The art of leaving subtle hints interspersed throughout our interactions would be how I fulfilled my promise to Princess. The notion of allowing Fermina herself to draw the threads together once her suspicions grew seemed far more compelling than outright disclosure. Thus, I wove references to the Tarsian wars of the two Kings into our conversation, a subject we had touched upon only two months ago in private. I further drew upon my knowledge of constellations, secure in the ancient myths that gave the stars their names—details I was certain Fermina knew Princess had not studied. My intent was not to be overly conspicuous, but I was confident that I had sown the seeds of doubt within that angelic visage, whose gaze lingered upon me with increasing unease throughout our morning’s routine of dressing, breakfast, and our walk.

  “I am pleased that Lord Faringoth found the arrangement satisfactory,” Fermina said as the topic shifted to matters of business. “You were already in Bernan, so no one will object to Lady Lunatora moving ahead of schedule. Don’t worry about payment with her. We will talk later. The next one originally scheduled to be painted after Lord Faringoth was Lord Niyulgen,” she reminded us.

  Lord Niyulgen, a man nearing sixty, last crossed my path some years ago. Although Count of Ghersul—a distant region beset by constant earthquakes and floods—the man rarely set foot on his lands. The inhabitants had become accustomed to these natural calamities, turning the floods to their agricultural advantage, though they lived in tents and makeshift huts. The terrain resisted any attempt at constructing a noble’s stone residence, leading Lord Niyulgen and his predecessors to spend their days elsewhere. He had been with us for nearly two years.

  “Of course. I am ready whenever he is, even immediately, should he request it,” I acquiesced.

  “I will take care of arranging the meeting. You do not have to worry about anything,” Fermina repeated, her insistence on being useful betraying her ignorance of how little her efforts were needed. My father would gladly secure advantageous marriages for them, despite Fermina’s anxiety over her lack of occupation.

  Our discussion took place in the garden beneath the warmth of a sun that hinted at the coming of Spring. The sisters were in high spirits, eager to sing, and I found myself reluctantly drawn into their joyful chorus. My attempts were painfully inadequate, and Rascal, in her usual mischievous manner, mocked me mercilessly, likening my efforts to the lowing of cattle. Our banter was lighthearted, and I met her teasing with equal sharpness, though Fermina seemed genuinely concerned.

  “What is wrong with you today, Aufelia? You are not yourself,” she confronted me sooner than anticipated.

  “I simply lack practice. I was never much of a singer,” I replied, talking as myself, not as Princess.

  “What are you talking about? You were always pretty good,” Rascal interjected, though I disagreed.

  In days past, I had often requested the sisters sing for me, and I knew well their abilities. Fermina’s voice was in a league of its own, far surpassing any I had ever heard. Rascal possessed passion, if little else—her voice charming, and her grasp of solfeggio respectable at best. Princess’s skills were superior to Rascal’s but not by an extraordinary margin. They were fine singers, nothing more.

  I could assess their performances objectively, but I could never compare to either. My singing, despite Princess’s melodious voice, was nothing short of dreadful.

  “Do not feign ignorance. I will tolerate it this once, as no one was present to listen, but next time, do it seriously,” Fermina reprimanded me for the first time in my life. “Singing is a noble art, taught to us by our mother. Treasure it.”

  Unbeknownst to me, I had inadvertently disrespected someone’s memory.

  “That is not entirely true; someone did come to listen!” Rascal pointed behind us. “Look!”

  We turned to see a maid hurrying towards us, a familiar face—Raiya. It was difficult not to notice the garish necklace she wore, a string of glass baubles and multi-colored feathers. I had never seen such a peculiar attempt at jewelry, yet its purpose was immediately apparent.

  “Good morning,” she greeted with a curtsy, lifting her skirts. “Lady Aufelia de Irchard, you are being summoned.”

  I nodded but first turned to Fermina, as she had been speaking with me. She granted her approval, stating that our argument would continue later. That was all Raiya needed, and she beckoned me to follow. The sisters remained behind, Rascal curious about what business warranted such an urgent summons.

  “So, how have you been?” I thought it proper to ask the maid; she kept stealing glances behind herself, attempting to prompt me to begin. Those of her station were not permitted to take initiative in conversation to their betters, only greet.

  “Oh, Milady! It’s been… so crazy around here as of late!” she freely expressed, relieved she could speak. “Have you heard the rumors? You would not believe what happened to me the other night. I think people have been going out of their way to escape me since. Well, some of them. Some other people really want to talk to me about that time I modeled for you…” She looked back with an unspoken suggestion. “Even Lords and Ladies keep asking me about that. Do you… think we will ever get to finish?” she transparently requested. Apparently, she did not mind me using her now that I had obtained some notoriety. Fame overpowers shame, as they say.

