#004. I Don’t Like It
The interior was dazzling. There was no better word to describe it.
The walls were painted pure white, and the chandeliers sparkled with crystal plated in gold and platinum.
“…It’s quite extravagant.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But it’s not mere extravagance, Your Highness.”
Anastasia narrowed her eyes. Esteban Hosongel was a leading figure in the kingdom’s fashion and precious metal industry.
Despite his age, he possessed an unending passion for beauty.
The garments and crafted pieces he produced were of such overwhelming quality that they could be presented as gifts to visiting heads of state.
There were even rumors that anything touched by his hands—even a simple needle—could sell for more than its equivalent weight in silver.
“By the way… what exactly did you see in me wearing riding clothes that made you bring me here under the pretense of beauty?”
All around her, she could feel wary, mocking gazes.
Anastasia ignored them lightly. She knew it was rude—but they had been rude first.
She no longer needed to care about such scoffing.
She had endured far worse.
“Your Highness, the Second Princess of House Étranger, what do you think beauty is?”
It was a rather philosophical question.
And also a luxurious one—something Anastasia had never once been asked in her life.
“Well… it’s been a long time since I’ve felt beauty from clothes or accessories.”
Esteban’s eyes, hidden beneath his wrinkles, flashed with light. It was clarity.
The burning passion of a talented artist who believed he could create something truly beautiful.
Esteban knew well that, within his still-beating heart, a desire no less fervent than that of a young man continued to burn.
“Balance, Your Highness. Look around here. It’s not simply decorated with extravagance. The candles placed throughout soften the strong, white brilliance of the chandeliers.”
Indeed, it was so.
The light striking the white walls lingered briefly on the surface before shattering into fragments and dispersing in all directions.
“Furthermore, to balance the ornate attire, the walls and decorations are kept in subdued tones.”
“…What does that have to do with me?”
“Princess Anastasia Étranger. I am aware that what I’m about to say may be highly improper toward a lady. But may I speak candidly?”
“Go ahead, Sir Hosongel.”
He was someone who had been granted knighthood for his craftsmanship and formal attire. There was no reason not to address him properly.
“You possess a perfect sense of balance unlike any lady I have ever seen. The subtlety in your gaze, the brilliance of your skin, the way warmth and coolness coexist in your expression…”
Warmth and coolness coexisting.
Anastasia knew how greatly a person’s expression could shape their impression.
After all, her family had changed their expressions so easily in front of her and in front of others—like swapping masks.
Anastasia was no longer the foolish, giving person she had been in her previous life.
Now she possessed a soul chilled at its core, one that could wield its own strength, standing with warm yet delicate shoulders held high.
That was the harmony Esteban spoke of.
“You’ve changed so much from the princess I saw two years ago that I didn’t recognize you at first.”
“…I couldn’t recognize myself either, so I won’t ask you to apologize for that rudeness.”
Esteban then guided Anastasia to a private fitting room reserved for one-off custom formalwear.
However, an unwelcome incident occurred along the way.
“…Anastasia?”
Cecilia Étranger, the Duchess of House Étranger, recognized Anastasia.
“…Madam?”
Esteban Hosongel seemed slightly flustered.
Understandably so—the duchess’s face was filled with anger.
“How are you here?”
Ignoring Sir Hosongel entirely, the duchess shot Anastasia a venom-laced glare.
But her words were no longer blades or poison to Anastasia.
“Is there some law of the land stating that I am not allowed to be here?”
Anastasia narrowed her eyes and met the duchess’s gaze directly.
The duchess’s brows twisted, her forehead creasing. Soon, Cecilia hastily unfolded her fan and composed her expression.
“…Return to the ducal residence while I’m still speaking kindly. I don’t know why or how you came here… but you wouldn’t dare damage House Étranger’s reputation by wandering around in riding clothes and disturbing Esteban Hosongel, would you?”
Sir Hosongel was caught in an awkward position.
If he sided with the duchess, his pride and passion as an artist would hold him back.
But if he sided with the Second Princess, the Duchess of Étranger was not someone so easily disregarded.
“I refuse.”
But it was Anastasia who broke the balance—and also Anastasia who reshaped it.
“…What did you say?”
“I said I refuse. Guide me, Sir Hosongel. I will take responsibility for what follows.”
She had no intention of listening to her family. Nor did she intend to submit.
This life would be different.
Grinding her teeth, Anastasia glared at the duchess with a sharp gaze. Cecilia flinched under the intensity.
In contrast, Sir Hosongel was all smiles—freed from responsibility, he felt no burden at all.
“T-this way, Your Highness!”
At that moment, the duchess’s hand—clad in a black glove pulled up to her elbows—snatched Anastasia’s wrist.
“Where did you abandon your manners? Just because your mother is speaking—”
Thwack.
Anastasia coldly brushed off the duchess’s hand.
Mother?
It was repulsive. Hypocritical. Disgusting. A surge of dark, negative emotions boiled within her chest.
