Chapter 2 – Aria d’amour

Chapter 2 – Aria d’amour


The doors swing open as the orchestra begins to play.

“In the highest honour, we treasure and present our eldest, most beloved daughter, Lady Marie Josephine de Marvous!”

Oh boy, here we go.

It’s extremely fortunate that there had been a rehearsal for the occasion. It seems that there’s more than a few quirky coincidences between the world I remember and this one; maybe it’s pure chance, or maybe those so-called gods are just fucking with reincarnatees like yours truly.

Either way, it didn’t change the fact that House Angene’s classic ceremonial piece is identical to the Lord High Executioner piece from The M*kado. When I first heard it during the rehearsal, we had to start over because I couldn’t stop laughing for about ten minutes straight, much to the confusion and frustration of everyone else involved. Luckily they seemed to put it down to a stress-induced nervous reaction.

Even now, I’m trying very hard not to smirk. Or sing the damn lyrics, which are controllably playing in my head.

“Defer, defer, to the Lord High Executioner…”, I mutter to myself through sealed lips, even as I make my way as gracefully as possible to the centre of the great hall.

That said, it’s good to have something to focus my mind.

Most aristocrats of the Augustine Empire have an innate level of resistance to charms and other psychological magics. Which is just as well, as most nobles have considerable exposure to such magics on all kinds of formal occasions. However, I was not blessed with that gift.

My early tutelage in the mystic arts had mostly involved me trying to deal with my lecturer wearing a simple evening suit. Please believe me when I say it took all my willpower to tear my eyes away from the fine needlework.

As I said earlier, one of my biggest trials here was just dealing with the mental interference assaulting me from every angle.

But…

I can do it!

It had taken around two straight years, but I had managed. By age seven, I was able to overcome simple charm enchantments. As of a few months ago, I had forced myself to contend with some of the strongest mystic perfumes available. And you would not believe how strong those things are. Some of them aren’t even legal in the Empire, with recorded cases of exposed victims winding up in near-permanent catatonic states.

So, obstacle one dealt with. I can actually LOOK at people without losing my mind. That’s a start.
Glancing around, it seems the turnout was even higher than I originally anticipated. The Great Atrium of the Palace of Marvous is about as obscenely decadent as you’d expect for royalty living with the amenities of mythical deities. If I had to describe the size, structure and interior décor, I could only think of St. Peter’s Basilica as a point of comparison. In the old world it would probably qualify as one of the greatest architectural endeavours in history, and I suspect it still qualifies even in the magical land I live in now. Which makes it all the more farcical when a full orchestra is playing a piece I personally associate with Er*c Idl* prancing around with a tennis racket.

So considering the vastness of the chamber, you’d expect it to be scarcely feasible to fill it with any number of people.

Indeed, even if the extended nobility of the entire Empire were to attend, it would hardly fill even ten percent of the hall’s capacity.

So the fact that it’s near filled to bursting can be chalked up to one factor alone.

“Well, I hardly approve. To think to let the common folk into the palace. Even if it is the Marvous’ own business, this is the historical home of the Emperors of old, it’s simply appalling to desecrate it so!”

“Do be quiet, darling! What if someone were to hear?”

That’s about what you’d expect, I suppose. While the ceremony had never been a strictly private affair, it was unusual to even consider allowing those outside of the landed gentry to bear witness to the occasion.

“Cor, izzat tha princess! She’s tiny!”

“Not princess, stupid! She’s…er, what wazzit? Baroness? Countess?”

“Don’t be silly, royals don’t count. They gots magic and servants to do it for them.”

Well, it doesn’t hurt to play the part.

As my procession marches on, I turn about the crowd and try the smile and wave I’d practised for the past few weeks.

This gives rise to cries of various emotions from the crowd. Traditionally speaking, the heiress is supposed to remain stoic and unmoved throughout the proceedings until their role comes into play.

That said, that worked on the principle that the masses of the city weren’t in attendance.

Beyond the central rows of luxurious seats where the various nobility were seated, and a range of both physical and magical barricades, stood a sizable crowd of the city’s populace.

The nobles in attendance largely seem to ignore my greeting, though I distinctly hear some scoffing in disapproval.

The commoners, by contrast, respond, well…interestingly.

“Crikey, she waved at me! At me, lads!”

“Give over, yer not fit ta lick her shoes, ya daft git!”

“Like yer one ta talk, Henri!”

Mostly it’s just excited chatter. No cheering or anything excessive. Not yet, anyway.

