Peeking out from behind the partition, I watched Lady Margaret tap her wrist impatiently, her expression quietly growing bored.
“You must be finished changing by now, surely?”
Time to emerge. I cleared my throat lightly and drew the curtain open with a deliberately modest air.
“Ahem. I… I wonder if it’s truly alright for me to accept such a precious robe…”
With a bashful smile, I spun once in place. Margaret’s eyes widened as she took in the sight.
“Heavens, no! Youth really is a blessing. It looks simply divine on someone young like you!”
“R-Really?”
“Then let’s head out—”
She was about to suggest we return to the gathering.
Sensing her intent, I swiftly crossed the room and sank into a sofa nestled in the corner of the dressing hall.
“…?”
“Well, I am in the early stages of pregnancy, you see. I tire quite easily these days.”
Ah, the sacred excuse of pregnancy—truly a divine shield in mortal warfare. Stay strong, my dear Rose!
I pressed my palm to my forehead, feigning fatigue with delicate precision.
“Oh, of course. I was the same when I carried my sons,” Margaret replied fondly. “I was just as slender as you back then.”
She lowered herself into the sofa across from me, her eyes softened by memory.
“I-Is that so…”
I nodded vaguely, letting my eyes roam the room.
Margaret might be
Scarlet
—the elusive author of the capital’s most addictive romantic sagas. No, not might. She
is
. I’m certain of it now.
The question is—how to use this knowledge without provoking her divine temper, while securing the invitation I need?
C’mon, brain. Work your magic. Work with me here…!
But alas, my spiritual core had been too heavily taxed by the elders earlier. My mental energies refused to coalesce.
I thought I’d noticed something earlier… but using that would be too—
“Ah! About that novel we mentioned earlier… the one by Scarlet. I actually adore her work.”
And there it was—the most basic mortal technique in the book:
Praise the cultivator to the cultivator’s face
.
Predictably, Margaret averted her gaze with a faint, embarrassed smile.
“But… it’s not exactly the sort of thing one can proudly admit to reading in public. Pulp romance is what it is, after all…”
“No, not at all! Have you read the
Saga of the Secret Night
series? It’s practically scripture for young maidens coming of age!”
“…Which part exactly?”
Truth be told—I hadn’t read a single page.
I cursed my past self for never reading even a few lines over Philip’s shoulder. I’d always dismissed romance as trivial—how short-sighted of me.
As I struggled to invent a convincing answer, a voice rang out from just beyond the room.
“…Lady Margaret?”
Vivian.
I wasn’t the only one who heard her.
Margaret rose from her seat at once, heading toward the door. Just as she neared the handle—
“…Lady Vivian—?”
Click.
That was my cue.
With no other option, I reached for the tiny groove I had spotted earlier beside the fireplace.
Slipping a hairpin from my sleeve, I inserted it deftly into the concealed mechanism.
That space.
It was a shallow slot built into the hearthstone—innocuous at first glance, but definitely not ordinary.
Click.
The mechanism released. What had appeared to be a dormant fireplace gave a subtle shudder and creaked open.
“…?”
Margaret turned toward me, her face caught somewhere between disbelief and shock.
And rightly so. Ordinary nobles don’t go around picking locks and uncovering hidden chambers in someone else’s dressing room.
But me?
Only I do that. Only me.
It was the kind of secret only those who’d grown up confined in a hidden chamber or had faced a life-or-death situation—like having to unlock a mechanism or watch their brother die—could truly understand.
“…Madam?”
She looked like she wanted to say,
Don’t open it,
but it was too late. My hand was already on the mechanism.
The noble lady known by the alias “The Collector,” famed for her racy romance scrolls—kept as a tightly held secret from the world.
So, if someone like her had a sealed cultivation chamber, hidden behind a concealed lock… what kind of treasure would it contain?
Private, shameful secrets she couldn’t show anyone.
I already knew the answer.
“…!”
And yet, when the fireplace wall finally creaked open, I still couldn’t hold back a gasp.
Because inside was—
“…Is this Eric?”
A photo of Eric, placed like an honored portrait right in the center—surrounded by art pieces from what they call the New Body School or the New Nude Movement or whatever.
Eric’s portrait placed on an altar of flesh-toned paintings. What kind of hidden cultivation chamber is
this
?
Click.
I heard the lock behind me. Margaret had sealed the entrance shut.
I turned my head, horrified.
“I told you not to open it…”
Margaret was approaching slowly, her face terrifyingly cold.
Panicking, I pulled something from my robes.
It was a letter. A handwritten scroll from Eric himself.
“I-I brought this!”
I held it out like a sacred talisman, trying to fend off Margaret, who looked like she was moments away from devouring me whole.
