APIBAGS Chapter 52

"It really does suit you beautifully!"

The cheerful voice sat oddly against eyes so hollow she looked as though she hadn't slept in ten days. Artemisia laughed at nothing, that loose, untethered kind—then pressed a handkerchief to her eyes as she looked the outfit over.

"I'm so proud of myself right now."

It wasn't the debutante dress—this was the outfit for the visit to Marchioness Toten, who had agreed to serve as chaperone. There'd been no time to make something new, so Artemisia had altered something from the boutique to suit me. She'd explained the process in some detail, but I'd let most of it flow past me and couldn't recall much.

"Ladies of quality love their lively, spirited young women, but they're just as fond of a quietly composed one. And Marchioness Toten is seeing the lady through the lens of her own ailing child—so I took off all the lace, stripped back the ornament, and brought out a quality of… forlorn elegance!"

It honestly didn't look very different from what I normally wore. But saying so would probably make her cry.

"I love it. Thank you for the trouble, Artemisia."

"M—Misha, please…."

Compliments remained the correct answer. The gap between us had apparently narrowed a little. Five syllables had become two.

"Thanks to Misha, I'll be able to make a good impression on Marchioness Toten."

"Hff. I have no more regrets. Safe travels…."

Misha listed off, one shoulder dropping, back toward the workroom. The debutante dress was waiting. She looked on the verge of collapse, but apparently she didn't need sleep. It wasn't like I was the one working her to the bone—but I felt exactly like one of those exploitative bosses from the evening news.

"My lady, I believe it's time to leave."

Henna checked the hour and rose, gathering her things. Right—nothing left to do here. Better to focus on what was ahead.

Today's outing: Henna, myself, and Melek. Melek, who had materialized from nowhere, was today's coachman.

Melek had taken over the position that had gone vacant since the coachman left after the last temple visit. According to Mary, he'd been showing extraordinary coachmanship from the very first day at the stables. Mary had complained to me, frustrated, that she could only manage the carrots.

"Gamigin—I'll be counting on you."

Melek stroked the horse. He can't even name himself but he named the horse? I didn't say that out loud. He announced he'd give me the smoothest ride I'd ever experienced and helped me into the carriage.

Blindfolded, though. Would that be all right for driving? He was a ghost, so perhaps it didn't matter to him. I knew what he was, so I climbed in without worry—but the reaction of whoever caught a glimpse of him from outside was a separate concern. I glanced back at Henna, who followed me into the carriage without the slightest hesitation.

Maybe it was only alarming for the people watching. Fine by us, then.

Melek made good on his word. Every carriage I'd ridden before had rattled hard enough to bruise—this one moved so smoothly it was as though we weren't moving at all. So this is what ghost-coachman quality gets you.

I was still marveling when we arrived at Toten Marquis Estate. The letter Gabriel had sent ahead must have been received; the gates opened immediately, and the carriage drew right up to the entrance.

Goodness. It's enormous.

Comparing it to the Rohanson County House would be an insult to the place.

"Lady Rohanson? Thank you for visiting the Toten household."

"Thank you for the welcome."

A butler with silver-streaked hair had come out to greet us.

"The Marchioness is waiting for you."

Henna and I followed the butler inside. From behind us came the sound of a servant catching sight of Melek— "He's not actually driving with that on—?"

I picked up my pace.

Nothing to do with me. Quickly inside.

The interior of Toten Marquis Estate was unusual.

Every window stood open for ventilation. Every surface had been cleaned to absolute spotlessness—not a particle of dust anywhere. Religious decorations lined the halls in careful succession. The whole place had the scrubbed, compulsive cleanliness of somewhere managed by someone who couldn't stop—less a home than a film set. The light even came in at the right angle. Good color. Great shot, honestly.

Am I watching a film right now? I felt the unreality of sitting before a screen—then the butler's voice hit and snapped me back. Oh. Right. Story first.

"It's been quite some time since the Marchioness welcomed any guests."

The butler offered it conversationally, with a pleasant expression.

"Doesn't Marchioness Toten have a wide circle? I'd heard she was well connected."

Gabriel had described her: widely connected, socially skilled, the sort of person useful for introductions. That hadn't been a lie on his part. Perhaps more of a drawing-room relationship—fairly aristocratic, when you thought about it.

