Since the incident of defeating the Apostle of Acereto and her subsequent audience with the Queen, the standard of living for Ariadne and Sancha had improved dramatically.
They were granted a room at the western end of the second floor, complete with a study and an anteroom. Though they referred to it as a “room” for convenience, it was effectively a suite, featuring a private sitting area connected to two inner chambers. Having once belonged to Ippolito, the eldest son, it was the largest and most luxurious of the children’s quarters.
“My lady! This is absolutely magnificent!”
Sancha marveled at the fluffiness of the duck-down quilt as she shook it out on Ariadne’s new bed. Even though it was fresh and required no agitation, Sancha fluffed it twice, then thrice, clearly relishing the texture.
“Silly girl, there is no need for you to do that yourself.”
New maids named Anna and Maria had also been assigned to them. After only a few months of service, Sancha had essentially gained subordinates. She glared at Ariadne, feigning indignation.
“My lady! How could you trust those girls with things that touch your own skin? Their duties end at the study door!”
Ariadne smiled softly at Sancha’s fussiness. There was no harm in being thorough, but she would exhaust herself at this rate.
*Knock, knock!*
A sharp, impatient sound echoed against the door. Without waiting for a response—as if the knock were merely a formality—the door swung open to reveal Arabella.
She strode in, clutching a lute that was nearly half the size of her torso.
“Hmph, don’t think I came here because I wanted to play with you. I’m only here to monitor what kind of foolish things you’re up to.”
Ariadne quickly shed the relaxed demeanor she had shared with Sancha, instead greeting Arabella with the bright, practiced smile of a doting elder sister.
“Why did you bring your lute? Do you enjoy playing?”
“You must be ignorant of everything, but I am a musical prodigy.”
Arabella wouldn’t call her “sister” if her life depended on it. Ariadne did not bother to correct her, even as the younger girl continued to address her with such casual insolence.
She had not yet decided if she should—or even if she could—play the role of a sister to Arabella. Ariadne detested receiving favors she could not repay; if she couldn’t reciprocate, it was far easier to refuse them altogether.
“Do you have a talent for it?”
“Just talent? I’m skilled at composing, too.”
The ten-year-old girl spat the words out with a pout. Ariadne wasn’t offended by her attitude. She had spent the last few months observing how Arabella was left to hover on the fringes of the household, neglected and adrift.
Lucrezia showered Isabella with unconditional affection while disciplining Arabella with a harsh, inconsistent hand. There was no logic to it—a reality that had been invisible to Ariadne when she was younger.
Furthermore, because Ariadne had been thrust into high society in her previous life without a proper noble education, she had lacked the ability to play any instruments, leaving her vulnerable to being dismissed as vulgar. Consequently, Arabella’s bold confidence was both fascinating and, in a strange way, enviable.
“Are you really that good? Play something for me.”
Perceiving the request as a provocation, Arabella adjusted her posture and rested the lute upon her knees. As she gripped the neck with her left hand and plucked the strings with her right, a liquid melody began to flow.
*Pling.*
It was a flamboyant piece that traversed the octaves. Amidst the rapid, shifting notes, Arabella’s tiny fingers danced along the strings without a single mistake.
“Wow.”
*Clap, clap, clap!*
“You’re truly gifted!”
“Lady Arabella, you are amazing!”
Sancha masked her candid nature and slipped back into “employee mode,” showering Arabella with hollow praise. Yet, because the performance was genuinely impressive, the applause that followed held a thread of sincerity.
“What song is that? It looks quite complex.”
Arabella blushed, hugging the lute to her chest.
“I composed it myself!”
“You did?”
Ariadne was genuinely surprised. “Truly? Or did you just take an existing piece and tweak it?”
“No! I created everything—the harmony, the melody, all of it!”
As Arabella bristled, Ariadne quickly soothed her. “Whoa, easy now. I only asked because the piece was so beautiful. You truly have a gift, don’t you?”
“Hmph, it’s nothing all that special.”
Watching Arabella—who shied away from praise but flared up at indifference—Sancha let out a soft chuckle. Arabella shot her a glare, but when Ariadne offered a stern look, she simply pouted and turned away, conceding the point.
“Actually, I want a pipe organ. I want to rearrange the piece into a *Missa Brevis* with the organ as the lead, accompanied by seven string instruments.”
“Can’t you use the one in the Great Basilica?”
A pipe organ was a gargantuan structure; its installation required careful planning for the wind chests and pipes long before the building was even complete. However, the household of Cardinal De Mare could leverage his influence to use the organ at the Great Basilica of San Ercole.
“I only have access when I’m in charge of the accompaniment for Sunday mass. Even if I lie and say I’m practicing for the service, I’m limited to three hours on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The priests and nuns are constantly occupying it.”
“Can’t you ask Mother or His Eminence the Cardinal to buy you one?”
