Chapter – 14
It seemed the editor-in-chief of Emos Publishing had not expected such a question.
Damien added his personal observation: since the young lady of House Loire had requested an appointment saying she had something to ask, the editor had been extremely nervous—only to be hit with such an unexpected question, leaving him bewildered.
Editor-in-chief Edgar Philyde struggled for quite some time to decide how to respond, then finally answered calmly.
“Apparently there have been many people curious about who Shell Ybeur is, but this is the first time a noble asked directly whether it was Marquis Shane d’Orellno—who doesn’t put himself out front—who discovered them.”
“R-Really?”
So among nobles, am I one of the few who openly likes the author this much?
“The marquis avoids letting that fact leak out, so very few know. The editor said that he was more curious how you came to know that.”
“And then?”
“I told him what you told me.”
That I wanted to check whether the marquis had said such a thing just to deceive me.
“And the editor laughed.”
“What?”
“He said it was absurd. The reason the marquis never boasted about discovering Shell Ybeur is because the author themselves dislikes revealing their identity. It would look unseemly if the one who discovered them flaunted it openly.”
“……”
Then why did he tell me?
“Editor Philyde even added his personal opinion. He said such behavior doesn’t match the marquis’s personality or demeanor as he knows it.”
“Ha. The marquis’s personality and demeanor, huh?”
Perhaps others see something different. Maybe Marquis Shane d’Orellno, the businessman and head of a noble house, is different in their eyes.
Anyway—it’s true he was the one who discovered the author.
He worked hard to discover them, yet when nobles call the work “mere pulp fiction,” he just stays silent? Even if the author agreed, still…
The memory of his shameless expression when he casually said the author might stop writing at any time resurfaced. If he truly thought of the author as a golden goose laying endless golden eggs, that attitude didn’t match.
Yet he is unusually considerate of the author.
What on earth is he thinking? I was unexpectedly confused.
…Could they actually be having an affair? No, no, have I lost it? That’s ridiculous.
“By the way, my lady. Why did the topic of fraud come up in relation to the marquis?”
His blunt voice snapped me out of my thoughts. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of murderous intent in Damien’s dark-blue eyes.
“Fraud?”
Tasha, who had been tidying up my messy hair beside me, gasped. Damien, normally curt to all the Loire servants, ignored her and pressed me again.
“Did the marquis play some cheap trick on you?”
“You just confirmed it wasn’t a trick. It’s fine.”
An absurd image popped into my head: Damien gritting his teeth, eyes murderous, striking the back of the marquis’s head. The thought cheered me up, and a small pfff of laughter escaped.
“Thank you, Damien. Thanks to you, the thing that was bothering me is resolved—I can finally enjoy my meal.”
“If I had known, I would have returned sooner…”
“You already came back really fast.”
“Um, Lady Loire.”
Damien, who had been speaking steadily, suddenly hesitated. Then, holding out the letter he’d had in his hand this whole time, he spoke carefully.
“Do you remember giving me two invitations for the opening night of the play, so I could attend with my younger sister Emila?”
“Of course.”
“…Emila wanted to send you her gratitude… She insisted on writing a letter and making me deliver it. If you think it’s a waste of your time, I’ll take it back—”
“What? Why?”
I frowned and snatched the letter from him. I opened it quickly to read the sincere message inside, while Damien looked increasingly flustered.
“I’ll just take it back.”
“Why would you? This letter is adorable. Absolutely not! I’m putting it in my diary and reading it over and over.”
It was a passionate review of the play from a fellow fan of Author Ybeur. Anyone who understood the heart of a transmigrator forced to replace online community review-reading with things like this would know—at least within House Ijazar, no one else existed.
“That poor sick child worrying about someone else’s health… Tell her to just take the medicine I sent regularly.”
Moved by Emila’s warmth, I carefully tucked the precious letter back into the envelope, trying to hide the silly smile trying to form.
At the mention of medicine, Damien’s expression instantly softened.
“Now that you mention it, thanks to you, my lady, Emila’s condition has greatly improved.”
“That’s good. Fangirling—I mean, appreciating Author Ybeur’s works—requires energy!”
I had been supporting the medical costs of sick family members of the Loire household staff, as a small form of welfare.
Even our Duke Loire knew. Since he never scolded me for being “unnecessarily kind to the servants,” I assumed he found the support acceptable.
It wasn’t as if I naively paid anything for anyone. I required testimony and a doctor’s diagnosis before providing support.
Why did I do this?
Because before transmigrating, I worked myself sick before I ever learned the joy of fandom life—and that regret still burned deep.
Because I know very, very—deadly—well how unfair it is to work yourself to death without ever enjoying anything!
And this little welfare and these invitations are the only things I can do right now! I can give out invitations as many times as needed!
I simply couldn’t bring the servants stationed at the main Loire estate here, so I hadn’t given them any yet. Aside from Damien, I had given invitations on other days to my nanny Kilina, Tasha, and the other maids—of course, to Susan as well.
I had no one else to give them to, since they were always left over anyway.
Because I had no friends.
…How sad. I held back tears in my heart.
Being the daughter of Duke Loire made forming relationships unusually difficult.
During the early days after transmigration—when I was clueless—I once told Tasha:
“Can’t we just… be friends?”
…I now know exactly how wrong that was.
Back then, Tasha had gone pale, as if she’d heard the most terrifying thing in the world.
Coming from a poor tenant-farmer family with many younger siblings to feed, my request must have sounded bizarre—if she had accidentally behaved like a “friend” to me, and my father saw…
She would have been killed or expelled.
So I swallowed my tears and forced myself to adapt to a life where I gave orders, not requests. In the three years I’ve lived after transmigrating, this was one of the hardest things.
Inside the body of Liberita Loire was the soul of a 21st-century Korean who never experienced a rigid class system—and no one knew.
It was a heavy, lonely burden only I could bear—the loneliness of being a transmigrator.
Maybe it’s worse because this world has no internet.
I never wanted to realize the pain of its absence like this. If only I had the internet…!
Thinking the conversation was finished, Tasha suddenly scolded me firmly:
“My lady, please! You finally look better—just go eat!”
The biggest worry had been resolved, so my appetite returned. On my way out of the parlor, I suddenly remembered something and turned urgently to Damien.
“Oh! What about the Plant Weekly?”
“I delivered it properly. However.”
“However?”
“Everyone seemed surprised you would go this far as a devoted fan of Shell Ybeur, but the chief accepted it.”
“Then that’s enough. Thank you, Damien! Enjoy your meal too! And tell Emila to write me more letters!”
Finally, Damien’s face fully brightened.
