DYPIOOP Chapter 6

Crocodile Tears

Elonia pressed her startled heart firmly back into place and studied the spirit with studied composure. This time, she had absolutely no intention of speaking freely the way she had the first time she'd seen Nyx. If she carelessly mentioned spirits again, the only result would be humiliation. She glanced once at the Haelton servants standing at their respectful distance, once at Carvel, and resolved.

'Right. Tonight, when no one's around, I'll come find it.'

But as if determined to test the outermost edges of her self-control, the spirit began circling the table and tap-ping things repeatedly. The spirit, who had been standing on a fork, eventually pushed its face directly into Elonia's field of vision. At the sudden appearance of that youthful, green-glowing face so close to her own, Elonia sucked in a gasp, holding her breath. Another moment and she might have screamed outright. She strained both eyes to keep her focus fixed entirely on Carvel, fighting the powerful urge to look at anything else.

Carvel, blissfully unaware there was a spirit trying to climb into his fiancée's eyeballs, asked conversationally.

"...Did you enjoy the cake that much?"

"I like anything expensive."

"Duly noted. I have no desire for rumors to spread that I threatened my fiancée over her cake consumption, only to find myself menaced by her fork."

His grey eyes indicated the fork, still gripped rather fiercely in her hand. It was not the behavior expected of a young woman in polite society. Elonia belatedly registered this and quietly rearranged herself, but the damage was already done. Carvel said crisply.

"Forget whatever etiquette and social graces you learned at the salon. Someone will come starting today to teach you properly from the beginning."

"Yes, understood— wait."

Elonia, who had been answering on automatic while distracted by the spirit, caught up to what had actually been said.

"How did you know I worked at a salon?"

She had never once told anyone where she'd been employed. And yet Carvel had said it as a certainty. The moment she asked back, something flickered across his face — genuine surprise that she'd caught it. He hadn't expected her to notice at all. Then — just as quickly — rather than an answer, he smiled at her with his eyes completely creased, a picture of warm, uncomplicated graciousness. Even the spirit hovering at his elbow seemed to lose some of its presence in the force of it. From the outside, it was perfect. Elegant, unblemished, brimming with such natural refinement that the most absurd thing was how thoroughly he managed to look like a man who had never once told a deliberate lie.

Elonia saw through it in about one second flat.

'He found out through a background investigation.'

Using a pretty face as a conversational deflection. It was exactly the kind of move that would work on any sheltered young noblewoman who didn't know how the game was played. Sure enough, the maids standing at their careful distance had gone absolutely starry-eyed, as though witnessing a master romantic in action. Right. This was what people meant by a true con artist. People like this could steal the nose right off your face in broad daylight with a smile, and yet here she was — the genuine article — who had been jailed as an imposter. The injustice was staggering.

She hadn't assumed he'd proposed without information, of course. She simply hadn't anticipated he'd bring it up so openly, without even bothering to pretend otherwise. Elonia smiled dutifully.

"How far back did your investigation go, exactly?"

"Hmm. Probably further than you're imagining?"

As if he knew what she was imagining. Fully intending to laugh at whatever self-satisfied expression he made when she stumped him, Elonia smiled with brightness.

"Even so, I doubt you know the location of my more... private birthmarks."

She lifted her chin with the air of someone who has won a point. No matter how formidable the Duke of Haelton — who could, reportedly, bring even birds in flight crashing down — surely this was beyond even him.

Carvel replied without hesitation.

"Ah — you mean the one between your big toe?"

His mouth curved to one side, revealing a shallow streak of something almost playful. She found herself genuinely wondering whether that composed, false smile of his ever actually slipped. He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head slightly.

"Or was it the one at the small of your back?"

One answer, then the next, following without pause — and Elonia's jaw dropped. The location of those birthmarks was something even Baron and Baroness Devney didn't know. Was this actually achievable through mere abuse of power and connections? Carvel straightened up as if he'd read her thoughts precisely.

"I'd have forgotten all of it if you hadn't brought it up yourself. Thank you for the reminder."

"Could you possibly just... forget it?"

"Are you talking about the toe? Or the back?"

"Both."

Elonia enunciated the last word with great emphasis. Absolute firmness, carrying the solemn, privately sworn vow that if she ever encountered whatever document contained that information, she would personally conduct a burning ceremony. Her desperation must have communicated itself somehow, because the man who'd been leaning so correctly against his chair finally sat forward. Carvel rested both arms lazily on the table and fixed her with narrowed eyes. He tilted his head forward slightly — an inclination that suggested she should come closer. Elonia tilted her own head with caution that was nearly offence. Surely he wasn't about to threaten her with this many people watching. She scanned the surroundings quickly. The green-glowing spirit sent her a deeply hopeful look of please acknowledge me, which Elonia ignored with practiced ease.

'Good — no sword visible anywhere...'

She turned her head and met the eyes of the maids standing at a distance. They spun around in a collective flurry, faces elaborately startled.

'No. I know what you think you're seeing — but that is not what is happening.'

She'd rather hoped for an audience large enough to constrain Carvel's behavior, but the Haelton household servants were apparently committed to protecting their master's privacy with extraordinary thoroughness. Without any interference at all, Carvel leaned close and murmured.

"Seeing you so unconcerned about small things, I suppose there's no need to worry about the history lesson this afternoon."

The tone was mild. The content was not. The afternoon schedule she'd only just been informed of, for a start. Carvel asked with the manner of someone entirely mystified that this could be considered a problem.

"You should be able to memorize everything within a week, I'd think, Elonia?"