At the centre of the hall, the key players of the ceremony await my arrival.

Cardinalle Sophie de Miscano, incumbent cardinal of the Eglise Augustine, smiles at me with considerable warmth, her slightly closed eyes and expression not quite hiding her concerns.
I can’t really blame her. Everyone here knows what’s at stake.

It may be a wonder as to why commoners from off the streets of the city below had been permitted to set foot inside the palace. Some nobles didn’t seem to understand, but at least most had figured it out.

At this point, rumours of my magical impotence had spread throughout the city. As scenarios go, it really couldn’t be much worse.

From what I remember, the French royal family, much like most of the royal families of Europe and indeed worldwide throughout the ages, had managed to hold their status due to the widely accepted belief in the likes of divine right. The royalty held special qualities granted by God, therefore they were treated accordingly.

In this world, said quality is not a theoretical concept, it is a very real aspect – the innate mastery of magic.

In France, as in Britain before them, when the divine right of kings was called into question, the illusion of the monarchy being untouchable entities was shattered. And when the people suffered, they rose up and took their heads.

So what would happen if my inability to use magic were to be exposed to the people of the empire?

In the corners of my eyes, I see the people smiling. All eyes on me.

It is said that the inauguration of Marie Antoinette as the newly wed Dauphine of France had been joyous and celebrated by all the peoples of France, nobles and commoners alike.

In the darkness of my innermost thoughts, the blade of the guillotine shines out…

“Pre-Revolutionary France-like, huh? Well thanks for the heads-up, asshole…”, I mutter inaudibly to a god who may not even be listening.

No pressure. Everything is going according to plan. And once we’re done here, no one will doubt me.

I reach the centre of the hall, the grand sigil of House Angene spread beneath my feet.
And so the cardinal begins the proceedings.

“In coming of age, we bestow unto you the titles of your forbears. We dub you now, the Countess of Florienze, Lady High Keeper of the Royal Scriptures, Baroness of Sax-Coberge-“

Urgh. It’s a really long list. So many titles that I really don’t want.

“-Viscountess of La Reginalla, Lady High Treasurer of la Banque Burgendese-“

They’re giving a ten-year-old control over one of the three most important banks in the empire. Okay.

It’s probably worth mentioning at this point exactly why a girl who hasn’t even hit puberty yet is being granted so many titles.

The Holy Augustine Emperor, Charles-Philippe XXV, is actually my uncle, whilst his brother, my father, Duc Francois, is third in line to the throne. Due to complications of the right of succession, the family’s many branching houses and frankly disturbing levels of intermarriages, I am only fifteenth in line and unable to adopt the title of princess of the realm; at least until I succeed my father and inherit the Dukedom, which also would name me Princess of Brusieux.

Incidentally, the intermarriage issue was about as alarming as you’d expect when I found out about it. When I was first shown my family tree, it was all I could manage to not scream or vomit. Needless to say that my father and uncle are more than just that in terms of my relations, and I’d really rather not go into the disturbing details, but for reference I’ll mention that the Habsburgs and the Ptolemaic dynasty would seem normal in comparison. Even the family tree for Sch*ol D*ys is less messed up. All things considered, I’m pretty lucky to not be a gibbering idiot with an underbite and eleven toes, although it seems magic does seem to have helped in preventing undesirable genetic problems.

As to why someone of such ambiguous regal position would still be granted titles to that degree, the simple answer is due to the sheer size of the empire.

Firstly, the geography of this world is similar, if not identical, to that of the world of my memories. Secondly, if compared to the empires of said world, the Augustine Empire holds territories equivalent to those held by the French Empire, the Holy Roman Empire and the Spanish Empire during the 10th through 19th centuries. Approximately. Basically, most of western and central Europe was under its control, as well as an alarming level of the corresponding colony territories held throughout the Americas, Africa and parts of Asia.

Simply put, the Augustine Empire is one of the three great world powers, and arguably the strongest. The others being the Muskovian-Constantine Empire, which covers most of Eastern Europe and northern Asia, and the Gallic-Breton Alliance, covering Britain, Scandinavia, most of North America and Australasia (rather, this applies to this world’s approximate equivalents).
The end result of this being that, with a worryingly small genetic pool of the ruling classes balanced against a massive territorial range, most nobles held no fewer than five to ten distinct principle titles, and that’s just members of the lesser houses. For someone of one of the greater houses and direct blood royal…

“-Chancellor of the Imperial Exchequer, Cardinalle Representif Augustine, Imam of Toulouis-“

And so on and so forth. Oh, and since the Holy Augustine Emperor essentially controls the Holy See and Sali Amad, respectively the sacred capitals of two of the world’s most populous religions, it seems Augustine royalty also holds the titles of some of the more significant clerical positions. And oddly enough, religious hierarchy seems to be largely matriarchal in this world, which automatically makes me a shoe-in.

