Chapter 68
* * *
The grand ballroom of the Bilton estate, opened for the first time in ages, buzzed with the footsteps of two people. It was Beatrice and her elderly maid.
Beatrice was surveying every corner of the ballroom, pondering how best to decorate each spot, while the maid diligently noted down every suggestion she made.
“How about a vase about this size here? We should keep the flowers simple, not mixing too many varieties, to give it a understated feel.”
As Beatrice gestured the size with her arms, the maid jotted down her words in full, including that detail.
After taking a few more steps, Beatrice stopped again. She pointed to a small space on the wall.
“Hang a painting here that’s not too flashy. Oh, and since my sister doesn’t like anything too noisy, the painting should match that.”
The maid quickly noted down Beatrice’s continuing words as well.
“And over here….”
Beatrice wandered around for quite a while, suggesting what to do here, what to hang there, what to place in that spot, until she finally paused, showing signs of hesitation. Only then did the maid speak up.
“It’s too last-minute to prepare everything perfectly.”
At the maid’s words, Beatrice’s face briefly clouded with disappointment.
“I wanted to prepare a perfect birthday for her….”
The maid awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck in response. And who could blame her? How could anyone have known that someone thought to be dead would reappear and celebrate their birthday?
The maid had only learned of the reconciliation between Angela and Beatrice—who had never been on good terms—when Beatrice had shyly stammered,
“Um, uh, I’ve decided to prepare my sister’s birthday myself,”
her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
The maid had wanted to ask if Lady Angela had truly permitted it, but Beatrice looked so delighted that she couldn’t bring herself to spoil the mood.
But that joy was short-lived; Angela had passed away. The household plunged into grief, and Beatrice, who had been so excited about preparing Angela’s birthday, didn’t step out of her room for days.
It was heartbreaking to see her burying her head in her bed every day, so the maid had once forcibly dragged her out for a garden walk. But that had led to a complete disaster. Upon seeing the spot where Angela had once knelt, Beatrice had burst into sobs.
Propping her arms on the place where Angela had sat and burying her face, Beatrice wept with a despair that far surpassed the tears she’d shed from her half-sister’s bullying.
The tears seemed to boil up from deep within her gut, and even the maid, who hadn’t harbored particularly fond feelings toward Angela, found herself wiping away tears of her own.
Yet, making their grief seem pointless, Angela appeared at the Bilton estate, alive and perfectly well.
She hadn’t even come to greet them personally, but Beatrice sprang back to life like parched grass after a drink of water, vibrant and green once more.
And from that day on, she threw herself back into preparing Angela’s birthday banquet.
Angela had recently been living not at the Bilton estate but at the Florence estate. So it was unclear whether the birthday would even be held at Bilton, but Beatrice seemed utterly unconcerned about that.
She was clearly so immersed in the joy of being able to prepare Angela’s birthday again that she was overlooking everything else.
“Miss.”
The elderly maid called out to Beatrice softly, her wrinkled face tinged with concern. Beatrice turned her round eyes toward the maid. Facing that expression, the maid, looking regretful, began to recite what was on her mind.
“It’s not just about decorating the ballroom—if you’re preparing a banquet, you need to select the number and types of dishes to serve that day, and decide on the beverages, including how many kinds of alcohol to prepare. You’ll also need to send out invitations to the guests attending the banquet, right? To send invitations, you have to make a list of whom to invite.”
The maid continued without even pausing for breath.
“And most importantly, you need to confirm whether Lady Angela, the guest of honor, intends to spend her birthday at the Bilton estate.”
Beatrice clapped a hand over her mouth, realizing only then that she’d set aside all the truly essential matters.
“Oh, what should I do?”
Startled, Beatrice looked at the maid. Her eyes pleaded for a solution, since the maid had raised the problem.
With a small sigh, the maid handed the pen she was holding to Beatrice.
“First, send word to the Florence estate. Tell her you’re preparing her birthday and that you’d really like the guest of honor to attend.”
Beatrice nodded vigorously, clutching the pen, and dashed off toward her room. The maid wanted to say that the paper was right there and she could write it on the spot, but chasing after the quick-footed young miss, as energetic as her age suggested, was exhausting, so she gave up.
* * *
“What is it that’s making you look at it with such affectionate eyes? I’m getting jealous.”
Kalian, who had assumed that any correspondence from the Bilton estate wouldn’t bring Angela any joy, subtly leaned in to glance at the paper she was examining.
The round, looping handwriting was Beatrice’s. It said that, as promised before, she would prepare the upcoming birthday banquet herself, and she really, really hoped the guest of honor would attend.
Kalian could guess what had lifted the corners of Angela’s mouth.
“Affectionate? Hardly. I just found it amusing how enthusiastic she is about this.”
But Angela herself denied feeling pleased, playing innocent. She turned her head away so emphatically that Kalian, knowing the truth, pretended otherwise and asked,
“So, you won’t go, then?”
“Huh…?”
Angela looked at Kalian with a flustered expression. Kalian nodded toward the letter she was still holding and continued.
“Don’t bother with such a silly banquet—spend the time with me instead.”
Angela faltered, unable to find words, her face ambiguous. Then, spotting the mischief lurking on Kalian’s face, she shot him a sharp glare.
“You’re always playing tricks.”
With a whip-like sharpness, Angela muttered grumpily.
“Lately, everyone seems to think I’m such an easy target.”
