“Once again, I must apologise for inconveniencing you so.”

As her brush sweeps down my hair, a hushed, whisper-like sound reaches my ears. Like the soft rhythm of waves tapping against the shore, it repeats time and time again, seemingly content to continue forevermore.

“Were I a true hero, then I’d be free from such measly concerns. Therefore, it is I who must apologise for making you do so.”

The lady stops. She settles down the brush and runs her fingers through my hair.

“...That said, are you sure a lady of your import should be tending to me?”

“Does it discomfort you?”

Not at all!

On the contrary, there’s a warm, almost homely sensation that comes out of it.

—Which is precisely the problem.

For a man of my bearing—one who’s only known this girl for the better half of a few hours—it’s far too kind!

“No—not at all! Not to overstep myself, but it feels pleasant!”

“Then let me continue. Consider it my form of thanks, a pre-emptive necessity for what’s to come, if you will.”

Her hand reaches behind, splitting my hair in two. Then, taking the top half of my left lock, she begins to fix it into a three-strand braid. With that done, she coils the braid around its base several times, creating a little bun, then fastened by red silk brocade. This process repeats for the top half of my right lock, creating two little buns at the sides of my head.

Watching my reflection in the dressing table’s mirror, a sense of awe overcomes me.

“W-wow, Madame Ysabeau, you have a talent for this!”

I had the sense that most nobles had their hair done by servants, but I’d been corrected! Clearly, this lady is one of many skills!

“It’s child’s play—really, there are braids I could do that’d put this to shame. Dutch style, fishtail, lace, waterbone, six strand, as your countrymen might put it, ‘under the heavens, I alone am the braiding one.’”

“I-incredible!” I don’t think that’s how Buddha meant it, but even so!

The lady smiles in silence and twirls the ringlets on her face. At that moment, Étienne steps into view, presenting a bow and gesturing to leave. Acknowledging his meaning, we make for the exit, descending down the dimly lit stairs into the open air of Saint-Ys.

From there, it takes us roughly a minute to reach the car. With us getting in, the time until the party draws nearer, coming closer with each passing second. Despite its frivolous nature, thoughts of my appearance still haunt me to no small degree, ushering in a degree of shivering and heat.

Walking in public is one thing, but doing so in front of all these nobles?

I’d already embarrassed Aunt Samsere once at the airport, so if I were to repeat a mistake again, then what’d happen?

What would that say about Xie Yunluo?

He who cannot avenge his Grandmaster, much less wear a dress without dying inside?

“Yunluo.”

Her consoling tone interrupts my reverie. She turns to face me, her face scantily lit by the LED lamp outside.

“Yes, Madame Ysabeau?”

“Remember, you are the personal assistant of an esteemed noblewoman. When push comes to shove, do not let them treat you otherwise.”

“Understood.”

Madame Ysabeau’s message is relayed. For both my sake and hers, do not let others perceive you as weak. So, going forward, I’ll be ten times less the pushover I usually am.

I rake in any concerns and nod. Fastening my seatbelt, the car comes to a start soon after, its near-silent engine humming with the faintest of sounds. Over time, we pass through the relatively modest residential area with its narrow cobblestone streets and into somewhere more and more extravagant by the second.

Ten minutes in and our destination becomes clear.

Situated on a large plot of grass, surrounded by snow-laden trees and a long, tapered path, is a manor.

According to my layman’s knowledge, this must be what’s known as a ‘hôtel particulier’. With its multi-story structure and large central courtyard, this type of building seems like one out of an 18th-century novel, something I can imagine a noble from ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ living in.

“Let’s go.”

The car grinds to a halt. Outside, a wrought iron gate greets us, several metres tall and outfitted with a small keyhole in its centre.

“Here, madame.” Étienne bows. Stretched on his two hands is a key, an ornate little thing coloured coal black.

Ysabeau nods, seizes the key, and unlocks the swing gate with it. In a response not unlike magic, the tall gate opens by itself, swinging inwards with a loud and drawn-out groan.

“Welcome. May I have the honour of carrying your luggage?”

A man greets us on the other side. Judging by his clothing and servile expression, he’s most likely a butler of this establishment. Only as I get closer—it strikes me that his skin is plastered purple, pink, and green—and his features, though vaguely humanoid, appear more like roughly geometric shapes.

Stolen novel; please report.

“We are fine as is, Thiebaut.”

“Very well. Then allow me to escort you to my master’s manor.”

What sounds like a rough whirr of water, steam, and rocks emerges from the butler’s lower end. Shortening in height, Thiebaut rumbles in place as two sets of tracks come from his hips, rolling forward like a tank in motion. Luminescent light then glows from a small sphere in his back, shimmering like sunshine scattered on a gentle pond.

“Is this a new development in French robotics?” whispers my clueless self, imploring Ysabeau for an answer.

“A new development in his creator’s madness, perhaps. For your sake, pray he’s off swimming somewhere.”

Our footsteps strum against natural stone. The countless cars and carriages around, speaking to the inhabitants inside. Bracing myself for what’s to come, I inhale a deep breath, feeling its cold appendages thrust at my lungs.

“Welcome to the Marreau estate.”

With a turn of the handle, the double doors swing open. Heading atop a violet carpet, we walk into the distinct glow of azure blue, lit by ornate spheres filled with algae and coral to look like a small ocean enclosed in glass. Inside, the atmosphere effectively redoubles, with classical music and conversations coming from directions all over.

“Haven’t you heard? Marreau was just discussi—”

A woman ceases midway, her fingers flung to her lower lip. Abandoning her male partner, she struts up to Ysabeau and flings her arms out wide, open for a hug.

