The Duchess, Agatha, had gone to a tea party hosted by the Marchioness of Verdan at mid-morning. Beatrice’s appointment was set for two o’clock at a dressmaker’s shop in the capital’s bustling district. Leaving now would ensure an early arrival, but it was better than sitting idly in her room.
She had already finished preparing before Felix’s arrival, so all that remained was to board the carriage. Receiving the escort of a footman, she climbed into the carriage.
Opposite her, Laura shifted her gaze nervously. Though Beatrice tried to ignore it, Laura’s constant attempts to speak—opening and closing her mouth repeatedly—eventually drew her attention.
“Do you have something to say?” Beatrice asked.
Laura hesitated before whispering, “Are you alright, my lady?”
The maid had always been worried whenever Felix visited Beatrice’s room. At twenty-six years old, Laura had been working for the ducal family since she was sixteen. Over the years, she had come to know Felix’s character well—he wasn’t a bad person, but his blunt words often caused concern.
Today’s encounter only reinforced her fears. Though Beatrice remained outwardly calm and expressionless, Laura couldn’t shake her worry.
When Laura had first been assigned to Beatrice, she had approached her duties with a sense of obligation. Over time, however, she had grown increasingly anxious about the young lady’s well-being.
After enduring so much hardship in the annex, Beatrice had seemed to carry herself like someone already dead. She rarely ate unless prompted, and when she did, it was with visible reluctance. She never initiated conversations, never smiled, never cried, and never got angry. She showed no interest in anything.
Spending all day by Beatrice’s side, Laura couldn’t help but notice how utterly devoid of enthusiasm she was for life.
“Whatever could be wrong?” Beatrice replied dismissively.
Laura clenched her teeth at the memory of Felix questioning Beatrice and accusing her of lying. Though she was careful with her words, she couldn’t hold back her concern any longer and whispered softly.
“Should I inform the Duchess?”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. It was an approach she hadn’t considered before.
In truth, Laura was already reporting Beatrice’s daily life to the Duchess. This conversation would undoubtedly be included in her next update. But Laura brought it up now, hoping it might lift Beatrice’s spirits, even if only slightly. Whether she understood Laura’s intention or not, Beatrice responded indifferently.
“Do as you like.”
She knew Laura would report to the Duchess regardless of her permission. Not knowing Beatrice’s inner thoughts, Laura nodded vigorously.
With that exchange over, Beatrice turned her gaze out the carriage window. She listened idly to the coachman’s calls as he urged the increasingly eager horses to slow down. ‘What’s she so determined about?’ Beatrice wondered as she glanced at Laura.
The carriage soon stopped in front of the dress shop. The building’s exterior exuded opulence at first glance. Beatrice recalled how the Duchess had mentioned, almost in passing, that this shop was run by the most renowned dress designer in the capital—so sought-after, even the Imperial Princess had insisted on commissioning her debutante dress here.
Considering how noble ladies began preparing their debutante dresses months in advance, Beatrice found it remarkable that her turn had come so quickly. Then again, nothing was impossible for the Ember Duchy when it set its mind to something.
‘The price must be astronomical. I wonder how much the Duchess spent to shorten the wait.’
As Laura held the door open for her, Beatrice stepped inside, greeted by a faintly sweet scent. The fragrance hinted at meticulous attention to even the smallest, unseen details, though its cloying sweetness tickled her nose.
Noticing the emblem of the Ember Duchy on the carriage outside, an attendant promptly approached Beatrice.
“Welcome, Lady Ember. The Duchess hasn’t arrived yet. Shall I bring some tea to the waiting room for you?”
The shop, which operated strictly by appointment, already had several patrons inside. At the mention of the duchy, a few heads turned in her direction.
Though she had already had her fill of tea, Beatrice nodded slightly to indicate her assent and followed Laura toward the waiting room. She hoped to spend her time quietly, but upon entering, she found several young noblewomen already present.
She felt their gazes briefly linger on her before she walked to an empty seat and sat down. In the center of the room, three young ladies were seated together, with another off to the left.
Beatrice chose a seat on the rightmost edge, giving her a full view of the waiting room.
