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“I heard about your engagement.”
Dorothea hasn’t even had the chance to turn around before the door has swung shut behind her visitor, already speaking as though they’re alone. Dorothea knows better than to think she’s ever really alone. Every wall and window has ears.
“News moves quickly, I suppose,” she says, fixing her earring into place. She turns before the mirror, watching how the jewel catches the morning light. It’s a longer piece. She’ll have to be careful about how she turns her head, lest the earring tangles in her hair. “Things were only just finalized last night.”
Ingrid stomps over. No she doesn’t. Ingrid doesn’t stomp. She marches, her step measured, just as aware of propriety as Dorothea is. The difference being that Dorothea often cares less than Ingrid does for such things. Dorothea is afforded more leeway when it comes to things like that; she’s not a noble. Not yet.
“When were you going to tell me?” Ingrid asks, closer now. Dorothea monitors the other woman in the mirror.
“When things were finalized,” Dorothea says, mild as milk. “We finished talking last night, and I went straight to bed. You, of all people, know how taxing these kinds of things can be.”
Ingrid’s arms cross. “You could have said something before. How long has this been in the works? How long have you two been hiding this from me?”
Dorothea sets down the other earring. “Ingrid. It’s not what you think.”
“‘It’s not what you think’? Then what is it? Because it looks like my girlfriend and my best friend have been-- canoodling behind my back, and now they’ve gotten engaged. What is it supposed to look like, Dorothea?”
“There’s been no ‘canoodling’!” Dorothea hisses. “Sylvain and I came to a mutually beneficial agreement. I get social security, and he gets his father off his back. Ingrid, you know how much he’s been worried about that!”
“That doesn’t answer my question! How long have you two been thinking about this?”
The correct answer to that question is ‘since the end of the war’, but it’s not the correct answer for Ingrid. There's nothing that will be the right answer here. Because, yeah, Dorothea should have mentioned this sooner if she was going to take it seriously. But she didn’t mean to take it seriously.
“Since the end of the war,” Dorothea eventually says. The truth is the best, right? “Sylvain was joking around about it, and I started joking back, and it turned into a bit, and then… before I knew it, it wasn’t a bit anymore. His father was getting more serious about Sylvain marrying, and I realized that I don’t have many prospects in Faerghus.”
“So you decided to get married to my best friend.” Ingrid steps closer, curling a hand around Dorothea’s arm. “I could have provided for you. you could have been an administrator, or a baker, or a seamstress, or something with me in Galatea. You could have stayed with me.”
Without her permission, Dorothea’s body whirls and her brows furrow at Ingrid. “And when it came time for you to marry to pass on your Crest? Don’t give me that look, your father is never going to let that one go. Will I have to follow you to wherever you go to marry? Will you just keep me on the side? Will I have to resign myself to being your mistress, Ingrid? Am I supposed to just accept that?” She pulls her arm out of Ingrid’s grip. “Sylvain will take care of me. And I can be a good wife to him. And I know this isn’t something you’ve ever dreamed of for yourself, but I’m quite looking forward to falling in love with him along the way.”
From where it had been left hanging in the air, Ingrid’s hand drops. “So that’s it.” She curls her hand back towards her chest. “A good wife doesn’t keep a lover.”
“Would you?”
“I would,” Ingrid says. “If it was you.”
As a child, singing for scraps on dirty street corners and then singing in glamorous music halls that hid their filth under golden plating, Dorothea had been told that the best she could hope for was to be like her mother. A mistress, kept like a pet and ultimately thrown away. She would enjoy her years of fame and adoration, and if she was lucky, she would fade into obscurity rather than go down in a fiery tragedy.
With her fame in the opera, Dorothea’d been able to add a new option to her list-- a good marriage. Marry for a good position. Marry for money. Marry someone who will be able to take care of you. Even if they don’t love you, even if you don’t love them, it’s much harder to get rid of a wife than a mistress. And Dorothea… can’t go back to the life she had with her mother.
Dorothea turns back to her earrings. Her mirror. She doesn’t look at Ingrid in it. “I like to think I’m worth more than that. Good day, Lady Galatea.”
Ingrid straightens and swallows audibly as she nods. Dorothea watches out of the corner of her eye as her lover retreats to the door. She tells herself it doesn’t hurt to watch that golden head turn away from her. “Good day then, Margravine Gautier.”
Dorothea pretends the door slamming doesn’t echo in her head.
Four months later, Dorothea and Sylvain are wed in an intimate ceremony at his family home. For the given value of ‘intimate’ when you’re the heir to the second largest land holding in Faerghus. It’s the middle of spring, and all the margravine’s favorite flowers are in bloom. Servants are at work for days putting everything together, and Dorothea is reminded by every one of them that it isn’t her place to help them with any of the preparations. She stands for her dress fitting, and she gets to sit in on conversations regarding the design of the invitations. On her wedding day, Dorothea wears teal embroidered in shining copper, and Sylvain wears the same. They’re his House’s colors, after all.
Sylvain is presented, as tradition, by his closest fellows-- Dimitri, dressed in navy, espouses Sylvain’s virtues like he thinks Dorothea needs convincing to go through with it. Felix, in white and ocean blue, states what Sylvain can give Dorothea-- security, a future, and a husband who will never dishonor her.
If this were a normal wedding, Dorothea would be supported by her own closest friends. Ferdinand would unroll a speech an hour long about Dorothea’s accomplishments, her honors. Petra would speak as to Dorothea’s personality traits. Or perhaps she would have chosen Edelgard. Or perhaps even Hubert!
Ferdinand is in a shallow grave at Myrddin. Petra and Hubert were burned with the rest of Enbarr’s dead. Edelgard reportedly dissolved into black ash. Bernadetta was indistinguishable from the other bodies on Gronder Field. Somewhere in Fort Merceus, Dorothea can only hope Linhardt and Caspar were placed together in death as they were in life.
Instead of them, she has only Ingrid, still as a statue next to her, quietly stating, “Dorothea Arnault is a woman of no high birth, with no great holdings. All she brings to this marriage is her love. Let it be enough.”