Chapter 20
Most of the designs seemed to be Sylvia’s own—fashions currently popular and widely sold.
Yet here and there, distinctive elements appeared, details that could only be Mielle’s unique touch.
“Nothing you like?”
Khalid asked in concern, watching Dalia pore over the catalog with the intensity of someone memorizing scripture. He looked ready to get up and find another shop immediately.
To stop him, Dalia flung her hands wide in exaggerated protest.
“It’s the opposite. Look here—this is exactly the element I was looking for.”
“Mm…”
Khalid dutifully followed her finger to the illustration, fixing his gaze on it as though he understood.
Not a clue.
The thought must have shown on his face, because Dalia, frustrated, seized both his hands and pressed them firmly to her waist.
“See? The dress I’m wearing now has plenty of room here. But in the sketch, look—the line from the waist to the hips is completely different.”
“…”
“…Ah.”
Realizing belatedly just where she had placed his hands, Dalia flushed crimson.
At that moment, Sylvia stepped in from the back room. Catching sight of Khalid with both palms squarely on Dalia’s hips, she quickly raised the folder she was carrying and covered her own eyes.
“Oh, my! Pardon me—I seem to have interrupted. I’ll come back later.”
“No! It’s not like that, please—come in.”
Dalia hastily pulled Khalid’s hands away from her body, thankful for Sylvia’s intrusion which had broken the awkwardness between them.
“You two make such a lovely couple,” Sylvia said warmly. “I’m already married myself, but I can’t help envying your affection.”
“Oh, that’s not—”
“Ah, forgive me. Then you must be newly in love.”
“…”
Dalia clamped her mouth shut. To deny it now would only draw more curiosity about their relationship and status. She risked a glance at Khalid, whose expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
Sylvia, delighted, began showing off her designs, while Dalia forced herself to focus on her explanations instead of replaying the embarrassing scene in her head.
The boutique itself bore faint traces of wear. Though Sylvia’s skill as a seamstress was undeniable and she clearly tried to welcome her guests properly, Dalia’s trained eye—sharpened by years as a noblewoman and lady of the house—caught the subtle signs of a struggling business.
“Here, try these shoes with it.”
Sylvia handed her a new pair, prompting Dalia to remove her own and step down barefoot onto the cold floor.
Before she could wobble in search of support, Khalid strode forward, hands half-lifted as if to steady her—but froze midair.
Startled, Dalia widened her eyes. Then she felt herself rise weightlessly.
“…”
Sylvia, still fussing with the shoes, noticed nothing. But Dalia knew at once: Khalid had discreetly lifted her with magic rather than risk touching her.
So he really does listen when I tell him not to touch me.
Thanks to his restraint, she slipped into the shoes with ease. When she glanced at him with a faint smile, he avoided her eyes, pretending to busy himself with another rack of dresses.
“How do they feel, my lady?” Sylvia asked.
“They’re beautiful.”
Dalia’s smile was genuine this time, and Sylvia beamed in satisfaction.
Strange…
Because of Sylvia’s sharp, upturned eyes—and the rumors Dalia had heard of her being a cruel employer—she had imagined someone cold and unpleasant. Yet face-to-face, Sylvia gave off no such impression.
“Do you have no other staff?” Dalia asked at last. Meeting Mielle would answer many of her questions.
Sylvia’s face tightened.
“I’m sorry, but business has been poor. Most of the workers left.”
“But not all of them, surely?”
Dalia pressed. Mielle was still here—she knew as much from the future she had glimpsed.
Sylvia sighed. “There is one left. A boy named Mielle. But he’s hardly suited to helping with fittings like these.”
Among noblewomen, it was unheard of to undress before a strange man. Only long-trusted retainers or world-renowned artisans were exceptions—and Mielle was neither, at least for now.
“That’s all right. You can’t manage this alone. Please call him in.”
“Truly? Then I’ll fetch him right away.”
Apologetic yet relieved, Sylvia hurried off.
Left alone on the sofa, Dalia reflected. A fitting required endless tasks: displaying fabrics, fetching jewelry, assisting with changes—work that usually demanded two or three staff at minimum. That Sylvia handled it all herself explained much.
Was that why she overworked Mielle so harshly?
Even if times were hard, an employer owed her workers fairness. Yet the exhaustion shadowing Sylvia’s eyes, despite her smiling face, made Dalia hesitate.
In the life she had seen before her death, the Crown Prince of Astair had discovered Mielle here in Amad, at Zephyros Boutique. The newspapers had celebrated the tale: a genius rescued from an exploitative mistress, while the villainous Sylvia—both cruel employer and terrible wife—was exposed and ruined.
It had sounded like a righteous, happy ending.
But standing here now, Dalia wasn’t so sure.
Sylvia doesn’t seem like the monster I imagined… Perhaps rumors twist more than the truth.
“We’re back.”
Sylvia reappeared, and beside her stood a young man who could only be Mielle.
“Hello,” Dalia greeted, extending her hand. Surprised, Mielle hesitated, then gently clasped it and bowed to brush her knuckles with his lips.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Khalid, lounging carelessly on the sofa, shot upright. His eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Careful. She doesn’t like being touched.”
“Khalid, it’s fine—it’s just a polite greeting.”
Dalia reassured him, but he looked at her with wounded disbelief.
When he had kissed her hand, she’d rebuked him sharply. Now she accepted it without protest?
“Really, it’s all right.”
“…Really?”
“As a greeting, yes. You too.”
“…So I may ‘greet’ you as well?”
His dry tone earned a soft laugh from her. She nodded, and only then did Khalid relax back into his chair.
“But only greetings,” she added. “With anyone.”
“I’ve no need for anyone else.”
His curt reply drew quiet conclusions from the onlookers.
This striking gentleman must be a foreign noble. His attire isn’t local either.
Yes, and with that face, if he were one of us, surely everyone would know of him already.
Exchanging glances, Sylvia and Mielle tactfully busied themselves with displaying more dresses.
“Mielle, hold the hem of this one out, would you? So our lady can compare the trim properly.”
“Of course. Here.”
Their easy rhythm was remarkable. Whenever Sylvia glanced about for something, Mielle wordlessly handed it to her, often before she spoke.
“Oh! How did you know I needed more pins?”
“Just a feeling, ma’am.”
“….”
Their tone was light, comfortable, and utterly unforced. Mielle’s smile was warm, almost playful—and certainly not that of an abused servant.
Too natural to be staged…
Dalia frowned slightly. The pair looked less like a tyrant and her victim, more like colleagues who had long since learned each other’s steps.
“Would you like to try them on now, my lady?” Sylvia asked at last.
“Yes. Khalid, would you step outside for a bit?”
She could hardly change in front of him. Khalid looked between her and Mielle, reluctant, until her firm gaze left him no choice.
“Very well. Call me if you need me.”
“Please, take a walk. I’ll worry if you stand guard at the door.”
“…”
“…All right.”
Once he was gone, Dalia deliberately chose a balanced mix of Sylvia’s and Mielle’s work, wary of stoking jealousy. She had intended later to offer Mielle an exclusive contract in secret, but now—watching the two together—she wasn’t so sure.
If Sylvia truly is the villain she’s rumored to be, she hides it well. Perhaps the story I knew was… not the whole truth.
