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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: Why Is This Happening?
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'Why?'
Masera was lost in thought alone.
If he let his guard down, he was led along by Cynthia's intentions, and when he snapped out of it, things had naturally gone just as she wanted.
The sudden decision for a honeymoon march straight to Media had been the same.
["The youngest is more usable than the sister. Good sociability, and her attitude and expressions are lovable."]
["The sister only knows how to keep up appearances—stubbornly rigid and utterly useless. How's she supposed to mingle in high society like that?"]
Cynthia understood every word as Lady Hills—the dowager's sister—and Lady Verache spoke in Media, but for now, she pretended not to.
Helen, quick on the uptake and realizing they were comparing her to Cynthia, smiled and chimed in.
"They're also called the land of gentlemen. I'd love to visit Media myself."
Lady Verache, with her long experience in society and recognizing empty flattery when she heard it, asked,
"Do you know why they're called the land of gentlemen?"
"Because they value culture, refinement, and etiquette."
Helen answered confidently.
'Wrong. That's a distortion.'
Cynthia recalled what she'd read in books and smirked inwardly.
The gentry class that had amassed wealth
(the middle class between commoners and nobles)
was leading global fashion trends worldwide, and the euphemism meant Media was simply full of gentry in black hats, suits, and canes.
It wasn't particularly welcome news to the traditional nobility.
["Acting like she knows when she doesn't know a thing."]
Lady Hills sneered in Media, pretending to be impressed.
Cynthia raised her glass with a smile.
"Exactly, sister. The Kingdom of Media doesn't let countries without manners survive. They even send their fleets to teach etiquette."
At the razor-sharp joke, Lady Hills and Lady Verache burst into hearty laughter.
The Queensguard Count and his two sons, not grasping the punchline, laughed along as if they did.
Masera didn't laugh. He was lost in contemplation over whether he had to eat the sardine's head buried in the pie.
"What an entertaining princess."
"Ah, I like cheerful people. Her Majesty the Queen loves buffoonery and comedy, too—she even calls in jesters for parties."
Helen couldn't comprehend this situation where Cynthia was stealing the spotlight from her.
How could an uneducated maid know such things?
Jokes only worked if you knew plenty of them. Otherwise, they came off as rude.
Helen spoke up, burying her words in the harmonious laughter.
"Cynthia. You've studied up on Media, it seems. Then you must be interested in eel jelly, too? I bet you'd like it—want to try some?"
Having already been subjected to a taste test herself, Helen figured Cynthia would freak out.
Eel jelly was made by chopping eels into gelatin—and it looked grotesque, had an unpleasant texture, and reeked terribly of fish.
"That famous one I've only heard about? Have you tried it too, sister?"
"Yes, why don't you give it a taste?"
Cynthia stared straight at Helen.
Helen smirked inwardly, assuming she was at a loss.
'Hide your disgust and force it down. You're lucky if you don't puke it right back up.'
"Nah, I don't want any. I'd rather have more of this star-gazing sardine pie. This is really delicious."
Against her expectations, Cynthia firmly refused.
Helen, who had assumed she'd accept to impress the ladies, looked flustered.
"Why? You like Media so much..."
"Different tastes, sister. You don't eat snowflake broccoli from our homeland either. Does that mean you hate where we were born?"
Unable to retort to Cynthia's words, Helen gripped the hem of her skirt tightly.
Cynthia shuddered, imagining the fishy taste. In her past life, she'd eaten plenty of cheap canned fish. There was no reason to play gourmet masochist when delicious food was right there.
The dowager, who had been watching, waved her hand.
"Helen, don't push her. I can't eat it either. Even the locals avoid it."
'Then why'd you try to feed it to me?'
Helen clenched her fist, forcing a smile.
Afterward, Edford boldly tried the eel jelly, only to turn pale and bolt from the room.
Cynthia teasingly offered some to Masera, but he silently finished it all and remarked,
"Every flavor has its exceptions, but this takes it."
* * *
"Father, what on earth did you tell Cynthia?"
After dinner, Helen stormed into her father's room and demanded answers.
He must have ordered her to study Media and win over the ducal house.
"What?"
"Those picky people absolutely adore Cynthia."
"Is that a problem?"
The Queensguard Count shrugged, genuinely puzzled.
Even if it was a facade, she was his daughter now—good impressions from the ducal house were pure profit, no loss.
"Helen, you don't seem to get along with your in-laws. The duke included."
"They treat me like I'm beneath them from the start—how am I supposed to? They're nitpicky, blunt, and I can't even tell if they're joking or mocking."
She hadn't realized it before coming to the capital.
The count had always said many were desperate for royal blood, that its value was immense.
But that was only as a possession—treatment didn't match the hype.
"They're haughty royals from a great power. You should've been friendlier. Cynthia, having spent so long as a maid, knows exactly how to flatter and win hearts. You should learn from that."
"Learn from a lowly maid?"
"Servants are masters of getting by."
To her, who had never bowed to anyone and had been coddled her whole life, it was utterly unacceptable to her pride.
The count stroked his chin.
"But was that girl always so brazenly sociable?"
"Who knows. Why would I know the personality of some maid?"
From different worlds, she was beneath notice—no one knew her true nature in detail.
"Vicente Brigadier General must have had her study Media. A war orphan who clawed her way up from the bottom knows how to navigate society."
The count smiled loosely at Helen.
"We just exploit the favor the underlings earn. Like always. Don't let petty inferiority and jealousy ruin you, as I've said."
Meanwhile, Karos brooded over whiskey.
'Custom-making a dress worth a whole house?'
It might be for show, but a man's intuition spoke otherwise.
'Their relationship could progress.'
If they fell in love, she might not come back.
"Of course, once you get what you want, I'll return her to you. By then, you'll be leading a massive railway venture."
That was one of the count's conditions.
In truth, Karos had a secret even his father didn't know.
'Too perfect to be coincidence. Like at the engagement party.'
In the past, he'd taken Cynthia to a casino and won big.
The next day alone, he lost it all. Taking her again, she magically recouped the losses. But there was a limit—she couldn't win beyond a certain amount.
Cynthia had said meaningfully, 'Using luck on gambling means losing something precious.'
'I need her back intact. Especially if she truly has luck.'
* * *
Night fell inevitably. Bedtime arrived, meaning Masera and I had to share a bed.
If one of us bolted now, our carefully built "lovey-dovey engaged couple" narrative would crumble entirely.
Masera seemed to think the same.
"I can't look like a fiancé who abandons his fiancée in a strange place."
"Yeah, I won't leave you alone either. Let's both look like the thoughtful type."
In truth, being alone was a bit scary.
Entering the room with Masera, I stared at the parade-ground-sized bed.
"Look at this huge bed. Sleeping at opposite ends is basically like separate rooms, right?"
"I'll take the sofa."
I'd tried to reassure him as much as possible, but he must still be anxious.
Consistent and firm, he removed his uniform jacket and warned,
"Please don't think of laying a hand on me."
"You don't trust me?"
"Yes."
The dialogue felt off somehow.
Will we make it to morning unscathed?
