Eric never once doubted the steward’s sincerity. Back when he was fourteen, the old man felt more like a father than his own blood.
And yet… whenever the steward spoke of his mother, something twisted deep in his chest. If only he had believed her back then—
“What nonsense! This is why I can’t stand righteous cultivators!”
“The wicked commit all the crimes, but it’s always the honorable ones who carry the guilt. They act like the weight of the heavens is theirs alone to bear. That’s not virtue—that’s arrogance.”
…But those bitter thoughts were quickly overshadowed by Imelin’s voice, echoing in his heart.
Eric let out a quiet, hollow chuckle.
He looked down at Imelin, sleeping soundly on the bed, and found the smile wouldn’t leave his lips.
You’re ridiculous,
he thought.
You say things like that to me… and yet you yourself are shackled by the same sense of duty to your kin. You’re so full of contradictions it’s laughable.
“Ah, and Lady Imelin also discovered the discrepancies in the treasury records! She went through every line and corrected them. Now, the taxes collected from the commoners are finally being put to proper use!”
Eric remembered the steward’s proud voice from earlier.
Always trembling, always looking like a rabbit caught in a storm… but never once turning away from what had to be done.
She was never a coward.
And that, too, amused him.
Eventually, Eric’s smile faded, and he shook his head. No matter what else happened today… sleep in this room was not destined for him.
He retrieved the ledger from inside his robes—the one the steward had given him—and walked toward the window. As he sat by the sill, Imelin stirred and muttered in her sleep.
“...Just a little further… I think I can see it now…”
He had no idea what kind of dreams she kept having, but she always seemed to be chasing something even in her sleep.
Shaking his head, Eric opened the ledger and began to scan it.
He was hoping to find any mention of the “Blue Oak” transactions hidden among the estate’s financial records.
But even after poring over mountains of entries until the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon—and even after Imelin began to rouse—there wasn’t a single mention of the Blue Oak.
“Of course. Oscar handles those records personally.”
Eric thought as much.
Stretching his back, he rose from the window seat just as Imelin began shifting under the covers.
He moved toward the balcony, squinting into the golden sunrise.
“Another night, cleanly lost to cultivation… or accounting, in this case.”
Then something caught his eye.
In the corner of the balcony sat a familiar wooden box.
He crouched before it.
Undergarments, was it? Who leaves those lying out in the open like this?
Eric picked it up. He figured he’d bring it back inside.
But the moment he lifted the box, something fell from it with a soft
thud
, landing near his feet.
“…?”
He looked down.
A picture frame.
On the back, someone had scribbled:
“My dearest stag.”
Eric’s face contorted slightly as he picked it up.
And then he saw it—the front of the frame revealed the portrait.
It was… him.
Eric d’Orléans.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored formal robe, sipping coffee with an absurdly composed air.
“…Hah…”
Eric let his hand drop, still holding the frame, and rubbed his forehead with the other.
Now he understood where Imelin had gotten the picture.
As he lowered his head, his ears turned a bright, telltale red.
Three days later—
Under the steward’s merciless cultivation schedule, I was now studying dining etiquette, advanced social techniques, and the major art sects.
Dining etiquette was manageable—I already had a basic foundation. But the so-called "social techniques" like the proper way to hold a fan or place a teacup? Those were no different from a secret language used by shadow sects and covert spies. I lost count of how many times I almost dropped everything and ran.
I used to attend plenty of banquets and gatherings with my mother…
And I’d taken all those classical disciplines under private tutors, while they pinched my thighs to keep me awake.
But this steward’s instruction? It was on another plane entirely—far above my mother’s forceful method or even the covert violence of my tutors.
“Young Madam! How could you forget what I just taught you?!”
“It’s been three seconds. I said
three seconds ago
that opening your fan that way is an offense to the host—”
“…You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Please tell me you are!”
He tried to cram more information into my head than when he was teaching calligraphy, and when I couldn’t keep up, his eyes would well with sorrow, despair, and disappointment all at once.
Honestly… I’d rather be physically beaten…
But the absolute worst of them all was the art cultivation.