Manners? She had shown them all her life.
Words? She had always obeyed her parents.
Even when shackled at the ankles, cast out and imprisoned in a tower, or sold as a hostage in place of her sibling.
And yet—never once had they told her she had done well. Never once had they thanked her.
…They had never once embraced her.
And now?
“Do not touch me.”
Her voice was cold. Cecilia was startled—this was the first time Anastasia had ever acted this way.
“…By what authority can you take responsibility? Under what name, other than Étranger?”
Though she restrained her voice, aware of the surrounding gazes, anger still seeped through her clenched teeth.
Anastasia, however, smirked at her.
“So you think Étranger is the only name I have.”
“What else could you possibly have?”
People like them—stale, useless individuals who believed their family name was all they had.
Anastasia lightly stepped forward.
At that moment, a refreshing breeze enveloped her body. All eyes turned toward her in an instant. She stepped again lightly.
Driven by the wind rising from her steps, four golden petals of osmanthus began to swirl around her.
Cecilia was taken aback.
She had never seen Anastasia use magic of her own will, outside, and outside of control.
“You…! The Duke will take a whip to you! Are you prepared for that?”
Anastasia scoffed and reached into the air. The swirling petals suddenly gathered together, forming the shape of an inverted cross.
A sword.
It was the silhouette of a blade.
In that instant, Cecilia’s face turned pale, and the surrounding nobles gasped.
But Anastasia did not truly manifest it into a real, sharp sword.
She simply dispersed it back into petals.
The fallen petals dissolved into a radiant golden glow and scattered.
“I guarantee it.”
Anastasia took another step closer to Cecilia.
And looked straight up at her.
“My magic is stronger than the Duke’s whip.”
“How… how dare you speak so insolently! By what right—!”
Anastasia remembered.
That she had been granted the title of court mage by the royal house of Yanpots.
It was the very reason House Étranger proudly claimed prestige as a lineage that produced court mages.
The youngest court mage.
In this era—called the night of magic, after the twilight of magic had already passed.
“By the authority of a court mage. And as for the name you asked earlier—”
Cecilia said nothing, trembling with anger.
“I am the Great Witch of Golden Osmanthus. That is the name I offer you.”
The fan clutched in Cecilia’s gloved hand flew toward Anastasia’s cheek in an instant.
An act of lost composure driven by rage.
But even that attempt failed.
Anastasia caught the fan.
Cecilia tried to overpower her, but it was futile.
With a simple surge of magical strength, Anastasia snapped the fan in half.
“Mother.”
Despite the title, her voice was as cold and sharp as ever.
“Please leave. I’ve heard that those who are not noble do not belong here.”
Cecilia was dumbfounded.
Esteban Hosongel had ignored the duchess’s anger. Anastasia had done the same.
Soon after, Janice and Aslan arrived, who had been choosing clothes.
“What’s going on, Mother?”
“Aslan.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Anastasia is here.”
Aslan blinked, and Janice frowned.
Janice asked again.
“Why is Anastasia here?”
“How would I know, Janice? She was utterly ill-mannered. I’d storm in there right now and drag her out by the hair if I could…”
At that moment, a low voice came from behind. It was the head of the house, Sorban Étranger. Wearing a dignified deep violet coat, he casually stroked his neatly groomed mustache.
“Please restrain yourself, Madam.”
Tap. Tap.
Esteban Hosongel would have recognized that distinctive sound of footsteps. They belonged to the finest shoemaker in the kingdom, Lonif Charaventusco.
Shoes like those could only be worn by someone of at least count-level nobility. They were not items anyone could simply obtain, even if they could afford them.
Much like Sir Hosongel’s garments and jewelry.
“After all, Anastasia is… of rather humble blood, is she not? How could wearing Hosongel’s garments erase her inherent crudeness?”
A statement that denied her at her core.
Even though Anastasia shared half their blood, the Étranger family seemed reassured by those words.
Then the curtains parted again.
“…Good heavens.”
All eyes turned at once, and Anastasia stepped forward slowly, her bright yellow dress on full display.
A strange and mysterious elegance overflowed from her—almost sacred, like the osmanthus blossoms she had summoned.
Sir Hosongel felt proud.
His judgment had not been wrong.
“How is it, Second Princess? Are you satisfied?”
Anastasia looked at the faces of envy and admiration mixed together… then looked up at Hosongel.
“I will attend the ball tomorrow.”
The meaning was simple.
Tomorrow’s royal ball was a masquerade. Its theme was night. It would be difficult to attend in such a youthful, lively, and lovely yellow dress.
“Your Highness.”
Sir Hosongel took her hand and knelt once more.
And before everyone present…
He made a promise no noble lady had ever heard before.
“Before you depart for the ball tomorrow night, I will craft and deliver the most suitable attire for you.”
Anastasia glanced at Janice and Cecilia, then smiled, and nodded.
“Very well. I look forward to it.”
As always, the passion of an aging artist is something one can trust.
