DYPIOOP Chapter 5

Good Fragrance

Elonia dragged the large chair over with considerable effort and planted it directly in front of him. From the set of Carvel's expression, his most recent visitor had not been a welcome one. She steered him into the seat.

"Just sit. Sit down."

Ahem. She cleared her throat. Looking at that severe face of his, every word she'd rehearsed while bathing and changing her clothes evaporated entirely. Still — she couldn't let a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip through her fingers over a case of nerves. Elonia stood before him and opened the subject with full seriousness.

"Everything in the ducal estate belongs to you, doesn't it, Your Grace? But what if — hypothetically, truly hypothetically — there were something here that didn't belong to you but just happened to be on the premises. Whose would it be?"

"...You found something."

"No. I was thinking I might be about to find something."

Carvel, who had been watching her face in quiet stillness, crossed his arms.

"And what made you think it wasn't my property?"

"I asked Amy, and she told me the ducal estate doesn't keep plants or objects with strong scents."

She'd done her research before he'd even arrived home. Worried he might develop designs on the Lyatico, Elonia pressed on quickly.

"You don't like scents, do you? Right?"

Carvel's grey eyes went cool. Had Amy actually lied? She'd already been suspicious — Amy had answered every single question in a trembling voice, which wasn't exactly the most reassuring source. Elonia wiped her damp, nervous palms against her dress and continued.

"After looking into things, it seems there's some Lyatico somewhere in the estate."

She raised one finger and laid out her argument in her most confident voice.

“Your Grace, rid yourself of the scent you can't stand,  and I get what I want—no—money, I mean. How about that?”

She waited for a response. None came. The rich really are something else — surely he wasn't going to claim ownership of a flower that wasn't even his to begin with? The silence was unnerving. Now that she thought about it, searching the estate for the Lyatico would mean poking around in every corner, which would make her quite the nuisance as a houseguest. Reluctantly, Elonia offered a compromise.

"All right. I was being a bit selfish, so let's split it seven to three when I find it. I'm the one doing the finding, so seven seems reasonable enough, doesn't it?"

Carvel's stubborn mouth still hadn't moved. Elonia's patience was quietly disintegrating. Surely he didn't want more. She couldn't concede beyond seven — that was simply not happening. She stepped boldly toward him where he sat.

"Honestly, they say generosity comes from money, but you're being awfully tight-fisted. Surely you're not expecting a bigger cut when I'm the one who even noticed it was here?"

Hands planted on her hips, Elonia pouted with feeling. She was beginning to wonder if he was even listening. She bent down to meet his eyes directly.

"Your Grace. Are you listening?"

He met her gaze, and finally opened his mouth.

"Perfume?"

Out of nowhere — but not entirely unreasonable, since Lyatico was most commonly used to make perfume. Popular across all ages and genders, it commanded prices far higher than the raw material itself. If they were dividing proceeds by ratio, it was a perfectly sensible question. Elonia felt a smile tug at her mouth. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

"Ah, processing and selling it is perfectly fine too. At this concentration, when others make three bottles, we could make—" She slid a sideways glance at Nyx, who was watching from beside her. He shrugged.

[About 300 bottles?]

"Three hundred bottles, apparently!"

Her heart lurched at the thought of all those gold coins. She'd had a vague sense it would be profitable, but one hundred times the ordinary Lyatico output? She couldn't help finding Carvel — who had, after all, brought her here — absolutely wonderful right now. Objectively, he'd always had a handsome face, but today that cold, expressionless look of his was so endearing she could have grabbed him and kissed him absolutely everywhere. The thought startled her enough that she blinked.

Then the question that actually came from Carvel's mouth arrived, and it was not what she'd expected at all.

"Are you wearing perfume?"

He was asking about her, not the Lyatico. Elonia tilted her head.

"Pardon? Me? No. I can barely afford food — what perfume would I have?"

"Then what is this scent?"

Carvel's brow contracted slightly. Elonia lifted her wrist and sniffed herself. Nothing. All traces of Metika had long since been scrubbed away while she'd bathed and changed, during the stretch of time he'd spent receiving his guest. She couldn't for the life of her identify what scent he meant.

"What scent? Is it the Lyatico you're smelling?"

"No."

Carvel's upper body shifted slowly. His face drew close — close enough that she braced herself — then moved past her cheek entirely. He gathered Elonia's amber-orange hair and swept it over her shoulder.