Worryingly, I’m appointed to positions for both religions. I still don’t understand how that’s supposed to work, but I’m told delegation is essential.

“-and Lady Keeper of the Grimoire Keys.”

Finally. The one thing I actually need.

“Lady Marie Josephine de Marvous, do you swear to uphold and protect the responsibilities placed upon you, for as long as you do live?”

I nod solemnly. Well, most of them will have to be delegated regardless, but this is all standard practise.

“I swear by the Emperor, by House Augene, by the Empire itself and its people, I shall adhere.”
Really, who expects all this of a ten year old? But hey, they’ve been doing it for centuries, so who am I to argue?

“So shall it be done. In patre mamori, encanti, spiritus sanctus.”

Weird pseudo-Latin. She follows the words with the marks of blessings, taking the daub of sacred salves of both the Holy See and the Sali Amad and dabbing them on my forehead and cheeks.

I genuflect, crossing myself in the manner of both faiths. Weirdly, when performed in succession the gesture seems to form something like a pentagram.

“And now all rise for le Rite Confirmation.”

Well, here goes nothing.

I catch Ange’s eye. She gives me her supporting smile, and I wink in response.

I stand to attention atop the grand sigil.

“In honour of God and the Empire, accept this, my humble offering. Filli, Benecima et Solicia.”

I raise my hands to my chest to brace my lungs.

And sing.

-------

“…an Aria d’amour? But…”

“Good lord…”

That’s about the response I was hoping for.

Strictly speaking, the ritual performed by the heir is traditionally a very simple one. One of the basic passages from the See scriptures, something akin to quoting the first lines of Genesis, or even just reciting a verse or two from a carol or hymn.

The reason for this isn’t due to the expectations of a child being able to memorise and sing more than a verse or two in front of a crowd, although that may come into it somewhat.

The core issue is the effect the ritual has, on both the performer and any bearing witness to it.
First, it may be prudent to explain what a ritual is, in this context.

Magic in this world can be divided into a number of categories, but in this case it can be said to consist of Deliverance and Rituel.

Deliverance, or Expulsion, is the most common type of magic in terms of spell casting; the caster expels a phenomenon from themselves into the world around them, as can be seen from something as simple (and frankly, pointless) as throwing a fireball.

Rituel is different as it cannot be generated solely by the self. The phenomenon is not expelled from the user, but must be coaxed into existence through multiple sources and circumstances. Most commonly, written scriptures formed on a drawn or carved sigil is essential, though the written words in a grimoire can occasionally suffice. In more extreme cases, a “sacrifice” is required, though what qualifies as a sacrifice can vary wildly depending on the nature and purpose of the rituel in question.

In this case, the rituel is typically a simple performance, utilising the family sigil as the primary medium. A song in honour of God and a spectacle to be beheld by all in attendance. Naturally, such an honest ritual requires no sacrifice and indeed requires no mana or magical ability on the part of the caster.

Which is why I decided against performing it.

Even if I carried out the rituel as intended, it would prove nothing about my ability. Rumours would persist unshaken.

If I am to strengthen my position and assuage the people against doubting the aristocracy, I needed to show them something more. Something beyond their wildest expectations.

If I had simply sung one of the traditional rituels, the effect on the audience would have been not all that dissimilar to if someone had performed a non-magical song. The difference is largely superficial, merely invoking particular emotions in the listener according to the context of the song’s lyrics. In some cases, assuming the caster was magically powerful enough, it could also induce vague thoughts and memories, maybe a slight image in the mind of listener.

This rituel is different.

“C’est…magnifique…”

Hah. Told you.

Even as the words flow through and out of my body, my very being shudders from the force of the song’s power.

Because the words themselves take form, creating in the atrium manifestations of the lyrics’ contents.

Not images in the mind, not illusions. The context of the song itself takes physical form in the very heart of the palace.

The song is not particularly sophisticated. It’s one of the classical love songs spun by one of the long forgotten bards of old. That said, it is one of the most beloved for its use of language, tempo and contents, one of starcrossed lovers, of the gods blessings, of the misfortune that befell them, their tragic separation and death and finally their reunion in paradise.