It was true. Kalian doing this was nothing new, and Jo, Hilda, Emmit, Vigo—even Tristan, who had been absent lately—all tossed jokes at her so casually. Mary? No need to even mention her.
Such a thing would never have happened at the Bilton estate. There, even if Angela made a joke, people would turn pale with fear. That was the kind of place the Bilton estate had been.
Yet here, things were different.
“I keep saying it, but I hate noise. Unless you want your tongue cut out and forced to stay silent, you’d better watch yourselves.”
Even when Angela said this with complete sincerity, the maid beside her would nudge her playfully and tease,
“Hey, she’s talking to you—watch out!”
That was the atmosphere here.
And why were they showering her with so much praise? Every little thing she did prompted cries of
You’re so beautiful! , You’re so wonderful!, You’re so amazing! , You did that so well!,
until it felt so excessive that Angela couldn’t help but furrow her brow, suspecting their words weren’t entirely genuine.
So when Angela, exasperated, snapped, “Over-the-top praise is no different from flattery,” they’d reply with a grin, eyes crinkling,
“Oh, we’re absolutely flattering you! Gotta butter up the future lady of the house so we can get a raise later!”
It wasn’t that she disliked it, but the unfamiliar atmosphere left Angela with a strange, ticklish feeling at her fingertips and toes, like she couldn’t quite settle into it.
Looking up at Kalian, she asked, “Have I really lost all my dignity?”
Kalian burst out laughing, gazing at her with an expression that seemed to say she was adorable. That was answer enough for Angela.
Folding Beatrice’s letter in half and setting it aside, Angela turned her attention back to the book she’d been reading, her face set in a pout.
“They’re only acting like that because they like you, Angela,” Kalian said, tilting his head to speak softly to her profile.
Angela lifted the book slightly higher to shield her face. The tips of her ears, peeking out above the pages, flushed a faint red.
* * *
The imperial palace of Phaelon.
Standing at the center of the emperor’s audience chamber was an unexpected figure. Truga stared intently at the man who had requested a secret audience. Beside him stood Kalian. The situation called for an explanation.
“An envoy from the Kingdom of Taran, you say?”
“To be precise, I was sent by the Third Prince. I am Tristan, and I offer my greetings to His Majesty, the Emperor of Phaelon.”
At Tristan’s introduction, Truga’s gaze shifted to Kalian instead of pressing the man further. His eyes demanded an explanation.
It wasn’t unusual for an envoy to arrive. When sensitive matters between nations couldn’t be addressed openly, countries often sent envoys in secret.
But for Kalian, of all people, to bring a foreign envoy was hardly a welcome occurrence.
As much as Truga didn’t want to suspect him, Kalian’s recent actions had been undeniably strange. He had defied imperial orders by abandoning his assigned post, holed up in his territory with a fiancée presumed dead, rejected the emperor’s summons twice, and gathered his former knights in Bildium, fortifying it like a stronghold. It was hard not to see it as preparation for war.
Truga had overlooked it because Dominic had pleaded, “His fiancée died—how could he be in his right mind? Please give him time.”
But then the supposedly dead fiancée turned out to be very much alive, and Dominic, whose daughter had returned, had gone into hiding.
Jealous nobles had already been whispering to Truga, pointing out that something seemed off about Kalian.
And now, here was Kalian, personally escorting an envoy from Taran to the palace. Even Truga’s gaze on Kalian shifted slightly.
He didn’t want to doubt the loyalty still evident in Kalian’s demeanor, but Truga was fiercely sensitive to anyone coveting what was his.
“My apologies for not informing you in advance,” Kalian said, his tone so calm that it almost made Truga’s fleeting suspicion feel unwarranted. He simply reported what he knew.
“Tristan assisted during the incident when my fiancée was abducted. The reason he crossed the border as an envoy is because he had prior knowledge of her kidnapping.”
“Is that true?” Truga asked, narrowing his eyes at Tristan, who had been listening to Kalian’s steady voice.
Tristan bowed deeply before raising his head and answering, “Yes.”
“I heard you know it was the First Prince’s doing,” he added.
Truga nodded. Seeing this, Tristan continued.
“The First Prince has consistently opposed the cession of Taran’s territory and still insists that it must be reclaimed. It seems he took actions that could spark war, but I wish to make it clear that this is absolutely not the stance of the entire Kingdom of Taran.”
With practiced courtesy, Tristan produced a rolled-up document and presented it to Truga with both hands. Truga signaled to an attendant, who swiftly retrieved the document and handed it to him.
Truga glanced at Tristan before unrolling the paper. His brow furrowed along its creases. The document contained sensitive matters.
“This… isn’t the kind of document you show to the emperor of a rival nation,” Truga said.
The contents detailed the deposition of the current crown prince. It meticulously listed which successors, holding how many knights, supported his removal.
“This is to inform you that the crown prince is the only one in Taran with intentions of war,” Tristan explained. “Everyone else disagrees with him. We wish for the current peace to be maintained.”
Truga’s eyes froze on the page. A familiar name caught his attention: Anette, his wife. He had thought her merely a princess sent abroad, but the number of knights she commanded within the kingdom was considerable.
As he mulled this over, Kalian, who had been silently observing, spoke up.
“And, Your Majesty,”
he said,
“it is not a rival nation. The Princess of Taran resides in Phaelon’s imperial palace.”
Truga’s face registered shock, even though he had just been thinking of Anette.
But he quickly regained his composure, understanding what Kalian was implying.
The discussion of deposing Taran’s crown prince was not merely another nation’s affair.