"This scent."

Each time he opened his mouth, his low, unhurried voice resonated directly beside her ear. The faint warmth of breath passing over the nape of her neck made Elonia's body draw in on itself without her permission.

Rustle — the sound of fabric brushing fabric rang out with unusual clarity.

She'd heard that he disliked scents so intensely that only flowers with the faintest fragrances were allowed in his garden. For someone like that, his current behavior looked alarmingly like a person trying to breathe in just a little more of something.

Elonia let her gaze drift sideways and asked, a little awkwardly.

"You... didn't you say you don't like scents?"

"I did. But this one doesn't make my head hurt."

The voice that had been blade-sharp since Metika Prison sounded, by some degree, softened. Elonia had felt something similar before. Walking through the Haelton estate corridor — the moment Nyx had drifted close. She'd had this exact feeling then. She cast her eyes sideways to find him. Nyx was standing right beside them, watching with an expression of thorough dissatisfaction. His face was magnificently scrunched up — but the situation was strikingly similar to that moment in the corridor when her own headache had lifted.

Elonia grabbed Carvel's shoulders and pushed him back.

"It's Nyx!"

"...What?"

"I was dizzy at first from the Lyatico scent too! But after Nyx arrived, it cleared up. You're feeling the effect because Nyx is near you!"

This would prove it without Nyx ever becoming visible. Elonia, near triumphant, said it again at full volume.

"Nyx is near you right now, Your Grace. It's true!"

Carvel's gaze swept briefly through the empty air. He looked directly at where Nyx was standing too — but didn't linger. Clearly, he could see nothing. After scanning the space around him, Carvel exhaled a small sigh. His eyes, which had lowered briefly, rose again to look straight at her — and he was entirely himself once more. Carvel frowned faintly.

"It was simply a temporary phenomenon."

"It wasn't. I'm telling you, it's Nyx's ability."

Carvel removed the hand gripping his shoulder.

"Right. Actually, that's precisely what I came to discuss."

He rose from the chair and continued in a measured, even tone.

"Even if you say so, most people only believe what they can see."

"Like you, Your Grace?"

Elonia retorted with a sulky edge. Nyx had, for the first time in recent memory, done something genuinely spirit-like — something useful, no less — and was receiving absolutely no credit for it. The injustice of this sat badly with her. And Carvel had felt it right there beside him and was still dismissing Nyx's existence entirely, which was infuriating beyond measure. He moved past her open discontent without visible effort.

"If you want people to believe in someone, they need to look credible from the outside first."

"Your Grace, do you have a prejudice about appearances? I hadn't taken you for that sort — how disappointingly shallow."

"Then perhaps we should move you to a shallower room to match."

Elonia caught him by the arm as he turned toward the door to call for a servant. Her room was not only spacious — it was lavish. Beyond the wide arched windows lay the Haelton ducal estate gardens. The bed was so generously proportioned she could roll across it four complete times and still not fall off. The vanity was decorated with gold leaf that, when she'd discreetly bitten a corner while he was receiving his guest, had proven entirely genuine. How often in a life like hers would such a room come along? She would not be losing it over a point of principle. Elonia capitulated at speed.

"You're absolutely right. You're completely right, Your Grace — what I meant was that if someone has real substance, it shows outwardly, something to that effect—"

"Is that why you ended up in Metika Prison?"

"Could we possibly leave Metika out of it? Hearing that name alone makes me feel compelled to argue."

"So what I'm saying is that there's a great deal to prepare before we present you to the imperial palace."

Carvel looked entirely serious about it. It wasn't as though she hadn't known — she simply hadn't had the means. Elonia dropped into the chair he'd vacated and turned the end of her long hair between her fingers.

"I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I don't have the money for any of that..."

"I never said you'd be paying."

Her head came up of its own accord. Carvel glanced over her once, almost as an afterthought, then leaned against the doorframe and pushed it open.

"I told them I'd come once you've recovered, so it would be good to have everything in order by then."

"I'll do my best."

"Rather less enthusiasm than you showed explaining the Lyatico. I'm sure you know better than I do what happens if you're exposed as a fraud a second time."

"I will absolutely see it done!"