  Though I would not have minded the diversion, it was not worth jeopardizing my relationship with Princess, who harbored a clear hostility towards this maid for reasons beyond mere whim. Offering false hope would be unkind.

  “I fear I lack the time. When I asked you to model, I was in need, but that is no longer the case,” I attempted to let her down gently.

  “Ah, Milady! Are you still angry at me for… the paint and the uh… what you heard me say?” she awkwardly but persistently insisted. “Is there really nothing I can do to change your mind?”

  “Tell her she’s too hairy,” Princess said from within. I suppressed a guffaw despite myself, drawing a puzzled look from Raiya.

  Clearing our throat, I addressed them both, for they were waiting. “I do not mean to offend, but you do not groom yourself with the care necessary for immortalization, my dear.”

  “W-what? No! Milady! I bathe every four days on the dot! Is it my black hair? Do you want me to dye it?” she showcased insecurity regarding her foreign features.

  “No, that is not it at all!” I replied reflexively, her vulnerability invoking a measure of sympathy. “In truth, I find it quite striking. You are attractive, if I may say so. It is just a pity about your… body hair. Do you maids let it grow unchecked? I am curious.”

  And curious, I would remain. We rounded a corner, and it became evident that someone had been waiting for us. The seneschal himself stood there, and his signal silenced the now blushing maid.

  After exchanging pleasantries, he spoke. “I trust your bath yesterday afternoon was satisfactory?” he remarked shamelessly.

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  “I cannot thank you enough, Sir Confred,” I replied coolly, offering a polite bow. “Thank you for accommodating us. I know Riatna can be rather insistent at times.”

  Being trapped in the bath would have been considerably less pleasant without Rascal to keep me company, I had to admit.

  “Think nothing of it; as you said, we had to ensure your health since Master Archiments wished to speak with you,” he hinted at the reason for my summons. “And Raiya, how many times must I remind you to remove that absurd necklace?”

  “It really works!” Raiya protested, clutching the peculiar accessory. “Lantur’s grandmother says it wards off witches!”

  “More of that foolish superstition,” Confred sighed, shaking his head. “If I must tell you once more, you will be stationed where the house’s guests cannot see you flaunting such ignorance. How would you like to be assigned to the stables or tasked with emptying chamber pots, Raiya?” The girl fell silent, and Confred turned his attention to me before she could respond. “I apologize that you had to witness this, Lady de Irchard. Shall we proceed?” he invited me to follow him instead.

  My father’s office was situated on the third floor. From the grand staircase in the foyer, one traversed the west corridor, then turned northward toward the master bedroom, passing two doors before heading west again. I had never ventured near it. Unlike Kyolhan’s study, which featured an antechamber, my father’s was smaller—or rather, it felt so due to the abundance of bookcases and decorative items.

  A sprawling table, large enough to serve as a bed, dominated the center of the room. Maps, scrolls, notes, and various statuettes acting as paperweights cluttered its surface, creating the impression that everything was precisely where it needed to be despite the apparent chaos.

  “Wait here. Master Archiments shall see you when his schedule permits. He wished for you to be ready in advance,” Confred instructed, gesturing me inside. “Sit wherever you please, but be mindful not to disturb His Grace’s belongings,” he warned, particularly emphasizing the disordered table. “I do not know how long His Grace shall be, but if midday arrives and you have yet to meet him, I shall send someone to relieve you so you can take a break.”

  Confred closed the door behind him. Although the sound of the latch did not reach my ears, I had no doubt it was sealed with a key. The time of a Duke was, naturally, of greater worth than mine; it followed that I should be readily available whenever a crevice in his occupations permitted. If such a request were made, I would be expected to wait indefinitely.

  “What do you think the Lord Duke wants to talk to us about?” I heard Princess’s voice for the first time since she advised me to perform her morning beauty routine. She was worried and scared.

  “If we are to consider his peculiar command for a lockdown yesterday, I haven’t the slightest idea,” I replied, my gaze fixed on an ornate crystal cup displayed upon one of the shelves. I reached for it, intending to have it close at hand so we could converse.

  “Dubart! Shh!” she scolded, as though I were a wayward child. “Put that back! What are you thinking? The Lord Duke will be furious with me…”

  “I do not know what notion you hold of my father, but he is not a petty man,” I defended his honor. “He shall not mind. At least, that is my hope, for this room is brimming with books and handwritten documents that are conspicuously absent from the library, for a reason. I would like to investigate further.”

  “What? No! Leave his stuff alone! This is The Steel Duke we’re talking about! He’s the man who k-k-killed the Duke of Beblon just for disagreeing with him!”