Arabella’s brow furrowed, her expression crumpling with genuine hurt. Despite her visible distress, her voice remained guarded.
“Mother says… pipe organs are far too expensive. She said it isn’t worth the investment for a girl to have her own.”
Ariadne gazed steadily at Arabella. The girl was reciting Lucrezia’s words, a sentiment no child should have to carry. It was clear she had already begged for an instrument and been rebuffed.
“Mother says girls should be generous and share nice things with their sisters… and since Isabella doesn’t use the pipe organ, they said they couldn’t justify buying one just for me.”
Arabella suddenly pouted. “I’m not asking you, anyway! It’s not like you’re my sister! Even if you begged for one, Mother wouldn’t buy it for you either!”
Ariadne laughed softly, brushing off the meaningless jab.
She knew the truth: Arabella wasn’t really lashing out at her. The girl wanted to say, *Mother loves only me, don’t touch my pipe organ,* but the person she truly wanted to say it to was Isabella.
“I don’t even know how to play the organ, so even if they bought one, I wouldn’t be taking it from you. Don’t worry.”
To Arabella, who looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and relief, she offered a soft encouragement.
“If you truly want a pipe organ, have Isabella ask for you. If she makes the request, Mother will surely grant it.”
Arabella clutched her lute, her face a conflicted mask of hurt and greed.
Ariadne hugged her from behind. Perhaps because she was still young, Arabella didn’t pull away. Had she reached puberty or learned to wall herself off from others, such a gesture would have been impossible.
*A poor, affection-starved child.*
And yet, I am in an even worse position. How dare I feel sympathy for a child of Cardinal De Mare and Lucrezia?
* * *
Arabella was sharp. The reality of her mother’s favoritism toward her sister was an unchangeable truth, and no amount of denial would shift the weight of it.
On the other hand, if she could just maintain the subservient attitude toward her older sister she had cultivated her entire life, she might finally acquire the pipe organ she had always dreamed of.
So, Arabella decided to approach Isabella. Fearing she might falter alone, she chose the girls’ sitting room on the second floor, the habitual gathering spot where all three ‘sisters’ would wait for their tutor.
Isabella sat draped in a form-fitting, pale purple house dress, her flaxen hair braided and tossed over one shoulder. She was dabbing scented oil onto her eyelashes. The lashes shimmered, framing amethyst eyes that were incomparably beautiful, yet weary with boredom. Intimidated by her sister’s sharp, fiery presence, Arabella spoke with caution.
“Um, sister.”
Isabella lifted her lashes, still damp with oil, to look down at Arabella. Though her languid movements exuded annoyance, her voice remained as sweet as jade beads rolling on a silver tray.
“What is it, Arabella?”
“Um, could you please tell Mother to buy me a pipe organ?”
Ariadne, who had been eavesdropping over her shoulder while feigning indifference, shook her head. Arabella had miscalculated; she should have made Isabella *want* the pipe organ for herself. By asking so directly, she had only handed Isabella the leverage to extract whatever price she pleased.
Sure enough, Isabella’s pretty face clouded with irritation, but a quick glance toward Ariadne forced her to check herself. Isabella still felt the need to maintain a facade of refinement when Ariadne was present.
*There is no one who knows her better than I; no matter how much she pretends to be kind, it’s useless.*
Ignoring Ariadne’s scrutiny, Isabella replied with practiced sweetness.
“Arabella, a pipe organ is not a trinket to be bought on a whim. Luxury is a vice, and it hardly suits a virtuous young lady.”
“It’s not luxury! I truly intend to use it! I’m trying to adapt the newly composed hymns for the organ, but the ones at the Great Basilica are too antiquated. I can’t get the sound right!”
Arabella, on the verge of tears, looked ready to snap—to retort that Isabella spent gold coins on cosmetics and luxuries from the Moor Empire while calling a musical instrument a vice—but Ariadne gently pulled her back and pressed a finger to her own lips.
Stroking the cheek of her flustered younger sister, Ariadne intervened.
“Isabella, Arabella’s hymns are truly beautiful. They are far beyond the level of simple child’s play.”
Ariadne gestured toward the lute in the corner.
“Arabella. Play something.”
*Pluck.*
Without a word, Arabella obeyed, softly striking the strings. It was a flamboyant, multi-layered melody, one that sounded almost too grand for the rustic, delicate resonance of the lute.
As the music filled the room, Isabella’s eyes widened. She listened for only thirty seconds before waving a hand to silence her. Before the piece could reach its conclusion, she leaned forward.
“Wait. Did you compose this yourself?”
“Yes!”
“What are you writing it for?”
“A Missa brevis. It’s still a draft, so there are parts that require more work.”
Isabella’s bored, amethyst eyes narrowed, a sudden spark of intent igniting within them. It was the look she wore whenever she was cooking up something wicked.