His expression was serene, but something in his voice carried quiet weight. This was, in effect, a question with a predetermined answer. The "history" he was referring to was not an academic exercise. A spirit mage was defined by her ability to read the past from nature and objects. For a fraudulent spirit mage to be convincingly genuine, she'd need to know at least the finer details of that past. Carvel had flagged this before, and since Nyx was not exactly reliable on the cooperative front, memorizing historical records was something she'd already mentally braced for. She'd need to hold out at least until she could prove the truth, wouldn't she?

Elonia deliberately blurred her gaze past the green spirit, who kept pat-pat-pat-ting her cheek over and over with its tiny palm, and asked.

"How much material is there?"

"A manageable amount."

A brief pause. Carvel's low voice dropped quieter.

"If there's anything you don't understand, ask me anytime."

The unexpected offer caught her off-guard. Elonia looked at him with a brief, unguarded expression. That single line felt, against all her better instincts, quite reassuring.

Approximately one week after her arrival at the Haelton ducal estate, Elonia was certain of one thing: Carvel did not know the meaning of the word manageable. Either that, or he'd forgotten that a week contained seven days.

From the moment she opened her eyes each morning to the moment she collapsed each night, her schedule was stuffed without mercy — history, etiquette, court manners, dance, and more besides. As a result, slipping away past watchful eyes to find the garden spirit was essentially impossible.

Over the past week, Elonia had felt, at close and personal range, that Carvel's earlier smile had been nothing but the most cynical crocodile tears.

Through all of it, the green spirit appeared before her at irregular intervals. Nyx explained that she was a Nymph — a forest spirit. She looked like a small girl of about five years old, but unlike Nyx, who had been relentlessly talkative from the first moment, the Nymph said nothing at all. When bored, she appeared and made Elonia's life difficult. Her signature method: tilting Elonia's hair ribbon crooked.

"Strange. Why does my ribbon keep going lopsided?"

Amy, unaware of the cause, fixed it time and again with cheerful patience, but the Nymph only giggle-d and tilted it sideways again with her tiny hands. And she only ever did this in front of people. The moment Elonia was alone, the Nymph vanished as if she'd never been there. Elonia shot Nyx pointed looks. He shrugged with magnificent unconcern.

[What's wrong with a spirit liking a spirit mage?]

"The method is the problem."

[Better than being avoided, isn't it? It's the fate of spirit mages. Accept it.]

So this is why Nyx doesn't listen either. Elonia had no choice but to arrive at a kind of resigned understanding. The Nymph's ambiguous expressions of affection started to feel familiar after a week — though it was more that Elonia's schedule was simply too packed to dedicate proper outrage to them.

Even during morning etiquette lessons, the Nymph was there without fail. Elonia fortified her patience as she watched the Nymph's small hand block the end of the thread every single time she tried to thread a needle.

'Don't go back to Metika Prison. Don't go back to Metika Prison...'

She slid a careful glance at Viscountess Maren, seated across from her, who was in charge of the etiquette curriculum. The Viscountess was focused on the embroidery she was demonstrating as a sample. Seizing the opportunity, Elonia appealed across the room to Nyx.

"Do something, Nyx."

[Embroidery is boring anyway. Just do it however.]

Nyx was already completely absorbed by the towering stack of history books beside him. His hand — barely the size of a fingernail — prodded at them with curiosity.

[Theory of the Empire, the Haelton family genealogy, distant kingdoms, neighboring kingdoms... Can you actually memorize all of this?]

"It would all be resolved if a certain small blue someone would simply listen to reasonable requests."

[Oh, that sounds like it could be referring to me.]

"It's you."

The moment her answer landed, Viscountess Maren looked up.

"How are you getting on? Is it terribly difficult?"

"Not at all, thanks to you."

The moment she spoke, the Nymph flew toward her with wide curious eyes. Elonia seized the opening and moved her hands at speed. She was determined to finish before the Nymph returned. Watching her, Viscountess Maren said with visible surprise.

"Your speed is extraordinary, Miss Elonia."

When Elonia came to her senses, the handkerchief was covered in elaborate floral embroidery. So elaborate, in fact, that Nyx weighed in from beside her.

[The fabric's been entirely buried. I can't see the cloth at all.]

The densely packed flowers had obscured more than half of the original fabric. As a result, the handkerchief was stiff enough to stand up on its own. But Viscountess Maren was generous with her praise.

"My goodness, I don't think there's anything left for me to teach you. Did you study embroidery before?"

"No. This is my first time."

When she'd worked at the salon, small needlework had been a daily fact of life. In a place where expensive dresses and fine accessories were the primary stock-in-trade, a carelessly placed needle at the wrong moment could cost you rather more than the fabric. Viscountess Maren, unaware of this context, suggested brightly.

"His Grace would be so pleased to receive this."

"There must be so many prettier, nicer handkerchiefs already. Would he really want mine specifically?"

She had not a shred of intention of giving it to him — not so much as a single drop of Nyx's tears worth of intention — but Elonia smiled with appropriate shyness. Carvel certainly wouldn't want it either. A man who disliked even the faint scent of flowers, receiving a handkerchief covered in embroidered ones.

'Maybe I should really commit to it and spray perfume on it before handing it over.'

The thought had barely finished forming when Viscountess Maren waved it aside with conviction.

"Not at all! Do give it to him. He'll love it!"

"If the occasion presents itself, I'll certainly try, my Lady."

Picturing the thoroughly pained expression Carvel would produce upon receiving it, Elonia answered with a neat smile.

She finished the embroidery. The etiquette lesson drew toward its close.

Knock-knock. A soft, precise knock, and Carvel came through the door.

"I timed my arrival to the end of the lesson — it seems I'm a touch early."