Sadly, Carvel was right. The Emperor would almost certainly know the stories of the founding ancestors and their spirit mages — passed down through every generation. Half-hearted pretending would land her right back in a cell. Elonia raised her clenched fist with resolve. Carvel, looking satisfied, turned to leave. Just before the door closed — through the narrowing gap — he delivered one final line.

"Ah — and there's no Lyatico in the estate, so spare yourself the trouble. I hadn't realized you'd mistake a guest's perfume for it."

Bang.

Looking at the closed door, Elonia pressed both hands over her face right where she stood. Down the corridors of the Haelton ducal estate rang the sound of one deeply, thoroughly incensed young woman.

Bathed in warm afternoon sunlight, the Haelton ducal estate gardens were positively overflowing with an unusual vitality. This was because the estate's master, Duke Carvel, was taking tea with his fiancée in full view of the staff. The servants lingered at a polite distance, whispering to one another at the unprecedented sight.

"He really must be smitten with her."

"Apparently so. He hates scents, and yet here he is taking tea in the garden of all places."

"There had to be a reason he turned down Princess Aselir's proposal. This explains everything."

They watched Elonia with barely concealed envy. The actual situation was rather different.

"Can't we make it so that you're the one who fell first?" Elonia asked.

"Keep it as agreed."

She tightened her grip on her cake fork.

"Think about it practically. Wouldn't it be a far better story — far more romantic — if the Duke of Haelton had fallen so hopelessly that he came chasing after me?"

"You believe that's plausible?"

"Love doesn't operate the way you seem to think it does, Your Grace — all orderly cause and effect, everything interlocking like fingers pressed neatly together."

Carvel's brow pinched briefly. She'd seen this tendency since he'd refused to believe in spirits. A slightly stubborn side. His thoroughly irritated expression looked even more severe in the garden light. Elonia watched his silence, then put the rest of her cake in her mouth in one decisive bite.

The morning had genuinely started beautifully. She'd opened her eyes to the most magnificent, cloud-soft bed she'd ever had the privilege of refusing to leave, and had half-believed today might be the exception — that her eyes might stay mercifully shut a little longer. The moment breakfast was cleared away, the tailor appeared and measured every inch of her person with professional thoroughness. The second he departed, Carvel walked in.

He'd begun laying out — with the meticulous insistence of someone who considered detailed planning a moral obligation — the rough shape of how the two of them were meant to have met, and what kind of courtship they were supposed to have conducted. Creating a believable connection between a woman who had never attended an imperial ball and a man who had no occasion to go anywhere but the imperial palace had turned out to be considerably more complicated than anticipated. They had stalled entirely on the question of who had fallen for whom first, neither willing to concede a single inch on the most inexplicable possible sticking point.

It was into this standoff that Amy had approached.

"Shall I bring more cake?"

Carvel glanced at the empty plate.

"...Is there genuinely room for more?"

"Just one last slice!"

When Elonia nodded quickly, Carvel let out a sigh.

"Just tell me upfront how much you want to eat. I've lost count of how many times Amy has gone back and forth."

"But you said eating was the most endearing thing."

Elonia batted her eyes without a shred of shame. Only then did the corner of Carvel's mouth shift — fractionally, but unmistakably — and a mild reply followed.

"Right. Which was precisely why I was suggesting you not use the word last unnecessarily."

"My, how thoughtful."

Amy, who had been listening with quiet attention, caught the meaning neatly and bowed her head.

"Then I'll prepare the same again."

The moment her quick, light footsteps disappeared into the distance, the faint smile Carvel had been wearing vanished with equal swiftness. This was the first rule of their utterly nonsensical fraudulent marriage. Elonia looked at the empty dish with genuine wistfulness.

"Do we really need to pretend to be a couple inside the estate as well?"

"Rumors most reliably originate from those who are closest. There's no harm in being careful."

He sipped his tea with composure. If he was cautious even around his own household, she found herself genuinely curious whether there was anyone he fully trusted. Before long, Amy returned with a fresh plate of cake. Carvel had spent the entire interval watching Elonia in what she was beginning to interpret as pointed silence. Wondering if he was silently judging her for eating too much, she'd barely finished half when she looked up.

"Is there something you'd like to—"

The words died in her throat.

There, beside Carvel — a small figure. A spirit that looked remarkably like Nyx, green-glowing and slight, was standing at his elbow, watching Elonia with a shy, hopeful smile.