Chapter – 03
Shane was well aware of the stir his novels were causing throughout the kingdom.
He didn’t even need to try to find out; he could tell just by the ever-increasing workload at the printing press or the transformed facade of what was once a mediocre small publishing house. It was all thanks to the meteoric popularity of the novels Shane had published under a pseudonym.
When he noticed that the cheap cigarettes the editor-in-chief smoked had been replaced by high-quality, bitterly aromatic ones, he’d felt strangely conflicted.
It was all thanks to Shane’s eccentricities, performed at someone’s behest. To think his antics were now providing livelihoods for so many. It felt like he had performed an act of charity he never intended, leaving him with an indescribably peculiar feeling.
Shane was blankly watching others dance, stepping rhythmically on the floor, when a conversation reached two men standing quietly off to the side, away from the crowd at the outdoor ballroom, right in front of him.
“They say the work Shell Ibvre is serializing has been on hiatus for over a month now.”
“At this point, hasn’t he broken his pen? Tsk, really.”
From these men, lurking at the back of the hall, came disparaging remarks about Shell Ibvre—in other words, Shane himself.
“Why does he take hiatuses so often? Has he made so much money his stomach is full?”
“How many times is this now?”
“From what I remember… roughly the seventh time.”
It was only the third hiatus. The speaker probably hadn’t even properly read the novel Shane was serializing in the weekly magazine.
“This must be incredibly frustrating from a business standpoint. How can someone be so irresponsible!”
“They say the author is ill.”
“Do you believe that? How do you know it’s not just an excuse! Honestly, women should just focus on managing the household and children; why do they venture out and cause problems like this!”
Even though he had never revealed his gender, Shell Ibvre had somehow become a woman in someone’s eyes.
‘A hiatus.’
Like all authors, probably… he hadn’t originally planned for this hiatus to be long.
While dealing with urgent matters within his territory, adding insult to injury, his brother-in-law from abroad had requested that Shane escort a relative of his for her debut into Aijar Kingdom’s high society.
If he refused, he could only imagine the unfair treatment his sister, married off as if sold, would receive in that household. The mere thought made his blood run so cold he felt his nails might pierce through his gloves from how tightly he clenched his fists.
In the end, Shane had no choice. Hiding his coldly accumulating disgust and rage behind a smiling face, he had to take in the young relative, a girl whose face he didn’t even know, into the Orelleno mansion.
The current head of the unfortunate Marquis family, mired in scandal, was Shane himself, and there was no one within the family to look after the young, distantly related girl from abroad.
They were all dead.
Even those who had kept their mouths shut and laid low had grown old and died.
He was also acutely aware that he was considered a marriage prospect among the nobility. Naturally, as the social season approached, bothersome guests swarmed like moths to a flame, and there were even cases where families sent overt marriage proposals.
How could he possibly focus on his writing in such an exhausting situation?
He couldn’t.
From his corner, Shane quietly watched his distant relative spin around like an organ-grinder’s doll, then sensed the presence of women approaching him, casting meaningful glances his way. The reclusive Marquis of Orelleno showing his face in such a place was a golden opportunity for some.
Whether the family line died out or not, Shane, who had no intention of marrying anytime soon, had no other option. He had no choice but to hide and avoid their gazes as much as possible.
He had already made his presence known to the Crown Prince beforehand. While his distant relative danced, Shane retreated to the resting area of the outdoor ballroom to take refuge, if only for a moment.
For him, who had somehow become an author, there was another worry.
Amidst his busy schedule, he couldn’t even grasp the flow of the new serialized work.
He didn’t know why. Thinking about it again made a throbbing pain stir in the corner of his head. Checking that no one was around, he scrunched up his face and roughly tossed the champagne flute he was holding into the neatly arranged flower bed.
He took out the case of his recent investment, a new product—magestone matches—to light a cigarette, when he heard his pen name from amidst voices growing louder somewhere.