"Ha. The Marchioness finds a quieter environment more conducive to the young master's recovery."

Ah—the ailing son Gabriel had mentioned. Now that I thought about it, entertaining guests while a sick child was in the house wasn't an easy thing. Hadn't I shown up when I should have waited to be received?

That's why Gabriel had said Marchioness Toten would come to the Rohanson estate. I hadn't understood the implication and had invited myself here instead. Honestly, I could place some of the blame on Gabriel for not stopping me more firmly.

"The Marchioness agreeing to serve as chaperone is also quite unprecedented. The account she received from the Knight Commander must have been influential."

"That I was ill?"

"Yes. Her having extended this invitation at all is likely because of that."

The butler was issuing me a gentle correction. The invitation and the chaperone arrangement—both stemmed from the fact that she'd seen in me someone whose situation resembled her son's. And here I was, having pushed my way to her door uninvited. He was pointing it out without pointing it out.

The artistry of the indirect rebuke was genuinely impressive. But he wasn't wrong, so I had nothing to say.

"And if this old man may speak plainly, out of turn—I would ask that you not give the Marchioness false hope."

False hope?

"The Marchioness had only recently made her peace with things. Hearing the lady's story seems to have awakened the thought that perhaps young Master Ryder might recover as well."

Wasn't that a good thing? Wasn't I functioning as something like a symbol of hope?

"But the young master has shown no improvement even with the use of holy water—truly, there is little prospect…."

The butler let the sentence trail. He seemed genuinely pained by it. I hadn't realized the illness was that serious. If even holy water had made no difference, it must be very grave—perhaps a matter of limited time.

In short: the butler was asking me not to offer the kind of comfort that implied young Ryder might recover as I apparently had. The hope, when it collapsed, could cause damage that was impossible to recover from.

"…The Marchioness may ask how the lady came to recover."

"Don't worry. Even if the Marchioness is looking to me for some kind of hope—there isn't anything I can actually offer her."

No reason to worry about that, then. Evangeline was already dead; what looked like a recovery was only because I'd taken over her body. There was no precedent here of miraculous healing within the logic of this world, and I had no useful counsel to give.

The butler's relief at my words was visible and immediate. He cared deeply for the Marchioness. A butler of the old school, that—ours at the Rohanson estate was still running away at the sight of me.

"You're easier to talk to than the stories suggested. I'm reassured."

There it was—the butler expressing relief that I'd turned out to be more manageable than my reputation implied. Indirect, but perfectly legible now that I'd had my etiquette lessons.

'Your reputation is garbage, but you seem trainable—what a relief.' That's what he said, basically. Dolly's elocution lessons coming through.

It was a novelty, after nothing but people trembling at the mention of Evangeline's name, to encounter someone who came at me with this kind of measured boldness. Perhaps the pride of a senior butler in a household of considerable standing—this was exactly that.

Did he think Evangeline would lower her head to the marchioness who was doing her a favor, and that was the most she deserved?

"You clearly have tremendous respect for Marchioness Toten."

"I beg your pardon?"

The butler turned to look at me, caught off guard.

"You shared all the household's circumstances with someone you met today—you must think a great deal of her."

He'd read me well. I had no pride to defend. If I had, I wouldn't be playing at romance with fictional characters in the first place.

In order to acknowledge the butler's deep loyalty and his command of the household's details, I elected to employ what Dolly had called the art of oblique speech.

"Someone might mistake you for the master of the estate."

What remarkable ownership of his role. The ideal of every employer's dreams!

"……."

Perhaps I'd overdone it—the butler had lost his words entirely.

I'd been tempted to say something when he'd been subtly needling me, but a new rumor cropping up seemed a worse outcome, so I'd held my tongue. And complimenting him now seemed wiser than letting some idle remark reach the Marchioness's ears later. She knew him far better than she knew me; if it came down to whose account she trusted, the old retainer would win every time. Better to leave well enough alone, and better still to deploy the full kindness of silence.

"You have quite a way with words. I'm sure every guest who's come to this estate has been received exactly like this."

Lip service: outstanding. Guest reception: full marks.

If there'd been a guestbook, I would have left a review: "Butler very kind, estate very delicious, five stars" and left it at that.

Whether the barrage of compliments had become too much to bear, the butler was now sweating quietly.