APIBAGS Chapter 50

This damn Lady Rohanson fanaticism sickness of his showed no signs of improvement.

Normally perfectly fine—but the moment Lady Rohanson entered the picture, the man fell apart like this. This was exactly why he'd tried to leave Michel behind...

"Move the luggage and go back with the others. Bringing Misha was your role—that's done."

"If I was of any service to Lady Rohanson, that is satisfaction enough." Michel inclined his head with serene sincerity. "Sister. Please—create the finest dress worthy of Lady Rohanson. You are the only person in this world capable of making clothes that suit her."

Who exactly was being praised there was beyond Raphaela.

"Michel..."

He surveyed the situation quietly.

Less than two weeks until Evangeline's debutante. There weren't many craftsmen alive who could produce a dress in that window. The timeline was tight enough that Artemisia wouldn't have accepted the commission at all if Michel hadn't been her brother.

And Artemisia hadn't known her brother would be in this state. Which would only compound the shock.

Michel, the wretch, apparently felt not an ounce of remorse toward his sister. The Donau painting—one. Throwing himself at the burning canvas—two. And now this, the fanatical devotion to Evangeline Rohanson—three. Not a trace of guilt on the man.

Artemisia pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.

"What a relentless love you’ve gone and fallen into..."

'What.' Raphaela dug a finger in his ear wondering if he'd misheard.

"Of all the people in the world, to fall for Lady Rohanson with all those monstrous rumors..."

He left the two of them to their private world and went to the carriage to quietly move luggage. He should have just done this from the start.

Reduced to a worker ant, he was joined by Uriel, who sidled up alongside him.

"Sir Raphaela, I have a question."

"What."

"Given that the Commander is the rival—does Sir Michel have any chance? Romantically speaking."

Seraph stood nearby with gleaming eyes, equally curious.

Raphaela gave up answering. He just wanted to get back to the Commander.

'Commander, we’re doomed.'

"Seriously—move the luggage and go. All of you."

"Yes? Understood."

Small mercy: at least they followed orders brilliantly.

Wow... is all of that fabric?

Watching people carry in load after load, I can't stop being amazed. The Toilette Room is filling up to the point where I might as well start calling it the Fabric Room.

Evangeline, for a villainess, has remarkably little vanity—which means she has almost nothing worth wearing. And since she hasn't debuted in society, there's nothing to wear to a ball either.

Two weeks left, and it's already too late to commission a proper dress—so I'd been planning to just buy something off the rack. Then Gabriel said he had a solution and rented out an entire atelier.

Not a metaphor. Literally.

The atelier's designer, dedicated tailors, seamstresses, and every bolt of fabric—moved wholesale to Rohanson Manor. I could have gone to the atelier myself, but the timeline is too tight. If they need to be altering and fitting constantly, just having them move in is simply faster—or so Gabriel said. He's even given them guest rooms.

"I'm sorry for the disruption."

Gabriel apologizes, reading my expression.

It hits me fresh all over again—he really is the male lead. Right... the romance fantasy male lead has nothing but money, so buying up labor wholesale is just what he does.

But Evangeline has money too, you know? In front of WHO is he pulling this money flex?!

Before I knew it I'd caught competitive fire against Gabriel, but I take a breath and settle it down.

Saving money is good. Obviously.

"Lady Rohanson, how have you been?"

Gabriel's resident social butterfly of an adjutant showed up today as well. Raphaela greets me like we've been friends for five years. I'm not the only one drained—Daisy beside me looks appalled.

Hm? But who's that behind him?

Someone is trembling behind Raphaela.

"Ah, and this is the person who will be making your ladyship's clothes."

Before I can even ask, Raphaela shoves the person forward from behind him.

Ah. The designer Gabriel's money bought.

One look and she clearly didn't want to come—but the sum was too large to refuse. That's the impression. I'm already worried she'll end up crying and running away like the tutors.

"Her name is Artemi—"

"I, I, I cannot work with human leather!"

Raphaela is mid-introduction when Artemi-something interrupts with a shriek.

But what did she just say.

"Pardon?"

At the declaration, question marks rose above everyone's heads. The Toilette Room went silent in an instant.

"These insane siblings, I'm going to lose my mind..."

Raphaela clicks his tongue and buries his face in his palm.

Me too, honestly.

What leather? I must have gotten so little sleep today that I'm hearing things. Or the translation system has glitched.