It’s adaptation to rituel, however, was by no means straightforward in the least. The arrangement I’m performing was adapted by Christophe Marliere, considered by most to be the greatest mystic composers of the early modern period. Marliere was famed for sparing no limitation to his rituels and accepted nothing but the utmost perfection of the art.

The lyrics and tune, therefore, were incredibly taxing on the caster, in terms of physical, mental, and magical capacity. Of course, I have no magical ability of my own to offer, so ordinarily this level of rituel would be utterly beyond my capability. Ordinarily. But we’ll get back to that at another time.

However, that was only half the battle.

And now, the chorus.

My body moves. I first spread my arms, eking out the last note of the current verse. Then, bracing myself, I uncoil into full motion.

“Mon dieu!”

I would like to emphasise at this point, that I had never danced properly in my previous life.
Naturally, I am excluding whatever awkward, clumsy motions I might’ve made at a club or the like, which could hardly be called dance by anyone with good sense or taste.

As such, it’s only due to my current circumstances that I am even attempting what I am doing right now. After making a number of early discoveries and observations, it became very apparent that this direction would be essential for me. As such, I had to train my body to perform this way since I was about five years old in this lifetime.

I suppose the closest equivalent would be ballet, but that doesn’t really explain it well. Ballet doesn’t involve having your body and very being enveloped by the physical and spiritual manifestations of the song you’re singing, the dance itself manipulating the manifestations and in doing so bringing the performance to its true fruition and climax. At least I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. I only ever saw the Bolshoi once and I ended up sleeping through most of it, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Regardless, I dance. The amount of concentration and strain on my body is not to be understated; the song itself acts as though it has a mind of its own, and will pull the caster along to its own wiles. While it is necessary to follow the song regardless, the caster must still hold their ground, but being firm rather than fighting it, both being guided by the song and yet also guiding the song in turn. It’s as though the song itself is a dance partner. Or even a lover.

I mean, maybe. I probably don’t really know what I’m talking about there, either…

The world around me formed by the rituel moves and shapes to the whim of my body, and the song takes me once more. As I sing and dance, I become one with the tale the song recites, becoming the air, the earth, the sun, the moon, the gods, the lovers and everything they embody.

…Okay, it’s kind of fruity when I put it that way, but don’t judge me. Let he who has reincarnated as a cute girl cast the first stone.

Even as I embrace the song around me, a thought occurs. It seems somewhat apropos that I simultaneously am one with both the male and female lovers, although that’s not exactly the way I’d like it to be…

Ah, I almost fell into a trap. The rituel is heavily influenced by the thoughts and state of mind of the caster, so even the slightest distraction can have unforeseen effects. I shouldn’t have let my mind wonder…but it’ll probably be fine.

At this point the song has enveloped me completely, and I can’t make out the world outside of it. But at least I can still hear the voices of awe and joy-

“Oh my!”

“W-well, really!”

“I say, that’s just not on!”

“Eeeee~?!”

…That was not the response I was expecting, and I definitely recognised that last voice. But I mustn’t break concentration at this point. There’s only a small portion of the song left, the rituel is almost over…

I break free of the song, belting out the final note, and it spirals back into my body and soul, restoring the world to its natural state…

…to thunderous cheering and applause.

Phew. Thought I’d botched it for a second.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please contain yourselves!”, the cardinal desperately tries to call for order. Strictly speaking, the rituel should be performed in otherwise complete solemn and reverent silence, so naturally the audience should not applaud or make any unnecessary noise.

I feel kind of bad for Sophie. I could probably have told her in advance about my plan, but I couldn’t risk the possibility that she’d outright attempt to stop me. I can kind of see why she would’ve tried to now…

I turn to the crowd, to assess the reactions.

The commoners seem to be besides themselves with joy. I had anticipated as much; most low-born wouldn’t even have the chance to bear witness to even the most basic rituel, so my performance should’ve been quite a powerful experience for most.

The lords and ladies in attendance have…somewhat mixed responses? Most are at least applauding, quite a few giving a standing ovation. Some seem a little perplexed or uneased…one or two look very unamused. Dunno what to make of that…

And finally I turn to my own household-

Ah.

Well, first of all, Father is…not able to make eye contact with me. Well that’s worrying.

Secondly…Ange also doesn’t seem able to make eye contact. And her face is flushed beetroot.

