Lucrezia decided to be shameless.
“Yes, he is my nephew. Zanobi, the son of my second brother, Stefano.”
Giovanni, the Latin teacher who had visited earlier, was a cousin to Lucrezia five times removed, but this time, it was a closer blood relative. It seemed she was determined to look after her own.
Arabella, who had only recently finished her one-month confinement, butted into the conversation without any tact.
“Ah, that ugly cousin?”
“Shut your mouth.”
Lucrezia growled at Arabella from the head of the table, her voice dangerously low. Deflated, Arabella buried her nose in her plate and focused solely on her meal.
“Since we have so few relatives at home, what else can I do? If I had any kin on my father’s side, I would have brought them, but since I don’t, I have to resort to this.”
It was a thinly veiled jab at the fact that Cardinal Del Mare was an orphan with no relatives to his name. Upon hearing this, the Cardinal did not respond, offering only a low grunt.
“What has that cousin been doing lately?”
At Isabella’s question, Lucrezia provided a long-winded answer. Words like “promising future,” “kind-hearted,” and “diligently preparing for his path” were thrown about, but once the flowery language was stripped away, it boiled down to the reality that he was neither a knight nor an apprentice, but a mere squire.
A squire was someone who, in exchange for occasionally learning martial arts, performed menial tasks for free—leading a knight’s horse, polishing armor, mucking out stables, and the like.
If a noble boy from a knightly house worked as a squire, he would usually be promoted to an apprentice knight around the age of twenty. But for a son of a family lacking those connections, there was no telling when—or if—he would ever be knighted. In most cases, they spent five or even ten years bleeding their parents dry, chasing the phantom of social advancement.
In short, when a boy from a family with a little money wasn’t bright enough for a profession like law or trade, and was too proud to farm, the position of a squire was a convenient status to adopt to avoid picking a real career.
“Isn’t that a bit too low-ranking?”
In the end, Cardinal Del Mare could not hold his tongue. It wasn’t a remark one should make about a nephew by marriage, but strictly speaking, Lucrezia’s family weren’t even true in-laws; they had been sucking the lifeblood out of the Cardinal for twenty years. It was only natural that his patience had worn thin.
But from Lucrezia’s perspective, it was an insult. She lashed out, her nerves frayed.
“Are you suggesting I marry him off to her? He’s only filling the role of her debutante partner! If I don’t use Zanobi, do you have another relative to suggest?!”
Whenever Lucrezia acted like this, it was followed by three days of an icy atmosphere, a bombardment of nagging, and displays of self-pity. If that happened, the Cardinal would have to walk on eggshells in his own home. Clutching his forehead against an encroaching headache, he waved a hand in surrender.
“Fine, fine! There’s no one else, is there! It’s all my fault for not having relatives! Do as you please!”
* * *
Lucrezia’s efficiency was remarkable. Her nephew, Zanobi, had already set out from their hometown of Taranto a week ago upon receiving her summons. By the time Lucrezia unilaterally informed the Cardinal of her plans at the family lunch, he was already crossing the city limits of San Carlo.
Arriving at the Cardinal’s residence that afternoon, he was soon invited to a tea party to be introduced to Ariadne.
“I am Zanobi De Rossi, sent here at the invitation of the lady of the house. This mansion is absolutely grand. My, have you all been living in such luxury just among yourselves?”
True to a son of a house that relied entirely on Lucrezia for its living expenses, Zanobi was a man of insatiable greed, devoid of gratitude and quick to complain. He was in his early twenties, boasting a stout build, a thick neck, and stunted limbs. Between his small, shifty eyes, chubby cheeks, and a weak, receding chin, he possessed an appearance that made him look far younger than his years.
The three sisters—Isabella, Ariadne, and Arabella—sat in the girls’ parlor, each observing this ‘cousin’ with vastly different internal reflections.
Arabella was the most straightforward.
‘He’s repulsive, isn’t he?’
Ariadne felt a prickle of unease upon studying his physiognomy.
‘His eyes are murky.’
Before Zanobi had even settled into his chair, Isabella caught the scent of an easy mark.
‘That type. He’ll be easy to manipulate.’
Zanobi, oblivious to the thoughts of the three sisters under the Cardinal’s roof, strutted forward to greet his aunt.
“Aunt Lucrezia! It’s been five or six years since we last met at Great-Uncle’s funeral. You’ve been well?”
“Zanobi. I hear you’ve been living quite diligently lately.”
“Of course.”
Zanobi sat down and launched into a series of boasts. He spoke at length about the grandeur of knighthood, dissecting the most prominent knights of the day and rehashing their latest exploits, all while posturing as if he were one of their order. Despite being a guest in the home of his uncle, the Cardinal, he prattled on with unchecked arrogance, implying that a successful military career was a far more honorable path than the life of a clergyman.
After bragging to his heart’s content, Zanobi turned his gaze toward the sisters.
“Oh, right. I heard one of you is the lady I’m tasked with escorting to the debutante.”
He scanned the three of them up and down before dismissing Arabella with a wave.
“You’re just a little kid, so it’s not you.”
Arabella, who loathed being treated as a child, felt her expression crumple in irritation.
Zanobi shifted his gaze, his face brightening when he landed on the innocently and delicately beautiful Isabella. However, he had heard rumors. He knew the De Mare household consisted of a precious, beautiful eldest daughter, a mediocre second daughter who had only recently arrived, and the original youngest. Since Taranto was a territory at the far southern tip, the stories of the ‘girl who sees through the truth’ currently sweeping San Carlo had not yet reached his ears.
