Chapter 26: A Tea Party Known as a Public Execution

There are many forms of battlefields.

Battlefields where swords and magic fly.
Battlefields where documents and seals scatter.
And now, the battlefield I had been dragged onto was one where “fans and smiles” served as lethal weapons.

The white marble salon inside the royal palace.

Chandeliers glittered overhead, and the delicate clink of expensive porcelain echoed softly.
The air was filled with the sweet scent of perfume, though in truth it was closer to poison gas.

“…Oh my, Lady Eliana, how lovely of you to come.”

The plump elderly woman seated at the place of honor spoke while hiding her mouth behind a fan.

The Duchess of Gremory.

She was the head of the conservative nobility and known as the empress of high society.
Around her stood about ten noblewomen of similar bearing, surrounding me with the eyes of hyenas sizing up their prey.

“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Gremory.”

I replied with a flawless lady’s bow.

This was the result of Sylvia’s Spartan training.
My back was straight, my knee angle perfectly calculated.

“Hehe.
It seems you have learned at least some manners as the prince’s fiancée.
…I had heard you were merely a country girl who seduced the ‘Ice Chancellor,’ after all.”

A preemptive strike.

Mixing insults into greetings appeared to be a basic skill in this world’s social circles.

I smiled sweetly.

“Yes.
I am still inexperienced, so I am receiving education through my uncle’s kindness.
…I was truly looking forward to learning the good old ‘traditions’ from all of you today.”

“Oh my, what a commendable attitude.”

Lady Gremory narrowed her eyes.

They were not smiling.
They clearly said, This is your execution stand.

“Now then, do take a seat.
…Let us enjoy some tea.”

The tea party began.

The table was lined with colorful cakes and sandwiches.
The strawberry tart in the center looked especially exquisite.

I wanted to eat it.

But just as I reached for my fork, a sharp voice cut in.

“Lady Eliana.”

Lady Gremory’s fan pointed toward my hand.

“The angle of your fan is incorrect.”

“…Pardon?”

“A noble lady should hold her fan at a forty-five-degree angle from the chest.
…Yours is barely thirty degrees.
It looks quite improper, you know?”

The surrounding ladies let out small giggles.

I see.
So this was their tactic—wearing me down by nitpicking trivial movements.

I did not adjust my fan and spoke calmly instead.

“Forty-five degrees, you say.
…Since when has that been a ‘tradition,’ exactly?”

“Since when?
Why, of course—fifty years ago, when high society was at its most splendid.
It is a venerable custom that took root back then.”

The duchess puffed out her chest.

I opened a drawer in my memory.
I cross-referenced what I had read in The History of Royal Fashion and The Social Scandal Almanac.

“Ah, I see.
…That would be the style popularized by Madame Pompadour, the twelfth king’s mistress.”

“…What?”

Lady Gremory froze.

“At the time, dresses with deeply open necklines were fashionable.
To conceal them while simultaneously guiding men’s gazes, the forty-five-degree angle was devised, according to the records.
…In other words, it is an angle meant for ‘seduction.’”

I tilted my head slightly.

“In contrast, thirty degrees is the angle symbolizing ‘chastity’ that dates back to the founding era.
It also carries the meaning of a sacred barrier meant to protect unmarried women.
…As the prince’s fiancée, I felt it would be inappropriate for me to imitate a mistress’s manners to entice gentlemen.”

Silence fell over the salon.

The color drained from the ladies’ faces.
They had just been told that what they believed to be “tradition” was in fact a seduction technique devised by a royal mistress.

For proud conservatives, there was no greater humiliation.

“S-so it was…?
I-I was only taught that way by my mother…”

Lady Gremory faltered.

“Yes, it is an easy misunderstanding.
Fashions sometimes settle in while being mistaken for traditions.”

I gently offered her an out.

Making an escape route for one’s opponent was the grace of a victor.
(It also shortened the time before I could eat the strawberry tart.)

“…Th-then, what about how you drink tea!”

Another lady raised her voice in counterattack.

“Lady Eliana, your teacup handle is facing the wrong way!
You should align your fingers and raise your little finger—it is more elegant!”

“The little finger?”

I looked at my hand.

My fingers were neatly aligned, my little finger not raised as I held the cup.

“That custom of ‘raising the little finger’ was imported about seventy years ago as a foreign merchant trend.”

I slipped into explanation mode again.

“At the time, it became fashionable among nouveau riche to deliberately raise the little finger to show off their rings.
…However, according to our nation’s chivalric ideals, etiquette demands that one keeps their fingers together ‘as if gripping a sword,’ leaving no opening.”

I smiled softly.