The other young women didn’t recognize her face and likely decided she wasn’t someone they needed to pay attention to, as they soon resumed their lively chatter.
“Thank you, Lady Philrope, for letting me join you today,” one of them said.
“Oh, please. It was nothing. I’m just as glad to have Lady Dillhert with me,” replied another.
“You’re too kind. Everyone knows how difficult it is to secure an appointment at this dress shop.”
“Exactly! If you hadn’t brought me, I’d have ended up settling for one of those mediocre shops again.”
It seemed Lady Philrope of the Count Philrope family was the leader of the group, as the other two were busy showering her with compliments.
While Beatrice had little interest in social intricacies, her repeated lives had left her with a cursory familiarity with the faces commonly seen in high society.
The lady in the center was from the Philrope family, the one to her left belonged to the Dillhert Viscountcy, and the one on the right was from the Ellamos Barony. And then—
“I had such high expectations for this shop, but I must admit I’m a little disappointed,” Lady Philrope remarked.
“What disappointed you? I find the elegant interior absolutely stunning. It just proves I have a long way to go before matching your impeccable taste,” gushed one of her companions.
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with the shop itself.”
“Then what is it?”
The women’s gazes naturally shifted toward the person seated at the far-left edge. Although no one had explicitly mentioned her, the synchronized movement of their heads was so theatrical it resembled a scene from a play.
Beatrice, though not looking in that direction, knew exactly who they were targeting. It was someone she hadn’t expected to encounter here.
“Should someone out of their mind even be allowed in a dress shop?” one of them said.
“Exactly. It’s terrifying to even share a space with her,” another added.
“Oh, let’s lower our voices. What if she hears us?” a third said mockingly, their voices already loud enough for everyone to hear.
Their antics were almost fascinating in their audacity. Beatrice, who had been staring idly downward, lifted her gaze and looked at the woman they were targeting.
She had red hair and light gray eyes, nearly silver in hue. In the past, those peculiar eyes had been a source of insecurity for her. Beatrice effortlessly pulled the memory from her vast archive of past lives.
As the three women continued their loudly whispered ridicule, the red-haired woman, who had been flipping through a catalog in silence, finally looked up. Noticing this, Lady Natalia Philrope’s lips curled upward in a calculated smile.
“Oh dear, were we being a bit noisy, Lady Lisart?”
Priscilla Lisart. The daughter of a marquess, infamous for her reputation. In a previous life, she had been nearly as notorious as Beatrice herself, once considered the empire’s foremost “madwoman” until Beatrice claimed that title for herself. If Beatrice hadn’t, Priscilla might have retained her crown as the empire’s most deranged noblewoman. Even now, her peers treated her as if she were unhinged.
If one were to ask whether Priscilla truly lacked sanity, the answer would be no.
“Why are you staring like that? You’re not planning to grab someone’s hair again, like at that last party, are you?” Natalia sneered.
Priscilla was not insane—just perpetually angry. Despite her polished appearance, from her neat braid of red hair to her high-necked long-sleeved dress, she was notorious for her violent tendencies. For noblewomen, such behavior was a fatal flaw.
Rumors could ruin even a well-mannered noblewoman, so Priscilla’s habit of raising her hand in the middle of social gatherings had made her the talk of the empire. She was widely referred to as the “reckless daughter” of the Lisart Marquessate.
Priscilla didn’t respond to Natalia’s provocation. Instead, she fixed her pale eyes on her, then calmly lowered her gaze back to her catalog as if nothing had happened. The deliberate indifference should have been enough to end the matter, but the three women interpreted it as submission and raised their voices even more.
“At least she has some shame left,” one said.
“Better late than never, I suppose. Honestly, I can’t forget that chaotic scene at the last party,” another chimed in.
“Which noblewoman grabs a young man’s hair just because he asked her to dance?”
Their laughter rang sharp and loud, grating on Beatrice’s nerves. While she rarely took interest in others, the noise was enough to draw her attention. Deciding it wasn’t worth letting this continue, she considered intervening. After all, she had her own reasons for wanting to earn Priscilla Lisart’s favor, and this seemed like a good opportunity to leave an impression.
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