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"I'd like to take measurements first. Who would prefer to begin?"
"Mother. Start with Mother."
Roenna cast a quick, uncertain glance at Idre before whispering to her daughter:
"Are we truly having dresses made to measure?"
"Yes. Don't worry."
Roenna nodded slowly and rose from her seat.
"If you'll come this way, madam." Idre gestured toward a cleared space near the windows. "Your daughter can browse the catalog while we work."
As Idre wrapped the measuring tape around her, Roenna shifted her position slightly—anticipating each measurement, moving just so to make the process easier. The adjustments were small, instinctive, invisible to anyone who hadn't spent years watching noblewomen be fitted.
Idre kept her expression neutral, but her mind was racing.
*They gave no family name. I assumed they were commoners. But this woman knows exactly how to stand for measurements. She's done this a hundred times.*
The fitting concluded faster than expected.
Marin took her mother's place with the same easy familiarity—arms out, chin up, small turns when needed. As though being measured by a personal clothier was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm terribly thin, aren't I?"
The awkwardness of standing in silence prompted Marin to speak first.
"What?" Idre's eyes widened with genuine surprise. "Not at all. Half the young noblewomen in the capital would envy your figure."
*Many of them eat only once a day to achieve what you have naturally.*
Of course, Marin hadn't achieved her slenderness through vanity. Poverty had forced the diet upon her.
Still, Idre's earnest praise—delivered without flattery or calculation—made Marin study the designer with new interest.
*So this is why the heroine trusted her.*
Idre appeared to be around Marin's age, yet she carried herself with the steady confidence of someone far more experienced. Like a reliable older sister who had already weathered whatever storms might come.
"There. All done." Idre stepped back, tucking away her tape. "Shall we look at the catalog together?"
"Yes, please."
Marin sank back into the sofa and accepted the leather-bound volume. Each page displayed Idre's original designs—elegant sketches accompanied by fabric swatches and detailed notes.
*It's been so long since I've seen an atelier catalog.*
She found herself drawn in immediately.
"For Madam Roenna, since she requested winter styles, I'd recommend a high neckline with a thick wool blend." Idre traced a particular sketch with one finger. "This burgundy would complement her coloring beautifully."
"Wonderful." Roenna smiled, visibly pleased.
"For Miss Marin, I believe pastel tones would suit you best." Idre turned several pages and indicated another design. "This soft blue, perhaps?"
The dress featured a neckline heavily embroidered with seed pearls—arranged so cleverly they created the illusion of an elegant necklace. The skirt flared like a bell, all graceful movement and gentle drama.
"It's beautiful." Marin traced the drawing with appreciation. "But I'd prefer something more practical. For ease of movement."
"What are you saying!" Idre's professional composure cracked slightly. "Take this one *and* something more active. You need variety!"
Her blue eyes had begun to sparkle with the intensity of a woman scenting a sale.
"I think one practical dress is sufficient for me. But could you show Mother a few more options?"
Idre's expression flickered—disappointment, quickly masked by resignation.
"Very well. The advisor did warn me."
"Warn you about what?"
"He said that if you selected only a few pieces, I should prepare to sell everything I brought." Idre's lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Every dress. Every design in my catalog. Plus shoes and accessories."
"*What?*"
Marin's voice pitched upward. Beside her, Roenna drew a sharp breath.
"For me, of course, the more the merrier." Idre finally lost the battle with her composure. "Pf-fu-hu-hu-hu!"
Her laughter rang through the reception hall—genuine, delighted, entirely unprofessional.
"I... I'll look at the catalog again."
Marin snatched the volume open once more, her face burning.
"What, really?" Idre's expression fell into exaggerated sadness—though her eyes still danced. "And here I was hoping..."
She launched into a detailed explanation of each remaining design, pointing out features Marin hadn't noticed.
---
## — The Library —
By evening, Marin's shoulders had curved forward under an invisible weight.
She stood among the library shelves, turning pages without truly seeing them.
*The Duke has given me too much.*
The thought circled her mind like a carrion bird.
A warm home. Nourishing food. A generous salary. And now dresses—multiple dresses, for both her and her mother.
When she listed it all together, the scope became overwhelming.
*He's provided every basic necessity a person requires to live.*
Which meant, of course, that she hadn't possessed those necessities before.
*I was barely surviving. And now I have everything.*
Gratitude and shame warred in her chest.
She was thankful—desperately, genuinely thankful—for the chance to live a normal life at last. But accepting all this kindness while offering so little in return...