There’s something going on that’s completely gone over my head and I dread to think of what it is.

“Crikey, didya see that? You could see their bits and everything!”

“Well, it was really a very powerful rendition, an excellent performance, but, er, the, er, crescendo towards the end was, well…very…er…avant-garde…tres moderne…not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of thing, you understand…”

“Mummy, why did the lady and man turn into a different lady and the dancing girl? And where did their clothes go?”

“…Please hush now, dear. Your father will explain…when you’re older.”

“But why were they doing that thing with their bodies-“

“When. You’re. Older!”

Ah. Hmm.

And now my face is also quite flushed.

Fortunately, the cardinal steps forward, ever the professional.

“…In absolute, we have all witnessed the…grand display…in offering to the Lord. By all rites of Confirmation, Marie Josephine de Marvous is recognised in the eyes of God to have blossomed into…womanhood…”

“I’ll say! CRIKEY!”

“WOOHOO!”

“…er…In patre, viginatus, spiritus sanctus. So shall it be done.”

And the organist begins to play, marking the end of service and of the ceremony. Thank god.
Trying to remember myself, I smile and wave off the dispersing crowd. Though now it’s a little unnerving when the peanut gallery responds with cheers and wolf-whistles.

Sophie approaches me, a stiff and unnatural smile on her face.

“Truly, a remarkable performance, Lady Marie…or rather, Sister Marie. Far beyond my expectations. No doubt it shall be remembered for centuries to come, even in the halls of our Lord.”

I try to cover my awkwardness, bowing my head as I curtsy and take her hand to kiss in the appropriate manner of respect.

“Your words honour me, your Eminence.”

Sophie laughs gently. It’s a relief to see she isn’t entirely taken aback by my…performance…

“Dear Sister, we are now mutual women of the cloth, you may dispense with such formalities. That said, as one now ordained, there are certain…expectations of you. I trust you understand?”

“…Of course, dear Sister.” Okay, maybe she’s not entirely comfortable with it either.
Sophie leans down and takes my hand to kiss in respect…huh, I thought she said there was no need for formalities?

…She puts something in my hand…that look in her eye…

And she straightens back up, with a warm smile, this time seeming quite genuine.

“I look forward to your inaugural Mass. It should be my honour and privilege to conduct your oath. ‘Til we meet again, dear Sister!”

And with that, I wave her off. The parchment she slipped into my hand has already dematerialised, presumably it will only rematerialize when I am able to read it without anyone else seeing. I can’t help but wonder why she’d need to pass me a message in secret…

A firm hand on my back knocks me from my dazed pondering.

“Marie. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Oh no.

“…Father…I can explain…”

“There is no need for that. You little devil!”

I flinch. Will he really beat me in front of everyone?!

“How did you learn a Grand Rituel, and a Marliere aria d’amour at that? You sly little fox you, I knew you had your mother’s wiles! Gahaha!”

He laughs heartily, slapping my back once more.

“Oh…I, er…I researched the rituels in advance, and I’ve received the training for years now…”

“From our dear Angeline, non?”

“…Yes, Father…” The images flash through my mind again.

“Well then it’s no surprise things turned out the way they did! That kind of skinship would inevitably leave a strong impression that would arise in a performance! Frankly, I’m amazed you controlled your thoughts so well that it’s the only thing that did!”

“Um, yes, Father. Thank you for your kind words. I only intended to uphold the family name and provide a performance worthy of our House. And to make you proud…”

Warmth envelops me. I finally manage to raise my head to see his beaming, tear-struck face.

“Marie, my sweet daughter. You’ve made me proud beyond words.”

“Oh…Papa…”

And the tears streak my face in turn. Hey, we’ve already been over this. Judge me once you’ve been in my shoes, okay?

Father turns to the remaining noble guests.

“My good lords and ladies, if you’ll please excuse my dear daughter, she is quite exhausted from the ceremony. The post-ceremonial festivities shall be held in the west garden, please allow the servants to escort you accordingly. I shall join you all momentarily!”

One particular noble…I recognise him as the Marquis de Chantiere…breaks away from the dispersing nobles and makes his way towards us.

“Ah, truly a peerless performance, Your Grace. Why, I should say I’ve never seen a rituel of such grandeur executed with such expertise in all my years! You must be so proud of your dear little Marie!”

His smile is honest. Too honest.

“Beyond words, my good Chantiere! Marie is my pride and joy!”

