Isemeine was hesitating.

What should I say if he's actually here? The fourth princess chewed on her lip a little, just the way her mother hated. It was not becoming of royalty to be seen biting one's lip.

She'd parked her steamcar up next to the edge of the busy avenue, just outside the shoemaker's shop-cum-residence. Now she stood in front of the door, goggles stuffed into a pocket in her trousers with her coin pouch, her hand on the doorknob as she debated the wisdom of going inside. Before she could lose her nerve entirely, she twisted her hand, opened the door, and stepped inside.

The small shop was just as she remembered it from when she'd come to order a pair of boots for herself—the very ones she wore now. A long shelf jutted out from the wall at the level of her chest next to the door, stretching along the wall and holding aloft a little under a dozen examples of the shoemaker's craft. Another small shelf rose up in the center of the room, holding several of the more stylish examples of her work—the same ones trending among the nobles of late. The princess adjusted the fabric covering her neck slightly as she looked to the other side of the…

Carl sat in the fitting chair. His head moved up and—

Isemeine hastily turned back to the shelf against the front wall and picked up a random boot to inspect. Ingrid's being nicer to him than I expected. It seems being barefoot is better in her eyes than wearing poorly-made shoes.

"Be right with you, dearie," Ingrid called, the words clearly intended for the princess. "Anyone ever told you you've got perfectly matched feet?" she asked, directing the question to the giant of a man sitting in front of her.

"No," Carl said, his voice impressively deep. He seemed unsure of the statement, however.

"Good, because they'd be lying to you," Ingrid said. "Left foot's a little wider near the toes. Right foot's a tiny bit more narrow near the heel, too. Got a dainty little right foot, you do. I'm gonna need you to stand up so I can see your posture. For the fit."

Isemeine stifled a laugh, and her thoughts began to drift as she half-listened in on what seemed to be a very ordinary fitting for a shoe or boot. She's not using the that awful-smelling paste to acquire an imprint of his foot, at the least. It's fortunate he didn't come wearing inferior shoes, or he'd be scrubbing his feet for days trying to dispel the scent.

An amusing, yet depressing memory came back to her from the year prior.

----------------------------------------

"Apologies," said Tomas, a wry grin on his face as he placed his teacup and saucer on the table and leaned back in his chair. "I've found myself with a singular mindset for the past week."

"Oh?" Isemeine took a sip of her tea. That the heir of the wealthiest noble in the Kingdom was courting her had come as some surprise initially. She was not in line to the throne, she did not frequent the social circles or engage in the intrigues of the court, and she certainly wasn't actively seeking a husband, unlike her two still-unmarried sisters, Sosanna and Jeanette, who continually made her aware of their efforts in that regard.

But, of course, she knew why, though she liked to pretend that the handsome, entertaining young man who was—according to everyone who'd repeatedly told her so—the Kingdom's most eligible bachelor enjoyed her company and her wit rather than…

He glanced at her chest again in the course of moving his eyes from his teacup to meet her gaze.

Yes, she understood, she was slightly better-endowed than her sisters. It wasn't something she'd sought out or something she'd in any way flaunted, but it was still a fact. That slight difference, however, when coupled with a pretty face—though her sisters were also quite pretty—seemed to draw unwanted suitors to her like a lodestone.

Isemeine did the best she could. She still imagined herself finding someone who stared at her mind first, or, failing that, could at least be swayed into appreciating it given time. She was, after all, a child of the Kingdom's royal family. Even as a fourth princess she was almost certainly not destined to wed for love, and, painful though it had been to accept that she was no damsel from the stories she'd read with her letters tutor as a young girl—no troubled young maiden to be swept off her feet by some dashing young man out to save the world—she had accepted it.

It was her duty.

Her mother was her matchmaker, and she'd declared that the Arderne family's wealth could, if joined to theirs in marriage, be a great boon to the Kingdom.

So she entertained Tomas, of course, hoping to shock him into seeing her. She'd made some successes over the couple years of off-and-on, weekly or bi-weekly meetings they'd shared; as an example, his long-ear who followed him everywhere now wore clothes when he came to visit with her. It wasn't quite what she'd asked—that he not bring her at all—but it was something, even if it had taken her refusing to see him for a full month before he'd granted her the small victory.

She sighed, masking it with a feigned sip of her tea as she glanced to the smiling, chestnut-haired long-ear, her eyes resting on the pink collar around her neck.