*It feels like striking a patient from behind.*
Her conscience didn't merely ache. It *burned*.
All she could do for the Duke was read stories until he slept. Such a small thing. Such an inadequate repayment.
The silver letter opener on his desk flashed through her memory. That thin blade, so close to hand whenever the pain became unbearable.
*What if he uses it again? What else can I possibly—*
"You're pale."
The clear, high voice came from waist height.
Marin looked down.
Zero stood there, his silver hair glinting in the lamp light, his lake-blue eyes wide with concern.
"Mr. Zero."
"Why do you look so exhausted? I'd expect you to be celebrating."
"Celebrating what?"
"I heard you spent the entire day selecting dresses." His small head tilted curiously. "Don't women enjoy such things?"
"Are there rumors already?"
Marin glanced around nervously.
"No, no. I simply encountered Olive, and he mentioned it." Zero studied her face with that unsettling perception of his. "Women are supposed to love buying dresses. So why do you seem sad?"
"I do enjoy dresses."
But even as she spoke, her lips pressed together in something far from a smile.
"Then explain your expression."
His eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but with the determination to understand.
Marin hesitated. Then, because lying to Zero seemed pointless:
"I received... too much."
"What nonsense." Zero waved a dismissive hand. "The Duke has mountains of gold. Probably more than the Emperor himself."
"*More than the Emperor?*"
"Desert trade is handled exclusively by the Vines duchy." Zero said it as though stating something obvious. "Every caravan crossing between empires pays tribute to this house."
"Ah. That's true."
Marin had known this—it was in the novel, after all—but hearing it stated so bluntly put things in perspective.
*If he's wealthier than the Emperor, perhaps a few dresses really don't matter...*
No. She shook her head sharply.
*Just because he can afford it doesn't mean I should take freely. That's not how debts work.*
She needed to repay what she'd received. Somehow.
Looking at Zero's upturned face, Marin found her thoughts drifting—against her will—to the one thing she'd been trying not to consider.
Mandrelson.
"Mr. Zero."
"Yes?"
"The Mandrelson poison... how severe is the stomach pain it causes?"
"Depends on the person." He shrugged. "Some feel only mild discomfort. Others suffer considerably more."
"I see..."
"Why this sudden interest in Mandrelson?"
His head cocked to one side.
"I just... heard that some common folk consider it useful." Marin fumbled for an explanation. "Medicinal, even."
Zero accepted this without suspicion.
"The poor can rarely afford physicians. They rely on herbs and remedies passed through generations. Some work. Some don't."
"Is there... a medicine that helps? For the stomach pain after Mandrelson?"
"Hey." Zero lifted his chin and looked up at her with exaggerated dignity. "I'm an alchemist, not a physician."
"Oh—I'm sorry. It's just that you seem to know everything, Mr. Zero."
He nodded, mollified by the praise.
"That's fair. There *is* a general remedy for intestinal distress. Not specifically formulated for Mandrelson, but it should help. Do you need it?"
"Yes!"
Marin nodded so vigorously that a strand of hair escaped its pin.
"Very well. I'll bring it to you."
"Thank you."
She watched his small figure disappear among the shelves, then steeled herself.
*All right. I'll test it on myself first.*
If she was going to risk giving the Duke something that might be poisonous, she needed to know exactly what that poison felt like. How dangerous it truly was.
Only then could she decide whether to proceed.
---
## — Later That Evening —
Marin returned to her room and set her borrowed fairy tale on the table alongside the small vial Zero had provided.
The shabby blue dress still lay on the bed where she'd left it that morning.
"Perfect for what I need to do."
She changed quickly, then retrieved a wicker basket from the corner.
The moment she opened her door, she nearly collided with Julia.
"Miss Marin?" Julia's gaze dropped to the faded dress, and confusion creased her features. "Where are you going?"
"Out. On business."
"Business?" Julia's eyes went wider. "Is this... business with His Grace the Duke?"
Her tone carried a clear subtext: *Surely you're not presenting yourself to the Duke dressed like* that*?*
"No, no. Different business entirely."
"Oh, thank goodness."
Marin watched Julia sigh with visible relief and felt a twinge of rueful humor.
*The dress really is that terrible.*
"I won't be long."
She stepped past Julia and made her way out of the outbuilding, basket in hand.
The evening air was crisp. Autumn was deepening toward winter.
Somewhere in the grounds, Mandrelson—that common weed with its yellow flowers—waited to be picked.
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