The name of that pure, radiant man in her novels was Derek. Derek…
But as I stared at the signature on the letter, something clicked in my mind—and in her eyes.
Because that same pure and radiant aura… was Eric’s.
All of those characters…
They were all Eric.
I stared up at the glowing portrait of Eric, framed amidst silk and blush-colored scrolls.
Chapter 9: The Muse of Pygmalion
——About an hour later.
I returned to the estate feeling like I’d aged five years.
The steward stepped forward, taking my gloves with concern.
“Madam… did something happen today?”
“Nothing at all. Just ask Lily.”
I tilted my head and gestured lazily at Lily, my expression sour. The steward scampered over to her.
“She didn’t cause any trouble, did she?”
“…Not really…”
“Oh, right.”
I suddenly stopped, as if I’d remembered something crucial. I stepped back toward the steward and, with half-lidded eyes, pulled out a neatly folded envelope from my robes.
I handed it to him with the kind of haughty look a sect master might wear upon returning from an unexpected breakthrough.
“Lady Margaret handed me this…”
As the steward saw the wax seal on the envelope, he clapped a hand over his mouth.
“…!”
It was the seal of the Beaufort Clan.
“You were… truly invited?”
He looked at me with awe, like a disciple staring at a sage who’d returned from a forbidden realm.
As if to say,
If this is a dream, please don’t wake me up.
I met his gaze with the face of someone worthy of worship.
Muhahaha.
You’ll never guess how I pulled this off, old man.
“Do you think Lady Margaret would hand out fake invitations? It’s for the Art Salon—one week from now.”
“The Art Salon! That means all the prominent figures of the social world will be gathered there!”
The steward cried out like he was witnessing a spiritual revelation.
“To think, there must have been an endless line of nobles throwing lavish offerings just for a chance to be invited to this Art Salon, and yet... Young Madam received an invitation with but a single letter…!”
The steward now had tears welling in his eyes—moved beyond reason.
Of course, it wasn’t as if I acquired that Art Salon invitation easily.
One hour earlier, at the estate—
“You’re Scarlet, aren’t you?”
I asked calmly, offering her the bound manuscript.
Lady Margaret answered without the slightest hesitation.
“Yes. And my male lead is always Eric.”
The gleam in her eyes at that moment—pure lustful devotion.
“I also draw inspiration from the art of the New Flesh School.”
Why is it that all the women around me seem one step away from arrest? A runaway princess… Ella von Denik… First in line for the throne…
Despite the absurdity of it all, I kept my composure and spoke with dignity.
“The fact that Lady Margaret is a bestselling author…”
Now, how to phrase this in a way that didn’t sound
too
much like blackmail, while still having the full flavor of it?
I arrived at my conclusion.
“Are your sons proud of you?”
At the word
sons
, Scarlet’s smile froze solid.
Suppressing a twitch at the corner of her mouth, she replied tightly.
“Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. Just asking.”
“If it were, I regret to inform you, my sons are stationed far in the western territories. If you plan on informing them, you’d need a carriage for at least a month.”
Damn it. Wrong target.
I must’ve grimaced, because Margaret found her confidence again and took up her teacup with grace, clearly thinking I had no leverage.
But my offensive wasn’t over yet.
“If Eric finds out that he’s the muse behind your literary fantasies, he’ll be… very intrigued, don’t you think?”
I rose from my seat as if I were about to go tell him that very moment.
Her face turned pale in an instant. And then—
“The invitation!”
“…”
“You haven’t received even one yet, right?!”
Bullseye.
A clean hit.
I turned with the most composed smile I could muster.
“So then…?”
I will never forget the look Margaret gave me in that instant.
A perfect businesswoman’s face—calculating to the end.
A look that screamed:
minimum loss, maximum gain.
Ugh. These women are exhausting.
Ella… Margaret… they were somehow starting to look alike in my eyes. I shuddered.
Just then, the distant cry of a horse rang out, and the steward's head shot up.
“Young Master!”
…?
All I heard was a horse’s cry—how in the heavens did he know it was Eric?
I eyed the steward carefully as he trotted to the door, making sure he didn’t have a spiritual beast’s tail poking from his backside.
He’s human… I think. But maybe a little like a hound.
Soon, the doors opened, and in stepped Eric—his aura weary and exhausted.
The moment he saw me, he halted, visibly startled. He took a step back—but then, realizing the eyes of the servants on him, sighed and came closer.
Taking my hand, he hesitated a moment… then awkwardly kissed the back of it.
“Have you… been well? My… lo—”
It was obvious he meant to say
my love
, or
my wife
, but the word got stuck like a pill in his throat.
Chapter 63