Aileen finished speaking and hurried downstairs, saying she couldn’t miss even a second of the duke’s beauty.
Soon enough, Cookie came hopping up the stairs.
“Clara, an unbelievably handsome man is here. Don’t you wanna look?”
After making sure no one was around, Cookie blinked his big eyes and asked.
“I’m not interested. I’m busy cleaning up the mess Lindsay made. No matter how handsome His Grace is, how handsome can he really be?”
“Whiiine…”
Cookie flopped down and pressed his muzzle to the floor.
“Cookie, are you curious?”
His tail lifted slightly.
“You are curious.”
His tail swished. His tongue peeked out, revealing rice-grain teeth and black lips.
“Let’s go down.”
“Woof!”
With a cry of joy, Cookie leapt into Clara’s arms.
When they went downstairs to the reception room, a crowd of employees was already hovering nearby, whispering excitedly.
“What do we do… he’s so handsome and dashing… I’ve never seen someone so good-looking; my heart’s going to explode.”
“Human? No. A god? Yes.”
“Ahh… there’s no going back to the me who didn’t know His Grace’s face… Now all the men on the street will look like half-baked meringues from a pastry shop. This is terrible…”
“There are plenty of other ateliers besides Madame Hudwood’s, and yet he came here—this must be a proposal to us, right? Hm? Then His Grace has made a mistake. We’ll punish him with marriage, yes.”
The staff were so bewitched they were muttering nonsense to themselves.
Duke Irnosie’s looks had entranced them all.
How handsome can a person be, to cause this?
Clara rose on tiptoes to peek across the reception room. Cookie stretched his neck industriously, murmuring.
A man was holding the hand of a girl who looked like his younger sister, speaking with Barbara, the head designer.
“…”
Clara was momentarily at a loss for words.
What is that?
Is that really a living, breathing person who walks the earth with us?
Oh… a statue has escaped from the museum, hasn’t it?
With Clara’s vocabulary, that was the only way she could describe it.
Clap, clap, clap.
Aileen, beside Clara, gave a small applause.
“From his face—crafted as if by a once-in-a-millennium genius sculptor with meticulous calculations—to his torso, legs, and even the tips of his feet, he’s the perfect golden ratio. Freckles or blemishes wouldn’t dare approach that radiance. Eyes that blue must have been ladled up by mermaids from legendary seas. That wistful, melancholy gaze looks like fish might be swimming in it. And the physique, shaped lovingly by nature—it’s beyond words. His Grace, Duke Irnosie, has turned Florite Atelier upside down.”
With fluent flair, Aileen gave voice to Clara’s inner turmoil.
The duke’s younger sister, too, was a very pretty girl who closely resembled him.
Seeing that he had come with his sister, it seemed they were here to have a dress made for her.
Every employee strained their ears, eager to be the one to take on the young lady’s dress, eavesdropping with their ears pricked sharp.
Rupert, who had been speaking with Barbara, let his eyes pass over the staff who were secretly hiding, and then his gaze stopped at one spot.
“Excuse me.”
He asked Barbara’s leave, then leaned to whisper something into Erna’s ear.
Erna nodded.
“Yes, that’s right.”
When Erna answered Rupert, Barbara, sitting opposite, started in surprise.
I heard the Irnosie young lady couldn’t speak because of an accident—yet she’s speaking just fine. Was that slander meant to smear the ducal house?
Barbara’s mind was already busy with plans to be the first to tell her friends and regulars.
Just then, Rupert suddenly took Erna’s hand and stood up.
His footsteps stopped right in front of Cookie, who had been blandly watching the humans.
“What is its name?”
Rupert, without preamble, told Clara he wished to commission Erna’s dress.
Madame Florite wanted to make the dress herself, considering that Clara was new, but Rupert refused firmly.
He insisted it be entrusted to Clara alone.
And so, only a month after joining the atelier, Clara became responsible for the Irnosie young lady’s dress.