The steward, likely aware of Lady Margaret Beaufort’s obsession with the Neo-Corporeal School, brought in various scrolls from that sect and made me identify their artists and techniques. But really…
“They’re all just naked people! Come on!”
…It was just a flood of skin tones. That’s all I saw.
They went on and on about the painter’s brushstroke technique and the emotional depth of the color palette, but to me it was just—
Naked body here. Naked body there. Naked body doing something weird over
there
.
“Naked, you say?! That particular painting is worth 120,000 gold!”
“…?!”
These cursed nobles.
If they’re so desperate to see naked bodies, can’t they just take a shower and look at themselves in the mirror?
Why in the heavens would you spend 120,000 gold on this?
“Come now, again from the beginning. This first painting—with its weighty expression and muted tones—is by…”
Why won’t he give up on me? I’ve already given up on me.
Why won’t
he
?
“…Answer?!”
“Uh, ah… I know. Alex.”
“Anthony.
Anthony!
His late-period style shifted dramatically—!”
Before he could launch into another sermon, I quickly corrected myself.
“Right, Anthony! That’s exactly what I was about to say. If you gave me three more seconds, I would’ve—”
“Don’t lie!”
“Hey! Watch your tone with the Young Madam!”
I placed my hands on my waist, letting out a scolding
tch
, but the steward just scoffed.
“Where’d you even learn that speech pattern? Save it. Moving on to the next scroll!”
Tch. So that doesn’t work either.
Isn’t this how it’s supposed to go? You say something like,
‘How dare you! Obey my command!’
and your subordinates freeze up?
I thought that’s what being someone of high status was about.
I didn’t know you had to suffer through endless training and study like this…
sob…
As I tried to endure the steward’s long-winded lecture, I spotted Nina walking by the window and my eyes lit up.
Quickly opening it, I called out:
“Hey, Nina! Oh dear, Rose says she’s hungry again! How about egg tarts for dessert today?”
I winked at her. Ever since I told her that anything she stole from my meals was fair game, she’d taken my mealtimes very seriously.
Behind me, I heard the steward sigh in defeat.
“Young Madam… It hasn’t even been an hour since the art lesson began.”
“Eek! An entire incense stick has burned out already? No wonder my limbs feel stiff. Aiya…”
I stretched dramatically as I rose, flexing arms and legs with exaggerated motion. Then I turned to the steward and began mimicking Rose’s baby-like tone.
“Our little Rose is hungry~!”
“...Young Mistress!”
“Yes, yes... our Rose is hungry, huh? Mama’s hungry too...”
Still muttering nonsense, I stepped out into the corridor—only to run straight into Eric, who had just returned from his cultivation practice. The moment he saw me, he halted in surprise and instinctively stepped back.
What? Do I look like some demonic beast to you?
Then it happened.
From behind me, the steward’s desperate voice rang out.
“Young Mistress! Please, just one more painting... just one more and then you can go…!”
Nope! Absolutely not!
I quickly grabbed Eric’s hand and gave the steward a wicked grin before striding off toward the garden, dragging Eric along.
“What—what are you doing?” Eric frowned, clearly caught off guard.
“Escaping the steward. He’s surprisingly soft toward you, Young Lord.”
Which was, frankly, very strange.
Back at Viscount Wedgwood’s manor, we had a similar household manager, but that one wouldn’t lift a finger unless directly ordered by the master of the house. This steward, on the other hand, was more like... well, if I exaggerate just a little, he’s like a nagging grand-aunt with too much free time.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the steward watching us through the corridor window with a mournful expression.
Eric sighed.
“Don’t torment him. Since our marriage, I swear he’s aged ten more years.”
I watched the steward’s expression and decided to amend my earlier comparison. He didn’t look like a nagging grand-aunt.
No—he looked like a regretful ex-lover who never moved on.
His expression read:
“Our poor Young Lord... he’s withering away…”
I stole a glance at Eric. Now that I really looked at him, he did appear more worn down than usual. He was always lean to begin with, sharp-jawed with barely any flesh on his face, but now… he looked even more drawn.
Is his training too harsh lately?
