Chapter 39
The Emperor himself dispatched a message of congratulations on the arrival of the new Saintess.
Nobles and prominent figures across the Empire showered Annette’s birth with lavish presents. Invitations poured in, as they clamored to glimpse the infant who could scarcely pry open her eyes.
Whispers of the Saintess wafted far beyond Blenheim, the Empire’s frigid northern frontier, reaching even into neighboring realms.
Yet the Marquis quickly detected something amiss.
No matter how intently he studied his third child, she bore no trace of his features. That realization crystallized his suspicions of his wife’s infidelity. Tragically, she had perished in labor, leaving the truth forever buried.
Compounding the issue, Annette showed no spark of divine ability.
Temple priests ran test after test, only to shake their heads in dismay.
Doubts began to fester among the populace.
By age ten, tales emerged of a slum girl working genuine miracles.
The High Priest proclaimed her the true Saintess—Kathren was her name.
Overnight, Annette became the “fake Saintess,” a fraud who had hoodwinked the Empire.
High society heaped ridicule and scorn upon her.
Seething with humiliation and fury, the Marquis confined Annette within the estate, rearing her in virtual isolation.
Outsiders presumed he shielded her from disgrace, but at home, she endured profound neglect and contempt.
Her brother Ferdinand shunned her utterly, while sister Ladriel spread gossip of Annette’s shame at every soiree, keeping a deliberate distance.
For Annette, the stain of “fake Saintess” etched an indelible wound.
“Had I been the real Annette, that would have crushed me.”
The remark felt like a deliberate jab, but I refused to let it land.
“You’re banished from my good graces forever. Repulsive.”
I congratulated myself inwardly for sidestepping such a childish ploy.
“The Grand Duchess is remarkable.”
Power had never been mine before.
Now, I could indulge my whims unchecked.
“Power’s a terrifying force… Thrilling enough to hook me for good.”
Buoyed by the thought, I sauntered back to my chambers.
There, I pored over the roster of potential ladies-in-waiting.
Avoir Meisel’s name earned an instant dismissal; I leafed straight to the end.
The rest appeared adequate, yet their pedigrees and résumés offered no clear frontrunner.
“Meisel aside, none of these faces ring a bell from the original tale.”
A tea gathering seemed the ideal way to gauge them firsthand.
The prospect of arranging one, however, daunted me at once.
Surely protocols abounded.
“I’ve never so much as attended a tea party, much less hosted.”
In search of counsel, I retrieved the etiquette tome I’d spotted in the Grand Duke’s study days earlier.
“Tea time… found it!”
It stated:
“A lady of breeding must host a tea gathering with effortless grace. Attendees scrutinize not just the brews and bites, but the china, linens, and layout… (excerpted)… Should the hostess falter in orchestrating the event, guests will measure it against finer affairs and—”
“Why all this fluff?”
I flipped ahead impatiently.
“The surest path to a successful tea party lies in heeding an seasoned aristocrat’s wisdom. Lacking that, a savvy maid’s input serves well.”
“You’ve got to be joking—that’s the crux, and it’s omitted!”
My burning questions remained:
How soon to dispatch the invites?
What wording for them?
Greet arrivals myself?
How many refreshment varieties?
A weary exhale escaped me.
Botch this, and I’d be branded boorish or philistine.
Resigned to defeat, my gaze snagged on the chapter’s closing line:
“In essence, a tea gathering thrives on the hostess’s genuine warmth. Rigid etiquette need not constrain.”
That halted me.
“Hang on—that rings true.”
I wasn’t some court functionary staging formal rites.
Why fret over protocols?
I was the Grand Duchess, after all.
Barring a colossal blunder, none would dare nitpick trifles.
My standing couldn’t sink lower anyhow:
A fake Saintess
Daughter of Marquis Freis
Capital’s infamous villainess
The bride who coerced Blenheim’s Grand Duke into wedlock
“Gracious, that paints a grim picture.”
No further depths to plumb, so why not proceed freely?
“Should mishaps arise, I’ll deem it the newest capital vogue.”
Resolved, I summoned Whitley.
Near midday, I strolled into the administrative wing.
Since stumbling upon it during a castle ramble, I’d dropped by every other day or so to pass the hours.
Initially, the clerks eyed me with caution. Gradually, though, they thawed.
“I suspect they now anticipate my treats.”
Armed with Whitley’s cookies, I entered. The junior staff, mid-chatter, hailed me with unusual fervor.
“Your Highness!”
“How fares everyone?”
Their salutes rang formal, yet an undercurrent hinted at unspoken words.
“We were just discussing you,” confessed the boldest among them.
“Me?”
“We sampled today’s special at the inn!”
Today’s special?
Bewilderment flickered until a clerk drew out a seat and clarified.
“Marie’s place. She boasted to all it stemmed from Your Highness’s inspiration.”
Right—I’d blanked on it entirely.
Marie had launched that daily special as I’d proposed. Realization dawned; the clerks clustered eagerly.
“You all sampled it?”
Leaning in, I craved their verdict.
“Not only us—nearly every patron chose it.”
“The dessert options alone sparked a frenzy!”
They peppered me with queries on the concept’s origin, captivated by how a modest tweak delighted so many.
‘Predictably, they’re drawn to what sways the townsfolk.’
I dodged a straight reply, but the subject itself ignited their zeal.
“Did it draw more patrons?” I probed.
A clerk cocked his head.
“A smidge, perhaps.”
“Only a smidge?”
“Its spot’s not prime. Regulars sustain it; buzz builds slowly.”
Logical—the inn tucked away from bustle.
If locale hindered…
The group pondered in unison.
It felt collaborative, so I ventured, after a beat,
“What about a signboard out front?”
“A menu board?”
“List the day’s fare visibly—wouldn’t that pique interest?”
“Hmm…”
A clerk wavered, then demurred.
“Likely minimal impact.”
“Why?”
“Literacy’s spotty.”
“Oh…!”
The oversight flushed my cheeks, but he pressed on, equally abashed.
“True, most Blenheim folk read—the prior Grand Duke mandated schooling.”
I dipped my head, recalling Marie’s graceful script on that tomato stew.
“Yet border migrants flood in lately, largely illiterate.”
Refugees from monster-ravaged lands, Rondoris folk, even mountain crossers, had swelled the populace.
Native readers abounded, leaving newcomers adrift in routine tasks.
“Youths learn readily, but adults prioritize mere existence.”
“I get it…”
“Inns and bazaars teem with the illiterate—over half, easily.”
‘They must peg me for a sheltered aristocrat.’
Mortified, I cooled my face with a hand. Then a reticent young clerk piped up.
“We rely on drawings routinely.”
“Drawings?”
“Public edicts—like curbing brawls or night imbibing—pair icons with words.”
I clapped delightedly.
“Brilliant! How’d I miss it?”
Menus feature images!
‘Haven’t spied one since arriving.’
Inn-side sketches would lure the illiterate, snag wayfarers too.
And the artist? Obvious.
‘Morina needs gigs—this fits perfectly!’
My thrill proved contagious; their faces lit.
“Did we assist?”
“Immensely! Blenheim’s staff shines brightest!”
Beaming at the accolade, they glowed. As novices, they chased directives over devising, so brainstorming thrilled.
Me too.
‘If Marie consents…!’
Exhilaration pulsed; I plotted ahead with zeal.
“Argh! Infuriating!”
Lady Avoir Meisel, Count Avoir’s cherished daughter, flung her quill aside in a huff.
“I graciously accept the Grand Duchess’s generous summons…”
She perched in her family’s opulent salon.
Before her loomed Marzella, the Grand Duke’s chief maid, rigid and grave-faced.
