Dominique didn't bother to hide his disappointment at the rejection of his attempt at having any value, frustrated at not even being given the chance to prove he was as good as any wife. But it wasn't really a wife that the monk had wanted, not at all what he received. It left Dominique at a loss at what he was supposed to be beyond the show, now that his identity had been all but stolen from him. He simply nodded, unwilling to push the issue.
"Evelyne," he glanced over, still feeling hesitant associating the name with himself and the stab of guilt that came with it. Evelyne had been a lovely girl, sweet and graceful and all the strength he lacked. He still remembered her laugh the last time he'd seen her alive, when he'd brought her flowers two weeks after her birthday. He hadn't been allowed many days off, but he always spent it with his family when he did. He never realized how little time that had been until he now couldn't get it back. "We shouldn't allow room for slipping up."
He idly pushed aside the curtains, staring out into the dark streets for several moments as if he had forgotten the question completely. "Before? Baking, I always loved the warmth of the oven and the smell of freshly baked bread. Much more pleasant than the stench of meat," he let the curtain fall back in place, taking a seat at the cleared table. He resisted the urge to rest his head upon it, trying to keep his posture in imitation of the ladies of the court. "I didn't have a lot of time for much else, but spending time in the gardens to help select ingredients, and the last few months I had been learning to play piano from the-" and Dominique cut off, trying to forget the first man he'd kissed while seated together in front of sheet music he'd been trying to figure out. He had witnessed the musician executed, shivering at the memory. None of this seemed right, but he'd never been one to follow politics and felt drained from listening to his brother go on about it that night over dinner.