Even Zanobi, in his total lack of self-awareness, understood that the famous beauty was out of his league. He knew his designated partner was not the eldest, but the supposedly ‘wasted’ second daughter.
Smacking his lips in disappointment, Zanobi reached out his right hand toward Ariadne. He expected her to offer her left hand for a greeting.
“It must be you. I’m Zanobi De Rossi. Your cousin.”
Ariadne’s left eyebrow arched sharply. Behind her, Sancha’s eyes were practically spewing green fire; had Lucrezia not been present, she likely would have struck the man with a silver tray.
Ariadne tucked both hands behind her back. Zanobi’s hand was left hanging in the empty, awkward air.
“The hand is a bit…”
With a soft, composed tone, she offered a veiled protest—a polite way of asking, *‘Aren’t you being far too familiar?’* Zanobi was Lucrezia’s nephew, but to Ariadne, who shared no blood with the woman, he was effectively a stranger. They were not at a stage of acquaintance that warranted such casual intimacy on a first meeting.
However, feeling slighted that his gesture had been ignored, Zanobi’s tone turned confrontational.
“My aunt is your mother, which makes me your cousin! Hey, can’t a cousin address his own kin informally?”
His attitude was enough to invite a punch, yet in principle, Zanobi was correct. In San Carlo, it was considered a social virtue for an illegitimate child to act as though the legitimate wife were their true mother, and it was expected that those around them would uphold the fiction.
The problem was that a hand-kiss carried a distinct sexual nuance, and one would never dare perform such a gesture with a true relative. By demanding a hand-kiss while masquerading as a cousin, his motives were transparently impure.
Ariadne gritted her teeth, forced a polite smile, and nodded.
“Zanobi, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am not wearing gloves at the moment, so let us save the hand-kissing for another time.”
It was customary for a gentleman to refrain from requesting a hand-kiss when the lady was not wearing gloves. If physical contact were unavoidable, etiquette dictated that a gentleman should kiss the air just above the skin; however, given Zanobi’s demeanor, he clearly had no intention of observing such decorum.
The brat before her was the type who would undoubtedly throw a fit, whining, “I was obviously going to kiss the air—what kind of person do you take me for?” had she called him out on his intentions. Ariadne decided it was safer to play the sensitive lady and dismiss the issue with magnanimity rather than bicker over trifles.
However, Lucrezia was not one to let an opportunity pass without interjecting.
“It’s just a hand-kiss. Why be so difficult among family? You’ll hurt Zanobi’s feelings.”
“Ariadne can be quite prickly. If she doesn’t like something, that’s that—she never considers anyone else’s circumstances. She has absolutely no flexibility.”
Isabella, her mother’s soulmate, chimed in, joining the effort to paint Ariadne as a difficult, peculiar girl. Realizing that remaining here would only invite further provocation, Ariadne decided to stage a quick retreat.
“If you will excuse me for a moment…”
Ariadne requested permission to step away to the restroom and rose from her seat. She planned to lock herself away for an hour before making a slow, delayed return.
Watching Ariadne rise, Zanobi clicked his tongue.
“Wow. You really are tall.”
Ariadne spun toward him at the unsolicited comment. Even though she had strictly rationed her meals since entering the De Mare Mansion, she had shot up like bamboo nourished by spring rain, already reaching 3 piedi and 10 dito—approximately 166 centimeters. It was quite tall for her age.
Zanobi, who was tasked with escorting her as her debutante partner and dancing the first dance, happened to be stunted for his age.
“You’re that tall, and you’re still wearing heels?”
Ariadne involuntarily looked down at her shoes. They were modest, low-heeled slippers, measuring only about 1 dito, or 3.6 centimeters.
“Since I’m your relative, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Listen closely.”
Zanobi began his lecture with a triumphant air, as if he were bestowing an incredibly important secret that no one had asked for.
“Nowadays, women, you know? They think they need to stand out, so they wear these high heels, but that’s truly inconsiderate. A woman who knows how to make the man beside her shine—that is the truly dazzling woman.”
Zanobi boasted, puffing out his chest.
“Wear flat shoes on the day of the event. A truly wise woman would do that.”
Lucrezia watched this scene with a pleased expression, while Isabella was doubled over with stifled laughter, observing the spectacle from afar. Only Arabella and Sancha, who stared at Zanobi as if looking at something repulsive, were on Ariadne’s side.
Nevertheless, Ariadne maintained a mask of elegant indifference, leaving the room with a smile for everyone, Zanobi included.
As soon as the parlor door clicked shut behind her, Ariadne’s face twisted into a look of sheer disgust. She abandoned her plan to return in an hour and signaled to Sancha, who had followed her into the corridor. She instructed her to inform the others in fifteen minutes that Ariadne was feeling unwell and could no longer stay for tea.
She then added with a stern expression:
“I put up with most things, but this is crossing the line.”
“Yes, my lady. Even in my eyes, it is entirely unacceptable.”
Ariadne hurried back to her study, only to be met by a servant bearing a letter from the butler. The envelope in his hand was heavy, adorned with golden ornaments and sealed with red wax bearing the initials AFC.
“It is from the Prince, my lady.”
“The answer is the Prince.”
Ariadne and Sancha exchanged a silent look and nodded.