Chapter 22: After the Festival
Afterward, Father—who had been in full royal-rage carnival mode—managed to recover his mood somewhat during our private tea.
Sebas even prostrated himself and sobbed, “Milady is an angel descended to earth…!”
We are rather a noisy parent and child.
All I did was cling closer to Father than usual.
As proven during the kidnapping, Father is the ultimate remedy for terror.
Father therapy is supreme.
His voice, warmth, and scent calm me.
And Father, smiling indulgently at his nuzzling daughter, is just as foolishly doting.
Still, my first outing without him has etched itself into my memory as something deeply frightening.
What was that deranged royalty?
That is the First Prince?
Blind in love does not even begin to describe it.
Ignoring everyone’s attempts to stop him, dragging a young lady from her carriage and hurling abuse without proper investigation?
Well, Father gave him quite a terrifying scolding, so perhaps that is enough.
I wonder if Lucas Sandis is even capable of recovery.
In the game, he was far more dignified.
Why had he become such a fool?
On the ride home, with Father beside me, I dozed in peace.
The carriage uses Rose Brand cushioning and springs.
Not a sore backside in sight.
Back home, Lady Lati and the maids turned pale and comforted me thoroughly.
I am truly loved, this shut-in daughter.
Soon letters arrived from Kishtarial, Julius, Michaelis, and Jibril.
I had scraped my knees and hands when dragged from the carriage, but the wounds were treated before I awoke, and no bruises remained.
Still, after I reassured them, an avalanche of letters demanding the full truth arrived.
Please, someone appoint a representative.
Writing the same explanation four times is exhausting.
This world uses large white quills for writing.
There is chalk, but no ballpoint pens or mechanical pencils.
Perhaps I should invent a fountain pen.
Metalworking is advanced enough for accessories.
A wooden shaft would suffice, but why not use saber-tooth tiger bone or serpent horn?
I proposed designs to the Rose Company.
They were enthusiastic.
Julius and Sebas are busy with Father’s royal fury carnival, so I must rely on others.
As for the heroine—
Renaria Datches.
If she becomes queen, and a prince so easily swayed by her dares challenge Father, I shudder.
Though depending on the route, the Second Prince Leold might ascend instead.
I regret not checking Lucas’s royal seal.
It should be on his right hand.
The King’s seal rests on his forehead, plainly visible in portraits.
The princes often wear gloves.
Was the game always this… disappointing?
Was it not meant to be a forbidden love across class lines, with the villainess scheming?
Forcing a shut-in with no acquaintance into the villainess role seems absurd.
Meanwhile, the lingerie brand with Mother and Jibril progresses well.
The prototype arrived swiftly.
A delicate cream-yellow bra and matching shorts, trimmed with lace and an orange ribbon.
Ordinary in my previous life, revolutionary here.
Only Anna may see it.
When I shyly asked her opinion, she grew deadly serious.
“Milady, you must never show such things to men.
Men are wolves.”
There is no such gentleman to show.
Besides, would they not recoil at my back’s scar?
Lingerie is hidden elegance.
Nothing more.
Unbeknownst to me, society had erupted for an entirely different reason.
The so-called monstrous, scarred Albertina von Lattiche had been revealed as something else entirely.
And the name “Sistina,” uttered by that knight, would soon entangle me.
Even the King could not restrain Father’s fury.
Though Father withdrew once for my sake, word spread that only my voice had stopped him.
The knowledge that someone might control the Demon Duke shocked the nobility.
A tale without its villainess—
What direction would it take?
“…My lord.”
Father, already furious, was further incensed by yet another development.
Marriage proposals.
Stacks of them.
He fed them silently into the fireplace, one after another.
Sebas hovered nearby, torn between stomach medicine and invoking the ultimate weapon—Father’s beloved daughter.
Albertina is the living image of the late Christina.
An unparalleled beauty.
Even disguised, her proportions and features cannot be hidden.
Fools reasoned that if her scar were overlooked, they might seize wealth and territory by marrying her.
Julius had once warned that her beauty alone could unhinge judgment.
He was correct.
At the academy, Kishtarial was hounded by young lords demanding introductions.
Julius was pressured from above and below alike.
Michaelis casually declared, “Defeat me, and I will consider it.”
He crushed them all.
Jibril recorded everything and barred repeat offenders.
“Consider” does not mean “agree.”
At the ducal residence—
“Mother, behold!
Milk crêpes!
Layered with cream!
And buckwheat galettes too!”
Mother and daughter, blissfully harmonious, held tea.
“Albertina,” Mother asked gently,
“Is there someone you favor?”
“No one!”
She tilted her head adorably.
Mother pressed further.
“Then your ideal?”
After much thought—
“Someone more handsome than Father, stronger than Father, and who loves me more than Father!”
Mother froze.
That man—
Handsome, powerful, brilliant, yet utterly lacking in humanity.
And this angel, untouched by his darkness.
“…I hope you meet such a person someday,” Mother said carefully.
“I want a love marriage like Father and Mother had.
Status does not matter.”
The possibility is near zero.
Without such impossible qualifications, no one could steal this angel from the Demon Duke.
“…In truth,” Albertina murmured softly,
“No one would want me for myself.”
Those words carried loneliness.
Mother lowered her gaze.
Perhaps that is why this blessed yet pitiful girl once wished for the convent.