#15
“May I serve the meal?”
Right on cue, the butler delivered the news that dinner preparations had been completed to Count Winteil.
When the Count nodded, the butler raised his hand and clapped twice, short and sharp.
A procession of mouthwatering dishes entered the hall.
“This evening’s meal consists of dishes my daughter Hera loved during her lifetime but could not eat due to her illness. Please, as you enjoy them, think of Hera’s smiling face, happy to see them now.”
With this somber declaration from Larry Winteil, who had risen from his seat, the memorial dinner formally began.
‘Garnishes filled with cheese, a soft tenderloin steak cooked medium, and Bavarian cream topped with a generous amount of raspberry purée. I always wanted to eat these but never really could.’
A body that betrayed desire with frailty.
Hera had lived her whole life unable to properly enjoy the foods she loved.
Most of them were too difficult for her to digest, and some caused allergic reactions that would leave her suffering for days. She had to eat only vetted, safe foods.
When she placed the raspberry purée Bavarian cream in her mouth, the tangy yet savory taste deeply moved her.
It was a beautiful flavor, just as pretty as the dessert’s presentation.
‘So this is what it tastes like.’
“Does it suit your palate, Miss Emilia?”
Perhaps having watched her getting lost in emotion, Larry Winteil asked at just the right moment.
“…It’s truly delicious.”
Hera’s eyes welled with tears as she saw Larry smile warmly at her response.
‘If only Hera herself could have said how delicious it was.’
As the thoughts sank in, her nose stung and she secretly dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.
Thinking no one had seen her, she cautiously glanced around — only to lock eyes with an unexpected person.
‘The Duke of Laurent…’
He had his gaze fixed squarely on her. She had no idea how long he’d been watching.
Startled to the point of forgetting her tears, Hera swallowed nervously. Meriot raised one eyebrow as if uninterested and then turned his head away.
‘I wasn’t expecting thanks, but… did he have to look so cold?’
Perhaps Meriot didn’t know she had saved him from danger.
He might have believed neither Hera nor Count Winteil knew he had been in that room where Ijeena’s sword appeared.
Even so, there was no reason for him to look at her so coldly just now.
What happened at the Duke of Antony’s residence was a memory only Hera held — he probably wouldn’t even dream that the woman he met that day was her.
‘It hurts.’
The feeling of disappointment surged through Hera’s mind like a wave, and her face flushed.
She wasn’t even anything special to Meriot — why feel hurt?
“You don’t seem particularly interested in high society, do you, Miss Emilia?”
Pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts was none other than Lady Orentia.
Despite being seated diagonally across the room at quite a distance, she had made a point to address Hera.
“Lady Cecilia is quite a well-known figure, so everyone knows her, but this is the first time I’m seeing Miss Emilia.”
It wasn’t a friendly comment.
The implication was clear — showing up at the only daughter of Count Winteil’s memorial without having contributed anything to society or even being known was suspicious. Perhaps she came to make social connections for marriage.
“My sister has regularly attended parties,” Cecilia defended Hera.
Cecilia, seasoned in the ways of social interaction, instantly saw through Lady Orentia’s intent. But Hera was simply confused by Cecilia’s frosty tone.
She hadn’t understood the underlying malice.
“Is that so? I don’t remember that… though perhaps that’s not entirely my memory’s fault.”
“Lady Orentia.”
Still unwilling to back down, Lady Orentia continued to subtly belittle Emilia Tolin’s lack of presence.
Cecilia clenched her teeth and prepared to deliver a warning, but it wasn’t just Lady Orentia — there were others who disapproved of Emilia Tolin.
“Oh, now I remember. Wasn’t it during the music salon hosted by the Viscount of Nilstail? They had invited a rare and talented musician, and someone stormed out before the performance was even over, ruining the atmosphere. The musician was so offended he left too.”
“Oh my. That was Miss Emilia?”
“It just came to me. She was wearing a dark-colored evening dress, which stood out. I remember thinking something urgent must’ve happened.”
“Or maybe she just had no reason to stay. Unlike today.”
Scattered laughter tinged with mockery rippled through the hall.
Some frowned at the rude comments, clearly distancing themselves from the behavior, but no one stood up for Hera.
In aristocratic society, taking someone’s side came with consequences.
One could only defend another if they had status — either by family or betrothal — or possessed such pristine honor that they could rebuke others.
Even then, defending someone under attack was tricky business.
Just speaking up could get you labeled as ‘one of them’ or seen as having an ulterior motive. Unless it was family, most chose to stay out of it.
In the Ivy Empire, where nobles were entangled through nearly a millennium of bloodlines and alliances, they preferred childish factionalism over dignity.
Which meant the only ones likely to stand up for Hera now were Julian and Cecilia.
‘Emilia left the concert early? It must’ve been because of the prophecy book.’
Unlike Lady Orentia’s intent to shame her, Hera immediately understood why Emilia had acted that way.
The prophecy book must’ve pointed to the treasure’s location.
Even if she knew it was rude, she must’ve left to retrieve it.
Hera, who had experienced something similar at the Duke of Antony’s, felt a kinship with Emilia.
But still, the mistake was Emilia’s — the former owner of this body — and Hera felt a need to apologize for it.
It was a common-sense decision from someone still unfamiliar with the dark language of noble society.
“I see. That was very rude of me. I sincerely apologize.”
Hera bowed her head briefly and respectfully to Lady Orentia and some of the surrounding nobles.
Everyone at the table stared at her in stunned silence.
Even Cecilia, seated beside her, gave a bewildered tug at her sister’s sleeve.
“Why are you apologizing…?”
“Pfft.”
A soft chuckle broke the silence so quiet you could hear the clink of silverware.
“Excuse me.”
It was Crown Prince Ron Arista.
He looked between the Tolin sisters with a controlled smile tugging at his lips.
‘The Tolin sisters… how intriguing.’
At thirty-one, the Crown Prince had long ceased paying attention to much younger noblewomen.
Ten years ago, he might have remembered their names, status, and general disposition — all necessary info for a royal.
But most of the women his age were already married. There was no longer a reason to keep up.
Even Cecilia, a popular figure in society, and her overshadowed, gloomy sister Emilia Tolin, were names he barely paid mind to.
Until just now.
“I don’t know what brought about this change in attitude, but Miss Emilia is awfully docile today. If only she could act this way even when His Highness the Crown Prince and Duke Laurent aren’t around.”
It was obvious that Hera’s sincere apology had irritated Lady Orentia further.
Especially after Crown Prince Ron laughed — seemingly in support of Hera — the atmosphere shifted in Hera’s favor.
No one missed how Lady Orentia’s exposed neckline flushed red in embarrassment under her evening dress.
Having unexpectedly been put on the defensive, Lady Orentia refused to back down and continued to provoke Hera.
Cecilia finally lost her patience and slammed her silverware loudly onto her plate.
“Madam! Why do you keep—”
“Lady Orentia. You have a daughter, don’t you?”
But Cecilia’s voice was drowned out by a much more important one.
“Excuse me?”
It was Meriot, the Duke of Laurent, who had been seated right next to Orentia.
With a smooth and pleasant tone, he asked the question.
Lady Orentia, startled that someone like him would speak to her, responded in a voice unbefitting of her rank.
She tensed up, realizing that her daughter — until now never once brought up — had just been mentioned by Meriot.
As he gently tapped his empty wine glass, a servant from the Winteil estate approached and poured port wine with flawless grace.
Watching the deep purple wine flow, Meriot continued in a soft tone — about to say something quite unpleasant.
