APIBAGS Chapter 51

I've been living in nothing but plain, unadorned whites—my own attempt at projecting goodness and zero vanity—and apparently it's working on absolutely no one? Artemisia ran her eyes over me and offered a careful assessment.

"Hmm…. It does suit you, but the style is a little dated…."

"It belonged to the late Countess."

"That feeling of not following trends—it's classical, and actually quite, quite original! It's really very good, I think!"

Right. Not bad after all.

Raphaela sighed watching Artemisia, who was busy selecting fabric with tremendous enthusiasm.

Artemisia had started things off by suddenly bringing up leather—setting everyone's spines on end—and had since pivoted entirely to rattling off designs that would suit Lady Rohanson while pouring out compliments at a steady rate. Siblings through and through—she's exactly like her brother.

"Sir Gabriel, what do you think of this fabric? Doesn't it suit the lady beautifully?"

But there was something Raphaela couldn't quite work out—Misha apparently believed her younger brother was carrying a torch for Lady Rohanson, so why was she busy trying to forge the Commander and Evangeline into the perfect couple?

Whether that counted as professional dedication or something else entirely, he couldn't say. At that moment, a familiar face appeared at his side.

"Sir."

"It's been a while, Sister."

Daisy held out a letter.

"Please pass this to Sir Gabriel."

"Is it a love letter?"

The joke slipped out from habit. Daisy turned a gaze on him so fierce there wasn't a trace of humor in it.

"You're welcome to read it first."

Difficult to even make a joke around here. Raphaela muttered to himself as he unfolded the letter.

'Bishop Jabaniya…?'

He recognized the sender immediately—and then, after reading it through, Raphaela silently spat a string of curses. Sending a spy to the Rohanson estate? Damned old man—does he have a death wish? We'd give him a proper funeral when the time came, naturally—there was no need to dig his own grave ahead of schedule.

"Is Miss Fonor safe?"

"What do you mean by that? She gave a lesson just yesterday and went home. Why—don't you trust me?"

"Because you're fully Lady Rohanson's now, Sister."

The sister who had once filed a report against Evangeline Rohanson had, since the orphanage affair, become completely and utterly devoted to the lady's household. Someone who had been listless and paralyzed by fear had found the capacity to put up thorns on Evangeline's behalf.

"Your Commander is head over heels for her too—what's to stop me from being the same?"

Daisy shot back with a bite. The implication was plain: Gabriel was no different—aware of what Evangeline Rohanson's true nature might be, and attached to her regardless.

She had a point, and Raphaela found himself unable to counter it. He said nothing.

What is the Commander actually thinking? Something warm and yielding like affection—that was never going to be it. Absolutely not.

And yet the way Gabriel had covered for Lady Rohanson at every turn in the council meeting made plain enough how much she mattered to him.

What made it more absurd was that Raphaela had helped him do it. Enthusiastically.

He looked over at Evangeline, currently wrapped in fabric that Misha was pressing on her from every direction—looking thoroughly done with being a dress-up doll.

Her red eyes blinked once, then found him.

Just a passing glance. And Raphaela's heart dropped.

Ah. So this is it.

"So it seems…" he murmured, without meaning to. "It seems I've already been bewitched by a demon."

Misha. Daisy. The Commander. And apparently himself as well.

What are those two doing?

Daisy and Raphaela were sitting oddly close together. The atmosphere between them was strange…. My rofan reader's instincts gave a sharp prickle. Raphaela—don't tell me you actually have feelings for Daisy?

But wasn't Daisy supposed to end up in a sub-couple with Jelly? I turned it over—then landed somewhere else: maybe Raphaela was one of those born-never-dated love-doctor types. Never gets his own romance off the ground, but somehow engineers everyone else's perfectly. Yeah, you do see that character in novels sometimes.

I was watching with vague suspicion when Daisy passed Raphaela a letter. Huh—wait, what. Don't tell me—a love letter? So it wasn't unrequited?!

Daisy opened her mouth. What was she saying? I strained to catch it.

"—head over heels, so why should I be any different?"

What? Daisy had just hammered out a confession on the spot. She was flat-out saying I've fallen for you, so why can't I? The completely unexpected romance made my heart slam.

So Raphaela wasn't the unrequited-love guy after all. The letter, that too—Daisy was the one who liked Raphaela. Now that I think about it, the first time I saw Daisy, she was with Raphaela.

I'd had the roles reversed the whole time. Jelly…. Looks like you're the unrequited-love guy after all. What, are you some kind of universally in-demand side character everyone wants to cast?

The conversation between them was too distracting. I kept sneaking glances—then made eye contact with Raphaela. Caught. I snapped my gaze away and did my best to look completely absorbed in the fabric selection.

