Angela chapter 21

“So, Lady Materson.”

“…….”

“Do not ever call my mother a governess again.”

Lady Materson, who had failed to gain anything from this exchange, hastily grabbed her teacup as if parched.

But everyone present knew she wasn’t actually thirsty—she simply had nothing left to say and was using the act of drinking tea to avoid responding. Her ears, burning red, were proof enough of that.

By the end of today’s tea party, at least half of the attendees would be gossiping about what had just transpired.

Still, for now, everyone pretended nothing had happened and returned to their own conversations.

Laughter and cheerful chatter soon filled the greenhouse once more.

Everyone except one person—the hostess of the tea party, Empress Annette—who found it impossible to refocus on the event.

“……And so, Your Majesty?”
“……Perhaps, Your Majesty?”
“……Would you, Your Majesty?”
“……, Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty, ….”
“Your Majesty?”

Annette, who had been kindly responding to each attempt at conversation, gradually found the words directed at her turning into an incomprehensible blur.

Her mind was entirely consumed by Angela.

Her vision was filled solely with Angela, sitting with effortless elegance at the edge of the table.

No one else knew, but the person who had paid the most attention to the exchange between Angela and Lady Materson just now was none other than Empress Annette herself.

Because that was precisely why she had invited Angela to this tea party in the first place.

She had wanted to expose something humiliating in front of Angela’s half-sister and watch that arrogant face crumble.

If she could see it happen just once, she would have no further wishes.

That was why she had specifically instructed Beatrice to sit near Angela when she sent the invitation.

Had a certain memory not suddenly surfaced in Annette’s mind just before the gathering, Lady Materson wouldn’t have even had the chance to speak.

The one to embarrass Angela in front of all these noblewomen would have been Annette herself.

And she was confident she would have done a far better job than Lady Materson.

There were now plenty of people willing to support her efforts.

Yet, despite all her initial planning, Annette now found herself anxiously watching Angela.

And it was all because of a single offhanded remark made by Marchioness Chartier as she applied a soft red tint to Annette’s lips before the party.

“It’s the first time Lady Bilton has attended an event like this since the summer archery tournament.”

The archery tournament.

That day was, second only to her first meeting with Angela, one of Annette’s most frustrating memories—one she had long tried to erase from her mind.

—

It had been the peak of summer, with the sun blazing overhead.

Annette had been uncharacteristically insistent on hosting an archery tournament for noblewomen.

“Your Majesty, the Phaelon Empire is not like the Tarant Kingdom. If you hand noblewomen bows, they’ll collapse in shock, foaming at the mouth.”

Marchioness Chartier had rolled up her sleeves in an attempt to dissuade her.

Still, Annette refused to back down.

“Even I wouldn’t know what to do if I had to trade my fan for a bow, Your Majesty.”

Despite the marchioness’s repeated protests, Annette had pushed ahead with the idea as if possessed.

At the time, what had driven her was an immature desire to compete with Angela—someone she could not surpass in beauty, knowledge, or background.

During a recent ball welcoming foreign envoys, the representatives had spent more effort catering to Angela, a lady of the Bilton Ducal House, than to Empress Annette herself.

In the Tarant Kingdom, even noblewomen were expected to learn how to wield at least one weapon from a young age.

If there was one thing Annette could outdo Angela in, surely it was this.

Or so she had thought.

Yet, while the other noblewomen hesitated to even touch the bows as if they were filthy, Angela had accepted hers without hesitation, drawing the string with practiced ease.

Her stance, executed merely as a warm-up, was already flawless.

Annette had lost before the competition had even begun.

How could she shoot properly with such a shaken heart?

While Angela’s arrows struck the dead center of the target every time, Annette’s arrows flew unpredictably, scattering in every direction.

By the time the contest was over, her target resembled a porcupine.

“I had heard Phaelon’s noblewomen don’t handle weapons. Where did you learn archery?”

“I had a good teacher when I was young.”

“Lady Bilton truly… seems incapable of failure.”

Annette muttered weakly, utterly defeated.

Angela approached her with a bright smile.

“Are you curious about what I can’t do? Shall I tell you?”

Annette’s eyes darkened.

Angela’s face was calm, devoid of deceit—but Annette knew better.

She had once trusted that expression, only to have Angela spit in her face.

“If Your Majesty wishes, I can tell you as much as you’d like. So that you don’t trouble yourself with pointless competitions in the future.”

There it is.

Annette turned on her heel with a sharp huff.

She didn’t bother with insincere congratulations.

All her focus was on walking away with as much dignity as possible, unwilling to appear even more pitiful.

Then, just as she thought she had escaped, Angela’s voice struck her from behind like a whip.

“Wouldn’t it be fitting to send a fine gift to the ladies you put through this ordeal?”

Annette turned back to find Angela still looking as composed as ever.

“Thanks to Count Conrad’s name, you’ve only just begun to secure a position in high society. It would be a shame to let that slip away over something so trivial, wouldn’t it?”

Angela had utterly humiliated her, yet her eyes remained infuriatingly pure.

She truly was a wretched woman.

Yet, that day, despite her fury, Annette had emptied her own jewelry box and personally gifted each participant a rare Tarant gemstone—something difficult to obtain in Phaelon.

“Thank you for humoring my peculiar hobby.”

She had even offered them words of gratitude.

She had seen how the ladies, who had barely been able to hide their displeasure in her presence, softened considerably as they left.