"Yes," Tomas said, his expression changing to a grimace. "I decided to finally see what all the fuss was about, and—"

"You went to see Old Ingrid?" Isemeine asked, her internal grumbling interrupted.

Tomas nodded. "She's, ah, a bit rougher than I'd been led to believe."

Isemeine laughed. "She didn't appreciate the shoes you wore?"

Tomas frowned. "Bertylmew is a fine shoemaker. His family's been making shoes for mine for—"

"Yes, yes, I've heard all about your loyal shoemaker," Isemeine waved it off. "Did you place an order?"

Tomas's frown deepened in the way that it always did when she interrupted him. She'd have to work on that, too, somehow. "I did," he said after a moment. "But I must protest the means by which she took the measurements of my feet! Does she do the same to everyone? Did she do it to you, too?"

"Well, I'm sure I couldn't know what you're speaking of unless you tell me," she said.

Tomas harrumphed, and his expression turned uncomfortable. "When I informed her of my interest in soliciting her craftsmanship, she hobbled off into her workshop and returned with a large sheet of thin wood. Then she made me sit in that chair—which didn't even have armrests for my comfort—and applied the most foul-smelling paste I've ever encountered to the bottoms of my feet. She placed them on the wood to create an imprint for the shoe with the paste, then made a few measurements with her measuring tape and demanded a payment of a hundred thousand coins to have them ready next week!" His expression was outraged and his face was slightly red by the time he'd finished speaking.

Isemeine had begun laughing quietly halfway through. "And?"

"Well, naturally I managed to bargain her down to eighty thousand because—"

The princess's laughter had intensified at the ludicrous number that was being referred to as a bargain. Truly the Arderne family had no concept of the value of things.

"—of my superior negotiating skills," he continued, seeming proud of himself for achieving a twenty percent discount on an unfathomable price for a pair of shoes, dropping it down to something that one would still have to be quite mad to pay. "But it was then that I discovered the trial that awaited me."

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"Trial?" Isemeine felt that she should have paced herself at that moment; more laughter ran the real risk of leaving her out of breath, which would be an indignity that members of the royal family should not suffer willingly.

"Oh, yes," Tomas said, shaking his head in annoyance as he glared down at his teacup before raising it to his mouth again for a sip. "The paste on my feet would not come off. She offered me no brush nor towel to clean myself with, and I most certainly was not about to touch it. I was forced to ask Delsanra to try scraping it off—"

The princess glanced again at the extremely well-endowed long-ear who stood nearby with nearly her entire chest bared by the cut of the dress that she'd likely put on just prior to entering the room.

"—but that was only the start of it," Tomas continued. "Once she'd touched it, then the awful smell spread to her. It dried with an incredible speed, and with the difficulty that we'd had removing it already, I wasn't about to risk ruining my shoes by infecting them. So then, with Ingrid having conveniently disappeared—no doubt to avoid my demands to know what manner of foul concoction she'd used that I might enlist a chemist and remove it more easily—I was forced to walk barefoot out to the street—"

Isemeine was unable to contain her laughter even slightly anymore, and she set her saucer on the table in order to avoid spilling it on herself and ruining one of her favorite high-necked dresses.

"—where I had to avoid my steamcar," Tomas said, his voice growing more irate as he waved his hands, "lest the scent spread there as well, and take a taxi like some commoner back to my household."

"Oh, you poor man," Isemeine said, struggling mightily to impart a hint of sympathy into her voice.

"Yes, believe me, I'm quite aware," Tomas grumbled. "But that was not even the worst of it!"

"It wasn't?" She found that difficult to believe, but the story was just so entertaining.

"No, not at all," Tomas said, rubbing at his forehead for a moment. "It. Would. Not. Come. Off." He punctuated each word with a nod of his head, staring into her eyes. "No matter what the chemists tried—even Delsanra's magic could do naught to remove the foul odor! We were forced to sleep apart the entire week!"

Isemeine found it inordinately difficult to find any genuine sympathy for the man who was currently complaining about being unable to fornicate with a female from another species in front of a girl he was attempting to court, but she also found it hilarious more than anything else. Her laughter erupted once more.

"Stop laughing!" Tomas said, frowning. "It's not…" In the face of her own continued mirth, he seemed unable to continue being upset, and a chuckle escaped his mouth. "Well, I suppose it is slightly humorous if I imagine it as having happened to someone else."

And that was what Isemeine saw as the spark that kept her trying, against the logic that told her it was surely impossible, to make this man consider her despite her mind telling her that she would simply be an alternate for his current bed partner and nothing more. It was his ability to consider other perspectives, even in cases such as this where he'd been the butt of a joke.