It would make sense. Since our marriage, he hadn’t spent much time in the manor. Of course, he wasn’t out drinking or loafing about—he was at the imperial palace assisting with the Royal Guard's training, or practicing at the ducal martial grounds.
He left before dawn and returned just in time for the evening meal. After that, he would lock himself in his study until late.
Which is good, in a way. We’ve avoided some awkward “nighttime” issues because of it...
Still, he looked exhausted.
I tilted my head as I observed him.
Where exactly was Eric sleeping? It didn’t seem like he stayed in any of the guest rooms, and his study didn’t have a proper bed...
Don’t tell me—
I looked closer at the dark circles beneath his eyes.
They weren’t the usual tired-man shadows that dulled one’s looks. On him, they added a strangely decadent charm. But charming or not, they definitely didn’t scream “healthy.”
I cautiously asked:
“…You haven’t been skipping sleep lately, have you?”
Eric flinched.
“What?”
“I mean, it just seems like you haven’t been sleeping properly. Where could you even be sleeping? You’re not some legendary divine hero who can go days without rest…”
“…I’m not immune,” he cut in firmly. “I sleep in the study when I can. Lately, it’s been harder to stay asleep for long. Too much work.”
He looked genuinely exhausted.
Seeing him like that… made my heart ache, just a little.
"Really? Then try the one my mother gave me. She's always had a knack for strange folk remedies and ancient medicinal brews..."
Eric shook his head.
"It's not that bad."
Suit yourself.
Once the steward was out of sight, I let go of Eric’s hand and climbed up onto a large spirit stone at the edge of the courtyard garden.
“Ahhh! Nothing like fresh spiritual air!”
Eric stared at me for a while before frowning.
“You really hate cultivation studies that much?”
“Is there actually anyone who enjoys them?”
I shot back, and Eric subtly averted his gaze.
Ah... there he is. The model disciple. The one who
does
enjoy them.
I pouted.
“It’s especially bad when it’s the steward teaching.”
“That’s unfortunate. We’ll need to begin dance cultivation soon too.”
Dance... cultivation?
On top of everything I already have to master? I shook my head furiously.
“Why?!”
“We’ve been asked to lead the first dance at the princess’s birthday banquet. I told you this, didn’t I?”
…Did he?
Maybe I blocked it out because I was too shocked about the idea of even attending such an event.
I waved my hands dismissively.
“Let’s just wing the dance. Who knows? I might have a hidden talent. Maybe I’m secretly attuned to musical resonance.”
Yeah. Philip once said dance is about surrendering your body to the melody, letting your qi harmonize with rhythm.
Eric looked at me like I was talking nonsense.
“Dancing isn’t about talent. It’s about mastering the proper footwork.”
I scoffed and crossed my arms, casting him a teasing look.
“You
do
know how to dance, don’t you?”
“…?”
Eric stared at me like I’d just accused a sword cultivator of not knowing how to draw his blade.
Honestly, I couldn’t imagine this icy, high-born jaguar of a man sweeping across the sect’s banquet floor with any grace.
Eric replied, clearly exasperated,
“I’m a martial cultivator. Dancing uses the body too.”
“Sure, sure… if you say so.”
Eric’s face twisted in disbelief, but I met his look with skepticism.
Turns out, Eric
was
honest to a fault. He’d committed nearly every form of courtly dance to memory...
“Little Mistress!”
…And of course,
I
was the bottleneck in our cultivation pair.
Eric and I trained together in the grand ballroom of the Duke’s manor. Our dance instructor, unsurprisingly, was none other than the ever-grim steward.
I felt my hand sweating as it gripped Eric’s. I quickly wiped it on my skirt just as the steward began counting beats.
“All right. Again. One…”
“…Agh!”
I stepped—once more—directly onto Eric’s foot with the heel of my shoe.
I looked up at him, cringing. I’d lost count of how many times it had happened now...
But Eric’s face remained unmoved as he calmly said,
“Start with the right foot.”
“I
knew
that, but my right foot just doesn’t move when I tell it to...”
“That’s what it means to lack body cultivation.”
Eric replied, face smug with the pride of a martial master.
Chapter 65