  “Former Duke of Beblon. Castor Roulta was nothing but an envious scoundrel who could not begin to fathom the end results of my father’s revolutionary methodology. If he wished to keep his foolish head attached to his shoulders, he should have held his tongue.”

  My father had seen his share of duels, but none more memorable than the one that saw the end of Castor Roulta, the then Duke of Beblon. This event transpired before my birth. My father had been striving to manage his territories with innovative strategies, yet Castor Roulta had taken every opportunity to ridicule him publicly. After enduring months of derision, my father had finally challenged the Duke to a duel before the royal court, with the King himself sanctioning the combat. The following morning, Castor Roulta’s head was severed from his body, while my father went on to prove that his city-planning theories were sound, as evidenced by the prosperity of his fiefs.

  Archiments Cafligen was famed for his skill in battle and mastery over the Path of Steel. Although his victories were numerous, none eclipsed the killing of a Duke. The act was, of course, fully justified, but I had heard whispers suggesting my father’s tyranny or capriciousness. In truth, he had exhausted every avenue of diplomacy before resorting to the duel, and I burned with anger whenever the incident was misrepresented. I explained all this to Princess, for she needed to understand the reality.

  “Fine! Fine! Calm down!” Princess’s surprise made me realize that I might have become overly passionate. “By Sabiens’s mantle! I’m sorry I brought it up. We still shouldn’t mess with anything that belongs to a Duke.”

  “I am not ‘messing with his stuff’, I am making use of it, and I mean to place it exactly where I found it,” I corrected her and stepped to the nearest bookcase to begin my examination.

  As anticipated, my father’s collection was meticulously curated. His office held an array of materials he would understandably prefer to keep within arm’s reach, rather than risk their absence from the library when he required them. There were a few classical plays and tales, but the majority of the volumes pertained to geography, history, and military accounts. Books were, in fact, in the minority. Instead, his collection largely consisted of reports and letters, bound together into tomes for ease of reference. The organization was impeccable, with everything dated and categorized by location and year. If my father wished to know the precise number of soldiers who had perished at the Battle of Yalthin some twenty-two years ago, he need only consult his indexed system to retrieve the information effortlessly.

  What was truly surprising was the inclusion of material concerning mathematics and its close cousin, Artalar. It was hand-written, of course. Anything regarding that topic was kept on the back, near a desk with an august chair. The manuals were not necessarily hidden, but neither readily available. They contained tables of reciprocity, geometric calculus theory for the drawing sigils, and solutions to undefined values by applying arcane anagrams; it was everything the aspiring magian could ever hope. Had I known of these compilations, they could have saved me considerable time of grueling work through more complicated compilations not pertaining to theory, slowly toiling as I deciphered their meanings.

  It was not unusual for a noble to possess such invaluable knowledge, nor was it surprising to find them secured within a locked office. What was peculiar, however, was that I had remained unaware of their existence until this moment. I had often requested that any material related to arcana be sought after and brought to my chambers; my father, ever devoted, was unfailingly diligent in fulfilling these desires. It was as though he had discovered these texts in response to my wishes and had purposefully withheld them.

  Engrossed in the wealth of knowledge before me, I lost track of time. At some point, I had placed the crystal cup aside and seated myself upon the floor, my attention consumed by the texts. One particular volume offered an elegantly simple solution to the principle of baresthesia that had long eluded me. Of course! How had I not realized it before? I could have slapped myself for the oversight! My humble Artanical answers to every sigil I had solved so far were now evidently mistaken, or at least wasteful—I was using them sub-optimally. Recalculating everything would be a monumental task, and it would cost me many sleepless nights. Yet, if I were to master the contents of these volumes, I might even be able to wield the Artan Legacy within my old body!

  I had scarcely enough time to react when I heard footsteps approaching. How much time had passed? I scrambled to return the books to their proper places, retrieved the crystal cup, and hastily returned it to its shelf. Then, with barely an instant to spare, I flung myself into a settee near the door, our heart pounding in our chest. Our rear end had barely touched the seat cushion when the door swung open. All I had heard inside my mind from the times I had seen our reflection was Princess simply screaming in a blind panic. “EEEEEEEK!” It was distracting.

  The boots that entered belonged to none other than the figure I had stumbled before the previous day. I rose to my feet, adopting a posture of humility and bowing low, my eyes closed in deference.

  “Good afternoon, Aufelia,” the Lord Duke greeted, striding purposefully toward the desk where I had spent the better part of the day. “My deepest apologies for keeping you waiting so long without a reprieve. I trust you found some means of entertaining yourself?” His smirk betrayed his amusement as he glanced at the disorderly arrangement of the books I had hastily returned to the shelves. “Come closer and take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

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