Chapter 18: Disguise (1)
Aston von Rosenmahl’s POV
“When a single rose in the bouquet begins to wither, the others soon follow.”
––Aston von Rosenmahl
My hands are encased in soft, silk glacé gloves, their color mirroring the azure-blue sun. I stare at them, at the brilliant orange stones adorning my knuckles. My eyes lose themselves in their fiery glow as I take in the muted clatter of leather shoes against cobblestone, the rhythmic gallop of horses echoing through the streets. My lips, tinged an unnatural shade of blue, are slightly parted, my gaze vacant as though I might collapse at any moment.
“Lord Aston.”
The familiar voice of my butler reaches me, pulling me from my trance. A single shake of my head sends a strand of hair tumbling forward. “Yes?” I respond, my tone composed, my expression a mask of practiced ease—until I absentmindedly push my hair back and let my brows lower once more. “I am coming.”
I waste no breath. My steps ring out against the fog-laden, blue-tinted street. All around me, heads turn, their eyes drawn to my carriage, a royal blue masterpiece adorned with gold. The coachman, dressed as finely as the horses he guides, strokes their manes with quiet reverence. The people stare—clad in linen shirts and simple trousers, the finest garments they own. They wear shades of beige to black. No blue. They are middle class.
I understand their envy. But the greed—the greed that compels one in five of them to stain their hands red for a sliver of wealth—is something I cannot abide. My steps remain steady as I shrug off my silk vest, white with blue, orange, and violet roses embroidered along the edges, and drape it over my butler’s waiting arm. Kayl stands at my side, clad in a deeper shade of blue, allowing me to shine like a star in contrast. He is old now, his once-black hair streaked with silver. Unlike most men of his age, he wears no mustache.
My shoes splash through the remnants of last night’s rain pooled upon the pavement. I count to five in my head, and with every fifth step, I click my tongue. My tongue, which bears the same shade as the one I am staring at. Their envy twists into a smile—wilted, like a dying flower.