The Marquis bows down to my level. I think it does say somewhere in psychology studies that physically putting yourself on a child’s level makes you less intimidating and easier to trust.

Of course, if you already know that, it only makes you more wary when someone tries it.

“And how is our sweet, little Marie? Though not so little now, of course! How spring roses bloom so quickly!”

He takes my hand to kiss it. There are no words in conventional language or the mystic songs to describe my disgust.

“You do me much honour, my lord.” I utter, trying to keep the bile from my voice.

“My dearest Marie, please call me Gerard. We are both adults now, are we not? We should speak less formally…and far more frequently, to get better acquainted.”

His hand reaches around my side. Oh god. I think I’m going to be sick.

To clarify, this man, the Marquis de Chantiere, is about four to five times my age, and of course, also my second cousin twice removed. At the furthest.

So naturally, he’s also one of my suitors, and as the one of noblest stock, the one most likely to win my Father’s favour for my hand in marriage.

Of course, most suitors at least have the decency to wait until their beloved reaches adulthood, at the ripe old age of ten. But not this guy, who seems to have had dibs on me since before I was even born. It’s impressive for him to have literally surpassed the level of cradle-snatcher, if nothing else.

…Then again, I wound up in this body as a 20-something year old man…maybe there’s some kind of hidden irony here.

“…My lord, I must protest…” I begin, knowing it’s probably useless.

“Ah, sweet Marie, your prudence is as charming as ever!”

And so saying, he plants a kiss square on my cheek. His beard brushes against my lips.

Yep. Gonna hurl.

“…Oh…I feel…faint…”

“My good Chantiere, as I said earlier, poor Marie is quite exhausted from the ceremony. I am sure she will be happy to attend you once she is quite recovered!”

“But of course, Your Grace. Dear Marie, I should not have pressed you so! Even if you are a woman in the eyes of society, you are still a child after all! Haha!”

Geeze, don’t force yourself.

“I shall see thee anon, my sweet!” he croons, and, blowing a kiss, makes his way to the after party.
And to think I thought the ceremony was going to be the hard part…

Oh, wait. It was, too.

My legs finally begin to give out. Even if the mana supply for the performance had been dealt with in advance, actually carrying out the rituel had still cost me most of my strength.

Father reaches out to catch me as I fold over-

“Milady, it is unbecoming to lose your bearing so. Please allow me to carry you.”

Ah. Ange’s soft arms hold me tightly. And yes, I am aware of the arrant hypocrisy here, but give me a break…

She picks me up in a fireman’s lift. Even if I’m only ten, the woman has some strength in her…

“Your Grace, please allow me to deliver the young mistress to her chambers.”

…I can’t see the exchange of looks between the two parties.

“Angeline, come here a moment.”

“Your Grace.”

Despite being so close, I still can’t make out their hushed conversation.

“…By your leave, Your Grace.”

“Good. And Marie, my dear?”

“Father?”

He leans down to whisper in my ear.

“I understand your condition, but please remember to be more discreet about it. And…it is all well and good as a fancy, but-“

Yeah. I know what he’s getting at.

“But you want grandchildren. I understand, Father.”

Ah, there’s the rub.

He beams at me.

“I am blessed with such an understanding daughter!”

“The sentiment is mutual, Father.”

“Gahaha! Be off with you, you little rascal!”

I lose sight of him as Ange carries me back to my chambers…

“Ange…”, I muster.

“Milady, please don’t force yourself to speak when you are so exhausted.”

“…I owe you so much, Ange. When I lost myself in the song…”

And there it is again. Her cheeks stained scarlet. Haha, it’s really cute…

“…Milady-“

“I’m sorry, Ange. I didn’t mean to embarrass you so, and in front of so many…”

Ange’s expression hardens for a moment…then breaks into a sad smile.

“It is not my place to speak, Milady.”

“You may always speak freely with me, Ange. You know that.”

“…You do me more honour than I deserve.”

And tears streak down her cheeks. So I reach out and brush them from her face.

“Milady!”

“No crying on my watch. And I’m all grown up now, supposedly. So you shall call me Marie.”

“But, Mila-“

“Marie. At least when we’re alone.”

“…I understand…Marie.”

Hehe.

“There’s that smile I love so much.”

My bedchamber door creaks open. The room is only faintly lit by the pale moonlight.

Ange gently lets me down onto my bed…and I take her hand in mine.

Our eyes meet.

It’s an odd life. But it’s not without its charms.