I was dying to know what happened next—why did I have to get caught right now of all times.

"What about this one?"

"I like it."

"I knew it! Your taste is so refined, my lady. I'm certain it will suit you perfectly. And it will look absolutely wonderful alongside Sir Gabriel's formal wear!"

Artemisia began winding fabric around me. Please, I can't breathe. Before I could say a word, the fabric slid free on its own. Phew. Nearly expired.

"Now I'll need to take your measurements…."

Artemisia glanced pointedly at the men. Right—measurements meant removing the outer layer. Out, in other words. At the implied dismissal, Gabriel rose from his seat.

"You must be tired from the company, my lady. I'll take my leave."

There it was—no reverse gear. He actually left the moment he was told to go. Though I supposed it would be rude to keep holding onto someone who was genuinely busy.

"I'll leave the lady's wardrobe in your very capable hands."

"Sir Gabriel need not say so—I would have given my best regardless."

Artemisia narrowed her eyes at him.

"Ah, my lady. About the chaperone I mentioned."

Right—Gabriel had said he'd look into finding one. But why bring it up now? Had it fallen through? Too much bad reputation and everyone declined?

My mother was gone. My maternal family had cut ties. The Count had arranged tutors but given no thought to chaperones, so there was nothing I could do on my own end.

"The Marchioness Toten has kindly agreed to serve as chaperone."

"Marchioness Toten?"

"Yes. A woman of deep faith who visits the temple frequently. She has one child, I understand—the child has been unwell. When she heard of the lady's situation, she said it reminded her of her own."

She existed! Thank goodness there was even one person willing. She must have heard about Evangeline's illness without absorbing the stranger rumors.

"She has wide connections, so she'll surely be of help."

Of help—of course. Very typical, very male-lead-centric: treating everyone outside the female lead as a tool. Gabriel had a streak of it himself.

"The Marchioness asked whether you might meet before the Crown Prince's birthday banquet—would that be all right?"

Naturally. Marchioness Toten. Even the name sounded warm and kind somehow. I was already certain: without her, there was not a single other person on earth who would agree to chaperone me.

"I'll let her know to come whenever you're available."

"I'll go to her."

She was already willing to be my chaperone—I couldn't very well summon her to the Rohanson estate on top of it. My reputation was bad enough without adding rudeness.

"I'll visit in two days, then. Could you send word ahead?"

"Wait—three days, please! Three days at the very least. The main dress isn't ready, but I'll have alterations done on something off the rack by tomorrow!"

I'd been about to go immediately—strike while the iron is hot—but Artemisia pushed the date back. I was perfectly happy wearing what I already had, but Artemisia was shaking her head.

"I want the lady to go wearing something I've made."

"Won't you be busy with the debutante dress?"

"Not at all! I'm completely fine."

"Then by all means."

I had nothing to lose, so I gave my approval—and she lit up visibly. Artemisia seemed to have a very strong artisan's creed: clients wear the maker's work, full stop.

Three days wasn't even a week. I could wait. Nothing was urgent. So I settled on Artemisia's timeline: three days from now, with Gabriel sending a letter ahead.

"Sir Gabriel."

"Yes, my lady."

"Would you be willing to visit again before the debutante?"

No ulterior motive—just that I had no one to practice with. I'd learned the steps but never once run them with a partner. And the only person I knew who could take the lead was Gabriel.

That aside—was this actually a romance fantasy? How was Gabriel genuinely the only male noble I'd met so far…. Did the story reduce its competition to preserve the male lead route? Was Gabriel just not magnetic enough for rivals to appear on their own? So the story is deliberately cutting the competition to keep only the male lead route?

"Whenever you call for me, I will come."

Gabriel promised with a slightly shy smile. With looks that have that kind of natural reach, there was no need to go and monopolize the field on top of it….

Beside us, Artemisia began fluttering with soft Oh my, oh my's. Had I just been watching Raphaela and Daisy with that exact expression a moment ago?

Gabriel and Raphaela left. Artemisia, focused now, recorded my measurements with meticulous precision alongside her assistants. The chattiness of the past hour might as well never have happened—when it came to measuring, she was entirely serious. Her clients wear only what she makes for them—something like that? Either way, Gabriel had chosen well.

"Artemisia—if it wouldn't be too presumptuous, would you be willing to make clothes for my maids as well? There's no rush—take your time."

The way they'd been looked down on for their clothes still bothered me. I'd bought them plenty of ready-made things, but custom was different. And Artemisia was a well-regarded dressmaker—this was the moment to take advantage of my connections.

"Of course. I can't imagine how someone so thoughtful toward her household came to have such a reputation."

Artemisia agreed without a second's hesitation. No deliberation, just: yes. Magnificent.

Double the pay.