Even at Prince Alfonso’s command, Cesare did not immediately release Ariadne’s wrist. Nevertheless, Alfonso neither panicked nor grew agitated; he walked right up to Cesare and said in a calm, steady voice, devoid of any increase in volume.
“It seems you didn’t hear me. Let go of that hand, Count De Como.”
Four years younger than Cesare, Alfonso was still, by all appearances, a growing youth. The soft fuzz on his cheeks, his smooth skin, and the tenor of his voice betrayed his age. Yet, the innate grace of his carriage rendered his youth irrelevant.
Cesare was tall for his lean frame, standing at 4 *piedi* and 3 *dito* (approximately 183 centimeters). However, while he was still filling out, Prince Alfonso—half a span shorter—carried himself with broad, straight shoulders and a sturdy, composed stature, holding his ground firmly even when positioned next to the looming Cesare.
In the ensuing standoff, the Prince spoke gently once more.
“And it seems the Count has forgotten how to show respect to royalty.”
The comment hung heavy in the air. If a commoner failed to show respect to royalty, they could be charged with *lèse-majesté*. As Cesare had yet to be acknowledged by Leo III, he lacked the status of royalty.
Clenching his jaw, Cesare kept his grip on Ariadne’s wrist while offering a stiff, slight nod of the head—the gesture reserved for peers, not sovereigns. Alfonso glanced at Ariadne’s bruised wrist, then locked eyes with Cesare. The Prince’s voice was utterly calm, flowing with the cold, rhythmic precision of water droplets hitting marble.
“Count De Como. Not that greeting. This is our first meeting of the day.”
In the Etruscan Kingdom, official court protocol required both men and women to kneel on one knee and bow their heads for their first greeting of the day. A simple nod or curtsy was permissible only for subsequent meetings, for those granted exemptions due to infirmity, or for individuals of extremely intimate standing. Prince Alfonso was pointedly enforcing the rule. While he was usually known for his easygoing nature regarding etiquette, he was granting no such leniency today.
Gritting his teeth, Cesare finally released Ariadne’s wrist, stepped back, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.
Every movement was jagged, saturated with visceral resentment. His jaw muscles bulged, taut enough to snap from the force of his grinding teeth. Ariadne imagined that Cesare would be so consumed by rage tonight that he would find no sleep.
*‘Kneeling is the one thing Cesare hates most in this world.’*
And of all forms of submission, what Cesare detested most was kneeling before his half-brother, Alfonso. Ariadne had once mused that thirty percent of Cesare’s drive to usurp the throne stemmed from his desire to never kneel to another human being again—save for the Pope.
Alfonso did not acknowledge the greeting immediately. He left Cesare kneeling on the cold floor and turned toward Ariadne, who was gently rubbing the skin where Cesare’s fingers had bitten into her.
“Good afternoon, Lady De Mare.”
“I greet Your Highness, Prince Alfonso, the Little Sun of the Kingdom.”
Just as she moved to curtsy, Prince Alfonso caught her arm, forestalling her.
“Lady De Mare, we already met this morning.”
The implication was clear: while Cesare was forced to endure the humiliation of his position, Ariadne was spared the indignity.
Ariadne struggled to suppress a laugh. Fortunately, she managed to stifle the sound; only Prince Alfonso caught her amused expression, while Cesare, head bowed, heard nothing but the silence of his own defeat.
Prince Alfonso smiled and beckoned her closer.
“Lady De Mare, come this way. The Marquis Cibo and his wife are waiting.”
Ariadne nodded and stepped behind Prince Alfonso. Cesare remained kneeling. Only after Ariadne had reached a safe distance did Alfonso acknowledge him, his tone indifferent, as if he had just remembered the man was there.
“Ah, Count De Como. It was nice to meet you. You may go now.”
From her vantage point behind the Prince, Ariadne leveled a final remark at Cesare, whose face was mottled with veins of fury.
“Oh, and by the way, you’re the one paying for the repairs to the Marquis Cibo’s floor!”
Even in the Prince’s presence, Cesare struggled to keep his foot from lashing out at the gravel.
*That little brat.*
* * *
Ariadne and Alfonso strolled toward the main building of the Cibo estate, the air between them light with conversation.
“It’s truly impressive, Ariadne. Did you know it was a fake from the start?”
She had known, but it was impossible to explain. She could hardly tell him she had seen it in the future of her previous life.
“I was only suspicious. The piece was just too pristine, don’t you think? In the end, I’m just glad it worked out.”
“If you’d given me a hint, I wouldn’t have bought it.”
“I didn’t think you would!”
Prince Alfonso let out an awkward laugh. He felt like a fool whenever he stood before her.
“That’s true, too.”
A moment later, a different thought occurred to him. Perhaps they weren’t close enough for her to share even her suspicions with him. He asked again, his curiosity lingering.
“But why did you trigger it without being certain?”
Alfonso didn’t realize it himself, but he was hunting for a specific answer. That was why he persisted.
“Ah, that’s…”
Ariadne hesitated. *Because your half-brother was acting like trash* would have been accurate, but there was a more honest answer to give.
“Because I thought you might buy it.”
Prince Alfonso’s face flushed red. It was the answer he had been subconsciously craving. *You are special.* The words he wanted to hear had fallen from her lips. He opened his mouth to press her further.
But before the atmosphere could turn heavy, Ariadne let out a characteristic, hearty laugh and tapped him on the shoulder. The boy swallowed his words, struck by a sudden sense of loss.
“You saved 2,000 ducats thanks to me, you know? You have to repay the favor.”
Her matter-of-fact tone snapped Alfonso out of his reverie. He laughed along with her.