“This is the royal palace.
Should we not value the traditions of a knightly nation over merchant fashions?
…What do you think?”

Total defeat.

The second lady covered her face with her fan and fell silent.

From there on, it was my solo performance.

“The proper way to split a scone?
Using a knife evokes farm tools, so traditionally it is broken by hand.”

“That depth of curtsy is for mourning attire.
It is ill-omened at a celebratory gathering.”

“The way you fold your napkin…”

I countered every accusation with historical evidence, complete with sources.

The volume of knowledge I had amassed from spending my days buried in the library far exceeded theirs.
Their so-called “traditions” were little more than trends from the past hundred years.
Mine were drawn from three hundred years ago—the original texts.

We were on entirely different levels.

Fifteen minutes later.

The salon was wrapped in funeral-like silence.

Not a single lady would meet my eyes.
The hands holding their fans trembled.

At last, I placed my fork into the strawberry tart.

Crunch.

A sweet-and-tart fragrance spread.

“…Ladies.
Tradition is not merely about preserving form.”

I spoke while bringing the tart to my mouth.

“To understand why a custom was born—
to know its history and heart—
is that not true cultivation?”

“…!”

Lady Gremory looked up as if struck by lightning.

What filled her eyes was not frustration, but something closer to awe.

“…History, and heart…”

She repeated the words in a trembling voice.

Then she slowly closed her fan.

“I concede, Lady Eliana.”

“…Pardon?”

“We have been too fixated on form alone.
…You are the true ‘guardian of tradition.’”

She stood and bowed deeply to me.

The bullying was over, and worship had begun instead.

“Lady Eliana!
Please give a lecture at next week’s salon!”

“I want you to teach my daughter that ‘true etiquette’!”

“Could we have a list of your reference materials?!”

The ladies swarmed me all at once.

Their eyes were terrifying.
They had transformed from hyenas into chicks begging for food.

“U-um…
I’m rather busy…”

“Oh my!
You must be busy with royal education.
…Then we shall support you with all our might!”

Lady Gremory thumped her chest proudly.

“I will personally inform the Grand Duke.
That ‘Lady Eliana is magnificent.’
…You shall be the next leader of high society!”

“Eeeh…”

This had become troublesome.

I only wanted to quietly eat my tart.
Why did people with such overwhelming enthusiasm always gather around me?

Meanwhile, a man was watching the scene from the adjacent room through a magic mirror.

Duke Valerius.

He swirled his wineglass and curled his lips in satisfaction.

“…Well done.”

He murmured.

“To tame even that troublesome Duchess of Gremory with nothing but knowledge and nerve…
I thought her merely lazy, but she appears to be something of a monster.”

The duke had intended to test Eliana.

To see how she would react when burdened with unreasonable customs and outdated etiquette.
Would she cry and flee?
Would she cling to Claude in tears?

If so, she would not be fit to become a royal consort.

But she was different.

She cut through absurdity with the sword of knowledge and made her opponents submit—
all while preserving their dignity and acting with grace.

“…Very well.”

He drained his glass.

“I shall acknowledge her.
With that, she may well devour this country’s stale customs from within.”

He rose, leaning on his cane.

“But it is not over yet.
…Knowledge alone does not make a queen.
Next comes mastery over people’s hearts.”

After the tea party ended, I returned to the library and collapsed onto the sofa.

“…I’m exhausted.”

“You did very well, Lady Eliana.”

Sylvia brought me a cup of warm tea.

It smelled toasty.
Dokudami tea.

“…Sylvia.
You knew, didn’t you?
What that tea party was going to be like.”

“Of course not.
…Though I did believe you would dismiss it as ‘trivial.’”

Her iron mask seemed to soften ever so slightly.

“The Grand Duke appears quite satisfied as well.
…Half of the education period remains.
This is where the real test begins.”

“Only halfway…”

I stared into the distance.

I had subdued the bosses of high society.
I had succeeded in lightening the dress.
I had completed my theoretical armament regarding transportation.

But my greatest enemy was still close at hand.

Yes.
The woman right in front of me—Sylvia.

Unless I fully brought her onto my side, my “effortless wedding” would never be complete.

I tightened my grip on the teacup.

Next, it was time to conquer this iron maid.

She too must be worn down, serving as a cog under the Grand Duke.
That was the opening to exploit.

“…Sylvia.
Would you be willing to spare some time tonight?”

“Outside of training hours?”

“Yes.
…Not remedial lessons, but an invitation to a ‘girls’ night.’”

I grinned.

From my pocket, I produced the Empire-made luxury beauty pack Hilde had sent me as an extra.

This would be my next weapon.