—

Right. The archery tournament. Yes… that happened.

Annette, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly shot up from her seat.

The motion caused the red tint on her lips to smear across her cheek, making her look utterly ridiculous.

“Your Majesty!”

Marchioness Chartier gasped in alarm.

But that wasn’t what mattered.

“I… I…”

There was a much more urgent issue at hand.

“Why do I always end up doing whatever that girl says?!”

Annette grabbed at her perfectly arranged hair, pulling at it in frustration.

Marchioness Chartier shrieked in horror, trying to stop her.

But Annette was on the verge of losing her mind.

Time and again, she had moved exactly as Angela’s words dictated.

To any outsider, she must have looked like a puppet—Angela’s marionette.

Without bothering to fix her ridiculous appearance, Annette crossed her arms and sank into thought. She retraced every moment since her first encounter with Angela—every instance where she had met her and ended up in a foul mood.

“Hah…!”

Though Angela’s tone was always laced with sarcasm, Annette realized that she had never actually said anything incorrect. Annette bit her lip, which, smeared as it was, made her look even more like a clown.

In fact, during the archery tournament, Angela had practically helped her. If Annette had forced noblewomen to handle bows and then sent them away empty-handed, she would have been endlessly ridiculed as the insane Tarant-born empress.

Moreover, Angela always kept her word. She really had told Annette her weakness.

The day after the tournament, Angela had sent Annette a collection of poems by Adrian, a wandering bard of Phaelon.

Tucked inside the book was a short note: “No matter how many times I am reborn, I will never be able to read this.”

At the time, Annette had assumed it was another of Angela’s jabs and had thrown the book aside.

Now, she hastily ordered Marchioness Chartier to retrieve it.

“Your Majesty, please, can we at least fix your makeup first? If I stay like this any longer, I might be permanently stained.”

The marchioness, close to tears, handed over the slightly crumpled book.

Only after that did Annette finally allow her to fix her face. As her makeup was redone, she flipped through the pages, curious to see what could have made Angela so averse to this particular collection of poetry.

And nearly burst into tears herself.

Adrian was a poet who had lost his mother early in life. His verses were entirely dedicated to his longing for her.

To present this as a weakness… That was unfair.

And to call a governess ‘Mother’ right in front of her after that… That was even worse.

Angela had left Annette feeling deeply unsettled.

It was absurd to be so affected by her, and yet Annette’s chest ached so much that even sitting in the party venue felt unbearable.

“Lady Beatrice must be so fortunate.”

Just then, the voice of Lady Materson, who had seemingly given up on confronting Angela, rang out again.

This time, her target was Beatrice.

Beatrice, who had been quietly sipping her tea, doing her best to remain invisible, now looked at Materson with timid, defeated eyes.

“To go from an illegitimate child to the second daughter of a ducal family is already impressive, but now that your mother has become a duchess as well, no one will dare look down on you for your lowly bloodline anymore. Isn’t that right?”

Did someone spike Materson’s tea with alcohol?

Annette wondered as she prepared to intervene.

She had placed Beatrice here as a pawn to trip up Angela, so she had to take responsibility for the consequences.

“Lady Mate—”

Crash!

A sharp noise rang out, drawing everyone’s attention.

And there, standing in defiance of her usual policy of never involving herself in matters concerning her half-sister, was Angela.

“I dropped my teaspoon, that’s all.”

Angela offered a serene smile as she gestured toward a distant attendant, signaling for a new spoon.

“Ah, so it was just a spoon that fell.”

Lady Materson, misinterpreting the gesture, let out a peal of laughter.

She sounded genuinely drunk now.

Around them, other noblewomen subtly leaned back, wary of being dragged into this mess.

Watching from the sidelines was fine, but getting involved would be disastrous.

“I almost misunderstood and thought the two of you were actually close—”

“You should misunderstand.”

Angela cut in smoothly, before Materson could even finish.

Materson’s mouth snapped shut, as if her tongue had been cut off.

The attendant, maintaining an expression of perfect neutrality—as if he heard none of the conversation—stepped forward, placed a new teaspoon beside Angela, collected the fallen one, and withdrew.

The golden surface of the fresh spoon gleamed under the light.

Only then did Materson, as if breaking free from some enchantment, manage to speak again.

“…What did you just say?”

It was hardly articulate.

“I said you should misunderstand. And if you absolutely cannot, then at the very least, pretend to misunderstand when you’re in front of me.”

Unlike Materson’s fumbling response, Angela’s words were crisp and unwavering.

Materson fell silent again, but the frustration burning inside her was evident.

Gritting her teeth, she stared down at her teacup before muttering bitterly,

“…Don’t pretend. You think the same way, don’t you, Lady Bilton? As if people don’t know that you constantly insult your half-sister, calling her lowborn and common? Do you think people in Phaelon are deaf and blind? You might as well try to cover the sky with your palm.”

Angela glanced briefly at Beatrice, who had started to tear up, then slowly rose from her seat.

Her delicate frame hardly looked capable of intimidating Materson.

Yet her presence alone was so commanding that it felt as if she could make anyone kneel before her.

Maintaining a graceful smile, Angela approached Materson.

Then, in a gentle, almost instructional tone, as if teaching a child, she said,

“I am a Bilton. And Beatrice, too, is a Bilton.”

Her voice was soft, yet it left no room for argument.

“I hope that is enough of an answer for you, Lady Materson.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───