“Is that how it works? That’s a massive sum. How should I repay it, my lady?”
“A one-time payment of 2,000 ducats in gold coins?”
“A highwayman is among us!”
Alfonso deliberately retreated, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
“The Porto merchant at least brought a fake statue, but you, my lady, are trying to take it all without offering anything in return!”
Ariadne laughed brightly, meeting his gaze.
“Grant me a wish later!”
“A wish? What will you ask for?”
Ariadne shrugged, her expression casual.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Alright, I understand.”
Prince Alfonso agreed to the vague promise without hesitation. Had his ministers been watching, they would have collectively cried out for him to reconsider.
But right now, he would have given her anything. Any excuse to remain entangled with her was welcome. If she asked for the kingdom, he would use the negotiations as a pretext to see her for at least three more weeks.
“Haa, I think I have to go inside now.”
It was Prince Alfonso who finally ended the moment. He had a banquet at the Royal Palace that evening and needed to hurry back to keep his schedule.
Feeling reluctant to leave, he glanced back at Ariadne De Mare several times, then mimed the motion of writing.
“Write to me!”
“Pardon?”
“No—I’ll write to you! You must reply!”
Ariadne nodded, still in a daze. The Prince checked once more.
“You absolutely must reply!”
Though Ariadne continued to nod like a broken clockwork doll, Prince Alfonso seemed uneasy; he only boarded the carriage after extracting her affirmation two, three times.
As the gold-painted, four-horse carriage rattled away from the main gate of the House of Marquis Cibo, the curtain at the back was pushed aside. Prince Alfonso’s face appeared, peering out the window.
Ariadne smiled and waved, watching until the carriage vanished from sight.
* * *
Ever since news spread throughout San Carlo that she had uncovered the Porto merchant’s fraud at the House of Marquis Cibo, Ariadne had been on edge. She feared Cardinal Del Mare might drag her away again to demand the source of her ‘foresight.’ She scoured the house, gathering every book she could find on fine art, archaeology, and the history of the ancient Hellenia era, stacking them high in her newly acquired study.
Only after she had thoroughly cataloged every volume, chapter, and section—ensuring she could cite her sources immediately if anyone dared to ask, ‘How did you know that?’—did she finally breathe a sigh of relief and regain her composure.
It turned out that the man impersonating the Porto merchant, Vincenzio Del Gato, was a sculptor and the illegitimate son of a nobleman from Lastera. The two had been gambling buddies; after the perpetrator killed the real Vincenzio Del Gato in a heat-of-the-moment brawl over debts, he decided that since he had already committed murder, he might as well clear his name by stealing the victim’s art inventory, pulling off a grand fraud, and vanishing into the shadows.
‘Cesare must look like a dog chasing a chicken.’
Ariadne felt a sense of grim satisfaction. Cesare had undoubtedly orchestrated the investigation, hoping to uncover a web of merchant syndicates or complex political disputes to gain favor with the King. Instead, the affair proved to be nothing more than a common criminal’s impulsive act—a matter far too trivial for the House of Marquis Cibo.
The sky was high and the weather clear. It was a beautiful early autumn, the sweltering heat having finally departed. Then, one day, Cardinal Del Mare summoned both Ariadne and Lucrezia to his reception room.
Knock, knock.
Ariadne tapped on the door and stepped inside cautiously. Lucrezia was already there, seated.
“Father, did you call for your daughter?”
“Hmm. Sit.”
Aside from times she intended to goad him in front of others, she had always addressed him as ‘Your Eminence.’ But following his promise to host her debutante ball, her heart had softened enough to use the title of Father. Lucrezia, perhaps sensing the change or having already spoken with Cardinal Del Mare, wore an expression full of resentment.
“I have spoken with your mother. I am aware that as you have come of age, you require various personal funds.”
‘I bought a safe, and I bought art, too.’
Though she was retorting in her mind, Ariadne bowed her head lower.
“I am grateful, Father.”
“No, no. It is only natural for a grown daughter to have appropriate personal expenses. So, how about you manage your needs with your own allowance? You must prepare for your debutante ball, after all.”
Ariadne’s expression brightened instantly.
“I am nothing but grateful for your grace.”
“You have lived a life of deprivation thus far, so it is time you caught up. I will provide you with the entire budget for your debutante ball.”
Cardinal Del Mare cast a sidelong glance at Lucrezia.
“Your mother has not been feeling well of late, so I doubt she will be of much assistance with the preparations.”
Lucrezia was, in reality, as healthy as a pheasant. However, Cardinal Del Mare had correctly surmised that if he left the arrangements to his eldest daughter—who routinely bullied her younger sister—half the budget would vanish into Lucrezia’s pockets before trickling down to her tiresome circle of sycophants. As head of the house, he would be the one to suffer the indignity of a shabby De Mare ball funded by a depleted treasury.
Lucrezia, unwilling to admit that she had bled the family coffers dry to line her own pockets, had readily agreed to feign illness to support the Cardinal’s excuse. Ariadne, seeing the consensus they had reached, had no intention of exposing the raw truth and spoiling a meal that was already laid out before her.
And so, they exchanged pleasantries, feigning deep concern for Lucrezia’s perfectly robust health.
“I will start you with 150 Ducats. Prepare with this, and if it proves insufficient, come and ask for more.”
He trusted neither his mistress nor his fifteen-year-old daughter. Cardinal Del Mare deemed an appropriate budget for a debutante ball to be around 300 Ducats, perhaps 500 at the absolute maximum. He intended to keep her on a tight leash, monitoring every expenditure.
“As you wish, Father.”
But Ariadne was a pro’s pro, an administrator who had managed the entire household of the Etruscan Kingdom for nine years.