It was, as disheartening as it might be for her to consider, something that set him a full head and shoulders above any of the other young and not-so-young men who sought her hand, be they from the Kingdom or one of the neighboring lands.

"So, you've been scrubbing your feet for the past week?" she said with a teasing smile. "I appreciate a man who practices good hygiene."

Tomas grinned. "It's nice to know I am appreciated," he said, responding to her passing flirt with one of his own. "And what have you, My Lady, been keeping yourself occupied with as you sat in your chambers, no doubt pining after me in my absence?"

Isemeine snorted, the too-obvious jest having caught her as she sipped from her teacup. She covered her face as she recovered her composure, setting the saucer on the table with her other hand. "Well," she began after a moment, "I've been considering lately a potential method of improving the fuel consumption on my steamcar…"

And she'd seen it again then, though she continued in vain to speak about her passion while attempting to retain some hope that maybe one day things might be different.

Tomas Arderne didn't care. It wasn't out of malice or spite; he was interested in her. To an incredible degree, she understood, for him to have endured for such a long courtship period and her various demands along the way.

No, Tomas didn't care for an entirely different reason. It wasn't the norm—not exactly—but it wasn't unique to him, either.

Isemeine Charus may have had a brilliant mind, a sharp wit, and even a cutting sense of humor at times, but she was simply not a man who possessed those qualities, and so he saw no value in her possessing them.

----------------------------------------

Isemeine turned a shoe over in her hand, not particularly looking at it. The memory was bittersweet. It reminded her of a time when she'd been allowed the freedom to be happy—relatively so—and unburdened by the crushing weight of her abuse by and pending marriage to the outworlder Hero. But it also reminded her of a time when she'd imagined the likely result of her courtship: being wed to a man who had no appreciation for her unless it involved her body.

The irony felt suffocating to her.

Ah, yes, a time when one of my worst fears for my future was that my husband would not find worth in conversing with me. She chewed her lip a little, then forced herself to stop. Then she forced her previous thoughts from her mind.

Her skill at not thinking had become her favorite of late.

The princess sighed, then reorganized her thoughts. So much for a distraction, I suppose. I should—

"I'll be with you when I'm done, dearie," Ingrid's voice broke through the fog of her inner thoughts, causing her to turn around for a moment.

It was at the point when she looked back that Isemeine realized she'd been holding and staring at one of the high-heel styled shoes that many nobles preferred their long-ears to wear. She felt her face heat up and discarded the shoe as though it was burning her hands. She grabbed the nearest item off the shelf to replace it in her haste, which happened to be a man's boot in the style of those who fancied themselves adventurers.

She sighed.

I never imagined that anything could make Tomas seem like the best option. Then there was Normannus. Is he dead or just missing? Seems difficult to believe he could drown or even be slain by the water pressure of that giant wave. But he's not here, that much is certain. Perhaps that would be enough of a head start to—

"Hey." The voice was deep and very close by.

Isemeine's hands clutched the shoe tightly as she spun towards whoever had snuck up on her, prepared to strike with—

"You're the first person I'm asking about this, but…" Carl was standing suddenly next to her, his massive frame bent over as he spoke quietly, almost as though he was worried he'd be overheard. "Don't get upset or anything—I just got here—but everyone around here seems so into it. Is it some kinda law or something?"

The princess watched his expression, but he seemed curious more than anything. And a bit… He's definitely concerned that someone will overhear. And he's being so vague. Hm. I suppose I've followed him all the way over here; I may as well hear what he intends to say. "I'm not sure I understand," she said, giving him the opening he seemed to need.

The man's eyes swept over her quickly then, not seeming to linger on any particular part. Perhaps he's surprised to see me wearing these types of sensible clothes? I enjoy a nice-looking dress—with a high neck—now and then, but it's so impractical for the things I like to do!

"C'mon," the huge man said, once again looking around as if to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. "You know what I mean. Is it some kinda city culture thing? The whole 'Good Sir' this and 'Good Lady' that, the weird people with the naked other people on leashes around here, all that 'Praise the Goddess!' and whatnot, and that devilspawn this, and long-eared devil that—obviously just talking about elves—"

Isemeine's eyes had slowly widened as he spoke, and she finally clamped a hand over his mouth before anyone could hear him—even if nobody appeared to be nearby who would be able to when she looked herself. He's a heretic. An actual devil sympathizer!