his reflection for a few minutes she turned back to the task of unbrading her hair. It had grown longer over the course of the war, and her maids had twisted it so elaborately that she was afraid it would take all night to unravel.

That seemed like the most pleasant prospect at the moment, however. Delita was doing his best to become a statue by the window, and her outburst had only made things worse.

But she had to know. Was that so wrong? He never told her /anything/! It was always, "Don't worry, Ovelia," or, "Everything is taken care of, Princess." - never any explanations, or discussions. News of Alma's death had reached her through her maid, and she was starting to wonder if he would have told her at all without being asked.

Her ring snagged on a twist of hair and she sighed, tugging it loose without much care. It all came down in a tangle of sandy brown, braids slapping her back, and a mass of loose hair over her eyes. She must look a sight - maybe the maids should have stayed after all.

Another sigh ruffled the curtain of hair over her face. 'No,' he said. No, he had not let them take Alma. It was an answer - why didn't it make her feel better? She trusted him not to lie.

"Let it go," Delita murmured from behind her. His presence was sudden and much warmer than just a few minutes ago, and he drew her hair back behind her ears deftly. There was no smile looking back at her in the mirror, but his face had lost its hard edge.

"It's hard." She looked down at the dressing table, tracing the edge with her finger while he unraveled the mess of her hair. It was comforting, though she felt an unreasonable desire to hold on to her frustration. "I can't stop thinking about them."

He pulled her around to face him, resting his hands firmly on her shoulders so she couldn't turn away. "Allow yourself respite - there was nothing you could do."

His hands were calloused and battle-hardened, just like his eyes, offering distant comfort. She had to look away; what use was there in gentleness, when it was disguised so harshly?

"Ovelia-"

"Agrias used to say rain was bad luck on a wedding day." She watched little gray droplets bead on the window panes like tiny crystals, and wondered if her knight had met with the same fate as the Beoulves. "'The setting makes the future,' I suppose."

The weight of his gaze was as palpable as his hands. "Rain is clean and peaceful. I've always liked it."

Alma had liked the rain too; she almost said it, but when she met his eyes again the words died on her lips. He would turn cold again if she did, and while it was easy to disdain comfort in her thoughts, Ovelia didn't want the mask to fall again. Not now, when there was so much time for it later.

Instead of speaking, she nodded, and let herself be drawn into his embrace.