Chapter 36
The applause followed them all the way out.
Not in sound, but in feeling.
It lingered in the theater halls and in the crowd itself—nobles speaking in softened voices, older ladies dabbing elegantly at their eyes, gentlemen nodding gravely at the tragic nobility of sacrifice as though they themselves had ever surrendered anything more serious than a comfortable seat.
Dara walked beside Valerius through the bright interior of the theater with Grace a step behind her and Leon and Edric behind him, her expression composed, her steps measured, her thoughts nowhere near as polite as her face suggested.
The story had been beautiful.
That was true.
And somehow that only made it worse.
They descended the broad front steps together into the evening air, where the night had deepened properly at last. Lanterns burned along the street in warm circles of light, catching on polished carriage doors, embroidered hems, and jeweled hair ornaments as theatergoers spilled gradually into the avenue.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
Dara did not mind.
She needed the silence.
She needed the coolness of the night after all that silver sorrow and noble suffering and reverent misery.
Valerius walked beside her with the same steady calm he carried into everything, matching her pace without directing it.
The restaurant they had chosen for afterward lay close enough to reach by foot, and so they were allowed the luxury of walking without haste, without immediate interruption, and without the strange confinement that came from returning too quickly to enclosed space after a story had unsettled the mind.
It was Valerius who broke the silence first. “Did you enjoy it?”
Dara looked ahead for a moment longer before answering. “It was beautiful.”
Then, after the smallest pause, she added, “I’m not sure I liked it.”
She felt rather than saw his glance.
“That sounds contradictory,” he said.
“It isn’t.”
He said nothing, waiting.
Dara appreciated that.
Too many people rushed to fill the silence before it had become useful.
“The costumes were lovely,” she said. “The music was well chosen. The performances were strong. The writing was…” She exhaled softly. “Competent.”
“High praise.”
“It is from me.”
A faint note of amusement warmed his voice. “So the issue was not the quality.”
“No.”
They turned into a quieter stretch of the street where the lanterns hung lower and the crowd had thinned just enough to make walking easier.
Pipette had not joined them tonight—sensibly, for once—and Salem, equally sensibly, had declined any theater outing that did not place her at the center of worship.
Dara could not blame either of them.
“The story admired her too much,” she said at last.
Valerius’s attention shifted fully to her now. “The saint?”
“Yes.”
“She was meant to be admired.”
“That was the problem.”
He considered that. “She saved the kingdom.”
Dara looked at him. “And what did she get?”
He did not answer immediately.
“She was remembered.”
Dara’s expression flattened. “Oh, excellent. Reverence. Banners. Poetry.” She looked ahead again. “How useful to her.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, though it faded quickly. “You think the ending was unjust.”
“I think it was convenient.”
“For the kingdom?”
“Yes.”
They walked in silence for a few steps.
The night around them remained lively, but more muted now.
The theater crowds had begun to spread into the city proper, flowing into waiting carriages, private suppers, and post-performance conversation.
Somewhere farther down the street a musician was playing softly outside a winehouse, the melody thin and bright in the distance.
Dara folded her hands together lightly before her as she walked.
“The entire story was built around making her disappearance look noble,” she said. “Everything they admired about her existed because she had been willing to lose everything.”
Valerius’s gaze remained on her. “That is often what tragedy asks for.”
“Yes,” Dara said. “And I dislike it.”
He did not seem surprised by that. “She chose it.”
Dara’s answer came at once. “Did she?”
That drew a pause.
“She accepted it,” he said.
“She accepted a world in which she was given one righteous option and told that all other choices were selfish.”
Valerius was quiet for a moment.
“You think that is not a true choice.”
“No,” Dara said. “I think it’s coercion dressed in poetry.”
That, at last, earned a more visible reaction from him—not shock, exactly, but a stillness that suggested the line had landed.
Dara looked ahead, then upward briefly as a breeze moved through the street and stirred the edge of her shawl.
“She was praised for becoming useful,” she said more quietly. “Not for being happy. Not for wanting anything ordinary. Not for loving anyone.” Her mouth tightened. “Only for disappearing properly.”
The words left a faint ache behind them.
Not because she saw herself in the saint.
Not exactly.
But because she recognized the shape of the story too well.
A world deciding what role a person ought to serve. A system rewarding obedience. A kingdom taking and calling the loss sacred.
Valerius’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “You think she should have chosen differently.”
Dara was silent for one step, then two.
At last, she said, “I think she should have been allowed to.”
The words settled between them, simple and sharp, impossible to misunderstand.
Valerius looked ahead again. There was no mockery in him, no easy defense of the story simply because others loved it. Only thought.
“That is a different kind of tragedy,” he said.
“Yes.”
“One where the world fails her, not fate.”
Dara glanced at him. “That sounds more honest.”
They had reached another bend in the street now, where the noise of the theater dimmed further behind them and the restaurant ahead came into view at last—its front lit by hanging lanterns, polished windows glowing warm against the night.
People moved in and out in measured intervals, and somewhere within the clink of glass and low conversation suggested comfort rather than display.
Dara slowed slightly.
Valerius matched her pace at once.
He was still thinking.
She could tell.
Good.
He should.
After a moment, he said, “There are people who would argue that the saint’s choice gave the story its beauty.”
Dara did not hesitate. “Then those people are in love with suffering because it is not theirs.”
Silence followed for one breath.
Then, unexpectedly, the faintest laugh escaped him.
Not mocking. Not dismissive.
Real.
Dara looked at him. “You disagree.”
“No,” Valerius said.
That was interesting.
He glanced down at her as they approached the restaurant entrance. “I think,” he said slowly, “that most people admire sacrifice more easily than they imagine surviving after refusing it.”
Dara’s gaze sharpened slightly. That, at least, was a more thoughtful answer than the play had deserved. “Hmm.”
High praise.
They reached the entrance.
A servant stepped forward at once to open the door, bowing low. Warm light spilled across the stone, carrying with it the scent of roasted herbs, butter, wine, and something sweet underneath.
Dara paused just before entering and looked back once toward the direction of the theater.
The story still sat unpleasantly in her mind.
Beautiful. Tragic. Too simple.
No, not simple.
Too willing to excuse the world that had cornered her.
Dara turned back.
Beside her, Valerius waited without hurry.
She was not done with the subject yet.
That, too, was obvious.
Good.
There were worse dinner companions to be philosophically annoyed beside.
She stepped forward at last.
And together, they entered the restaurant.