Just from the scattered words he could catch, it was the usual slander other nobles always engaged in.
The nobles from earlier, his colleagues, his secretary—they all openly disparaged Shell Ibvre. All while secretly obtaining and eagerly reading his works.
He was about to dismiss it as usual and move on, when…
“Libertà Ruart.”
Shane d’Orelleno’s footsteps, which had been swiftly moving towards a secluded spot with a match tucked between his fingers, came to an abrupt halt.
A familiar name had reached him through a gap in the screen.
‘Lady Libertà Ruart.’
The memory of having half-listened to the editor’s words slowly surfaced in his mind.
‘…The noble who sends the most letters?’
He found the lady intriguing, and burdensome. Especially since he was an author who didn’t even glance at the letters readers sent.
He suddenly grew curious. What would Lady Ruart have to say to the young ladies who had just been badmouthing Shell Ibvre?
“Why doesn’t he reveal his face? Does he have some shameful secret or something?”
“I hear they’re making a play based on that author’s work soon, but he hasn’t even finished the one he’s currently serializing… He certainly stirs up a lot of business. Oh, I was quite enjoying the one serialized in Plant Weekly.”
“Oh my, you read that?”
“It’s a pulp novel, but it’s not bad to pass the time. And one must research things thoroughly to criticize them properly, don’t you agree?”
Amidst the elegant slander, the Lady’s voice was not heard.
Just as Shane was growing bored of the cliché conversation and considering slipping away…
“…Your words are too harsh.”
Finally, the Lady spoke.
“He’s literally an author whose identity is unknown. Aren’t your assumptions too severe?”
“What did you say? Precisely because his identity is unknown, what truthful words can we say? We can make a few assumptions!”
As the flustered opponent spat out a contradictory statement, Lady Ruart’s arguments poured forth rapidly, as if she had been waiting.
“It’s precisely because of people like you, Young Lady, who present imagination as fact and spread it around, that the author can’t reveal his face. What if the author did reveal himself? The attacks would be worse than now! I, as the author’s ardent reader, am already tired from the thoughtless misunderstandings people spout. In that sense, if the author’s mystique is intentional, it’s quite wise.”
“Excuse me? Ha, really.”
“And another thing. Let’s just say this author really is a woman. So what if a woman writes such stories? Does a family collapse, a household fall, the kingdom shatter because of it?”
“W-what? Are you getting angry over a mere pulp novelist?”
“Because I am an ardent reader of Author Ibvre!”
Then followed remarks about how this was why there was no progress in the kingdom’s literature, how Lady Clenotte talked too much because she was a woman and misinterpreted and blabbered about others’ affairs, asking if she felt bad hearing such things, and so on.
Shane was flabbergasted. He had never seen a noble defend Author Shell Ibvre to this extent.
Shane couldn’t understand at all why Lady Ruart was going this far. It was a natural reaction, given how he felt distanced from Shell Ibvre’s ardent fans.
‘Why is she taking the side of an author, whose identity is unknown, as if he were her own flesh and blood?’
Wanting to get a better look at the peculiar Lady Ruart, Shane used the excuse, ‘As a conscience-stricken, good-for-nothing author thinking of a long hiatus, I cannot help but side with an ardent reader,’ and stepped into the fray.
Thus, he observed Libertà Ruart, who was adjusting her hair, draped in his robe.
Her pond-like, large, watery blue eyes were hidden in the darkness of the secluded resting area. Her glossy, reed-colored hair was gently brushed by the spring breeze, stroking her cheeks. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red from the heat of the argument and the scuffle.
Contrary to the impression of a white water lily emerging from the darkness, Libertà Ruart’s radical actions did not cease.
“Is the Count’s young lady who grabbed the Lady’s hair not the crazy one?”
The problematic brooch came flying out.
Ah, so Lady Ruart said she was unwell…
‘She must have had a fit of madness.’