Just how far has Evangeline's infamy been upgraded. A romance fantasy villainess making clothes out of human skin—I've never heard or seen anything like it. Even in this grimly constructed world, there has to be a line.

I feel sick just imagining it.

"What did you just say?"

"E-eek, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please, just don't kill me!"

I only asked her to repeat herself to confirm what I'd heard, and now Arte-something is bent at the waist begging for her life.

"...Why would I kill you."

No, I'm so kind for a villainess that everyone around me has already figured out I'm a possession—yet somehow the infamy circulating in the wider world remains unchanged. If anything, isn't it worse than before?

"You're someone Gabriel brought, after all."

Did Gabriel not explain anything to her. Gabriel—

What were you doing, not preparing her in advance.

Though, what do you expect from a male lead who comes across as stiff and sparing with words. Good enough if they don't end up working at cross-purposes. This is Raphaela's fault for not explaining things in Gabriel's stead.

As if recognizing his own fault, Raphaela hastily steps in.

"Her ladyship doesn't kill just anyone."

'Doesn't kill just anyone'—does that mean she does kill someone. She just doesn't kill people. Period.

This won't do. Leave it to Raphaela and there'll be a new rumor about me handpicking victims. I'll handle this myself.

"I don't know what rumors are circulating about me out in the world, but don't give ear to malicious words. See for yourself and judge. What is the me you've actually seen?"

"You're... beautiful..."

I tucked my hair back from my face—all that bowing had scattered it—and Arte-something murmurs it as if enchanted.

As expected.

My romance fantasy mileage counts for something. My way with words seems to be shining particularly bright today.

Or Evangeline's face did most of the work.

In romance fantasy, there's always at least one atelier designer who screams "My lady is my muse!"—and she was exactly that character.

"I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding! My name is Artemisia Schmitiana. Michel's sister."

"Evangeline Rohanson."

Quite a name. There's no way I'm memorizing the full thing. But—who's Michel?

"You're the benefactor who saved Michel. I'm so sorry for letting the rumors frighten me into being so unpleasant."

Ah—"saved," that jogs it. She means that extremely polite knight with the melon-colored hair.

The siblings are both talkers who overflow with personality. They're cut from exactly the same cloth.

"What exactly did you hear?"

"Ah, well..."

"I won't reproach you, so speak freely."

Artemisia had been hesitating, so I encouraged her along.

I'm curious whether all my good deeds until now have had any effect whatsoever, so I'd appreciate her getting on with it.

Artemisia, who had been reading the room, opened her mouth.

"Well... there was a rumor that the real Lady Rohanson died of illness and the Count found a substitute for the dead lady. Of course, seeing you in person, it's nothing like that! Your ladyship is very distinguished, and if you really were a substitute, the maids would never follow you with such genuine sincerity."

What. Setting aside the part about it being the same body—that's accurate.

At this rate the whole world is going to figure out I'm a possession.

Sorry, but my people know I'm a possession and like me anyway.

"And there's also talk that if you cross paths with the lady, your soul gets stolen. That even an upright knight has been bewitched—but that's obviously just everyone falling for your beauty!"

There it is—the classic villainess route. The knight would be Gabriel.

She's saying Gabriel being completely taken with me is because I used some trick on him.

"And there's also talk that Lady Evangeline buys young children."

That's just me getting Daisy's siblings back.

The people who did the trafficking were them. So why is the blame landing on me!

"There were all sorts of theories about why she'd buy children..."

Among all those theories, the human-leather story apparently left the deepest impression. That's why she said what she said. It does have enough shock value that once heard, it wouldn't be easily forgotten.

"But it was all baseless rumor!"

"Hmm..."

At her cheerful, radiant delivery, I swallow a sound involuntarily.

What do I do. It's mostly true.

Much distorted, taken in a strange direction—but based in fact.

"I did think it would be idle talk... but seeing you in person, you're a little—just a very little—frightening, so I..."

In other words: the biggest problem is Evangeline's face. Beautiful, yes. Frightening as hell.

"I'll make sure those malicious rumors never circulate again! I'll put my everything into supporting you for the finest debutante with Sir Gabriel. I'll make the finest debutante dress."

Artemisia looked at me with gleaming eyes. It seemed impossible she'd been afraid of me a moment ago.

If I told her the rumors were true, I wonder if she'd get frightened again.

"Something basic will be fine."

"But my lady—clothes are a letter of introduction that represents the self. No matter how beautiful a person is, wearing clothes that don't suit them invites contempt."

Hm.

"In that case, what do you make of what I'm wearing now?"