Clara asked Rupert and Erna where the dress would be worn and whether they had any particular concept in mind for the design.
But the answer that came back was—
They would leave it entirely to Clara’s discretion.
Are they testing someone?
It was common for nobles to give everything over to a designer and then, upon seeing the result, explode—How dare you present me with such a thing?
It was actually easier when the client was meticulous; having nothing decided made things harder.
Fine, they told me to do as I please. I will.
The Irnosie young lady was thirteen—an age brimming with interest in beautiful things.
What colors would suit that brilliant blond hair and lake-blue eyes? Honestly, anything would look good…
Still—so the Irnosie young lady could speak? What on earth had happened?
Clara had just opened her sketchbook when Madame Florite approached, eyes wide.
“Clara, do you truly intend to make the dress? Don’t overdo it. Barbara or Lindsay can do it.”
“But they requested me directly.”
“Even if someone else made it, His Grace would never know.”
“Ma’am, there are no secrets in this world. If His Grace were to find out later, he’d feel deceived. Then he would never set foot in this atelier again.”
“Even so, Boarne, you’ve never made a single dress by yourself.”
Right on cue, the ever-needling Lindsay appeared from somewhere and butted into the conversation.
“Listen to the manager. We’re saying this for your own good. Leave the aftermath to your seniors and go back to the cutting room to do what you always do.”
“Madame Florite, I can do it. Please let me try.”
She meant it.
In her past life, Clara had turned out several outfits a day.
Compared to modern clothing, the decorations here were more ornate and complicated, but she was confident.
“Manager, you’re not actually thinking of letting Boarne handle this, are you? This is a huge chance to make His Grace a regular client. We can’t hand over some mess of a dress Boarne cobbles together. It would tarnish the atelier’s reputation.”
“What should we do…”
After agonizing, Madame Florite finally spoke.
“If we give the duke’s request for Clara to someone else, that would be deceit; Clara is right about that. But it’s also true she lacks experience. Lindsay is also right that we cannot afford to miss this opportunity.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.”
The corner of Lindsay’s mouth twitched upward.
“Then let’s do this. You’ll both make one.”
“Pardon?”
Lindsay’s jaw dropped.
“Lindsay and Clara, you will each make a dress without help from anyone. Whoever gets the most votes from the staff will sell her dress to the Irnosie young lady. The deadline is one week. Hoho. How about it, Lindsay? Clara?”
“For me… I’m confident. But is Boarne all right with this? Boarne, if you’re going to quit, quit now. This is a fight you’re bound to lose.”
Lindsay spoke brimming with confidence. Clara was only an apprentice. No matter how plucky she was, there was no way she could beat Lindsay—so Lindsay thought.
“Don’t worry, Senior Lindsay. I’m confident too. In fact, I’m excited. Even if mine isn’t chosen, I’ll be able to learn a lot by looking at your dress. It’s all experience, after all.”
It was a remark loaded with meaning.
Understanding the implication, Lindsay’s earlobes flushed red. It was an open secret—known to everyone except Madame Florite—that Lindsay made a habit of working her juniors to the bone and then slapping her name on the finished product.
Madame Florite had delegated the atelier’s detailed operations to Barbara; as long as Barbara covered for Lindsay, there was no way for Florite to know the internal ecosystem. Nor did she particularly care.
Most employees, fearing retaliation from Lindsay—who had noble relatives—didn’t dare tattle.
This…
Lindsay ground her teeth.
From day one, she had disliked the newbie:
Clara Boarne.
“Manager, I have one more proposal.”
“What is it, Lindsay?”
“How about the loser of this competition resigns from the atelier?”
“Hmm… Isn’t that a bit too much?”
“No. I’m fine with it, Manager. Senior Lindsay, that’s a great idea. It pops—just like your dress designs. That’s a compliment, of course.”
Lindsay glared, eyes wide, but Clara met it with a bright, innocent smile.