“Oh, my sweet, darling, beautiful, magnificent Ysabeau! How oft have I the pleasure to see you outside your natural habitat?”

“Quite often. If my memory serves correctly, we’d met in establishments like thi—”

“It was rhetorical, rhetorical, Ysabeau! Truth be told, I could never tire of seeing you! Ten times, hundreds, thousands, none is ever too much!”

In an extravagant, familial gesture, the woman squeezes Ysabeau to her chest as if wrenching out her very life and soul. She seems to be a characteristic German, with the usual blonde hair and blue eyes.

That is until her attention turns to me.

Beholding me like some rare specimen, she erratically juts forward, scanning my body from head to toe. To my best effort, I remain completely still, biting down any displays of discomfort or awkwardness.

“This is Hildegard. She hails from a small, backwater country that happens to be perfect for evading taxes,” Ysabeau introduces her friend and then gestures to me with a slow, graceful motion. “This would be my lady-in-waiting—Ms. Aili. She’s mute and can’t speak the language, so please, treat her like one of my lavish dolls.”

“You chose a mute who can’t speak French?” Her eyes fling to Ysabeau, then me, then back to her. “Don’t tell me… Did you visit that war-torn country and pick her up like some lost lamb off the street? ”

The young lady smiles and nods her head. “That I did. Having found her all rugged, bruised and naked, I couldn’t help but indulge in my usual dose of charity.”

“R-really, Ysabeau?!”

“Of course. Even a backwater oriental deserves the chance to savour high culture, after all, Hildegard.”

“Ooh, your kindness knows no bounds! Please indulge me too!”

The two lock arms, walking towards the nearest hotbed of sound. Playing the roles of well-to-do servants, Étienne and I follow in their wake, entering a room lined with drinks, sofas, and… water chandeliers?

Musing over the peculiarities of this place’s furniture, I find my thoughts halted by the sudden encroach of a butler. In the style of Thiebaut, this robotic figure holds what seems to be a metal tray lined with a selection of drinks. Some glow, some bubble, and some look perfectly normal.

Deciding on a yellowish-orange glass of fizzy liquid, I nod thanks and bring it to my lips…

And immediately, I understand…

It’s disgusting! The drink tastes like a concoction of wet socks, expired grapes, and the underside of a horse’s hooves!

“Urgh…”

But, even so.

I can’t disrespect the host of this party!

I’m not completely familiar with social drinking in France, but back home, refusing a drink poured for you would definitely be seen as a sign of disrespect.

And as a representative of my homeland and Ysabeau, I must endeavour to have courage!

”Here goes…”

Mouthing one last encouragement, I down the entirety of the drink in one gulp.

”Ageeaifikaaha.”

Incomprehensible groans come out in near silence. Acid burns my throat, while a crude backtaste violates my delicate, foreign sensibilities. What a crude flavour… This tastes worse than any medicine I’d ever had…

”Would you like another?”

I nod with faux delight. Putting on my best ‘this is delightful, thank you very much’ smile, and reach out once again.

”Chinawoman.” Étienne prods me in the side. Shock seizes my nerves, and I just barely stifle the pain.“Don’t think too highly of yourself. I shan’t have you drunk in front of an audience.”

D-drunk? So, that explains the aberrant taste in that liquid… That said, Étienne has a point. If entire battles are signed away in inebriation, then what say of my dignity?

Heeding the wisdom of a man beyond my years, I shake my head at the robotic butler. It thus passes into the distance, now preoccupied with others around. Gesturing a thumbs up to Étienne, I set my next destination on Ysabeau—seeing an ensemble of nobles orbit her. Like an all too grand planet, exerting its gravity on those around.

Actually, I should probably discard that comparison. If I explained it wrongly, it’d just seem like I’m calling her fat…

“A dinner party next weekend? Why, of course. I’d love nothing more than to engage in false pleasantries for the better half of five hours. Attending your daughter’s wedding? Truly, there’d be no better way to spend my time than in the company of that overweight sow.”

As the number of prospective individuals pile on and on, Ysabeau replies with a strange mix of derision and smiles. Despite this, no shortage of individuals implores her all the same, seemingly content to stand backhanded commentary.

Just as one conversation ends in favour of another, the young lady shoots me a glance. Feigning worry with an all too quick nod, she paves a way through the crowd and grabs my hand. I suppress the urge to fidget and let myself be tugged along, slowly walking down the marbled hallway into an open-aired terrace.

“Phoo…”

Straight-faced, Ysabeau utters, “Two more hours,” and proceeds to look at me. “Either that or some inextricably uncouth nuisance infringes on my delicate sensibilities and gives me a due reason to leave.”

Her eyes trail into the distance—overlooking a grape vine roof and the chairs underneath.

“This is what it means to be a lion, Yunluo. Remember: power without abuse loses its charm.” She blinks long and hard, looking at me proudly.

The instant she does so, two pairs of footsteps emerge, ringing against the marble flooring.

“What a crude woman Ysabeau is. She’s like a batch of mouldy roquefort left in the afternoon sun, ugly and ever-expanding with its stench.”

Caulaincourt waltzes in. With his gaze fixated on the pink-haired woman, he only now swerves to face my mistress.

“My, Madame de La Rue. Forgive me; I had no idea your lanky figure would be out here. Though, I suppose with your strenuous reserves of fat, it’s only natural that you’d withstand such frigidity.”

He’s calm and expresses his apologies without so much a hint of emotion. Tilting his head to the side, Caulaincourt’s empty eyes implore Ysabeau for an answer, demanding a rebuttal in pride.

“Caulaincourt… If you seem so intent on courting death, why don’t you just kill yourself?”