It was not only the victorious Ariadne who returned to the banquet hall. Isabella, having suffered a crushing defeat in their war of nerves, crawled back into the ballroom as well, showing no shame.
However, unlike Ariadne—who stood in the center of the hall like a triumphant general, escorted closely by Prince Alfonso and mingling with the most influential nobles—Isabella was huddled in a corner of the powder room, cramped together with other girls of her age.
“That wicked bitch!”
Isabella gathered her personal circle and unleashed her fury. There were just over a dozen girls, the core clique of San Carlo’s social set.
The clothes they wore became the standard for every young lady who aspired to their status. By the following year, their style would spread as the ‘latest San Carlo fashion’ to every corner of the Etruscan Kingdom, even crossing the Prinoyak Mountains to the Montpellier palace in the Galico Kingdom, where culture was less refined than in the Etruscan Kingdom.
They were a group of supposedly sophisticated young ladies, yet Isabella had let such a crude epithet slip before them. Her companions stared in shock at the vulgarity. Isabella, realizing her slip, cleared her throat and tapped her lips with her fan. She desperately wanted to vent about the insane, terrifying insubordination she had just endured, but these girls had been raised far too delicately.
If she confessed the truth, they would surely think she had lost her mind. They would murmur, “Are you dreaming, Mademoiselle De Mare?” or “Your own sister tried to push you down the stairs while saying such frightening things?” Moreover, she could never admit to being verbally assaulted by someone she had always looked down upon. That was far too humiliating.
But she could not bear to keep it all inside. So, omitting the fact that she had been the target of such insults, Isabella began to whisper gossip about Ariadne, seizing upon every petty grievance she could conjure.
“I only wore the white dress because Ariadne insisted it would be fine! I don’t understand why she would speak to me like that!”
Because the young ladies gathered there were Isabella’s loyalists, they had little choice but to accept her narrative. A few privately suspected that Isabella was talking nonsense or outright lying, but they dared not voice their doubts, lest they be labeled traitors—especially with Isabella’s maids hovering nearby to back her up. Two or three, however, were truly, zealously devoted to her.
“The younger Mademoiselle De Mare is truly vile.”
“How could she do such a thing to her own sister?”
Isabella dabbed at her dry eyes.
“I have been so good to Ariadne! I lent her my clothes, helped her adapt to San Carlo, assisted with her studies… And yet, she is so ungrateful. The moment the Prince appeared, her entire attitude changed!”
Beyond the sycophants were those burning with pure jealousy. Even if they weren’t Isabella’s ‘maids,’ there were plenty of young ladies seething that a girl from a rural background, who had only just debuted, had waltzed in holding the Prince’s hand and danced the first waltz with Count Cesare. Had a girl of established standing captured the Prince’s attention, they might have admired it. But a cardinal’s illegitimate daughter who had been mucking about on a farm? And one who wasn’t even that stunning? To resolve their cognitive dissonance, they began to circulate rumors of conspiracies, backroom deals, and disgraceful transactions.
Further out were the largest number of young ladies, who simply wanted to follow the crowd. Once Isabella opened the floodgates, the jealousy of the others and their desperate need to fit in caused the malice to flow over, filling the social sphere.
“Who wears such a deep neckline when they’re insecure about their chest? It must be a complete lie.”
“I don’t believe her when she claims she didn’t do it. Is a dress really something that tears that easily?”
“Why is the Prince siding with that girl so much? Did she seduce him with her body?”
Isabella relished the young ladies’ denunciation session; it acted like a painkiller for her soul. As she maligned Ariadne, Isabella felt her bruised ego beginning to mend.
Just as Isabella was tossing out fresh fuel for the fire—whispering about how Ariadne was wearing plain cotton or that she’d patronized the cheap Ragione Tailoring—Julia De Baldessar, who had been sitting in silence, stood up.
“I have truly had enough of this.”
Julia De Baldessar was one of the two young ladies Isabella kept as her “best friends.” Isabella had chosen Camellia and Julia as her closest confidantes; Camellia, because she had a wealthy, handsome boyfriend and catered to Isabella’s every whim, and Julia, because the House of Baldessar was a prestigious, wealthy family of high standing.
Julia De Baldessar fired a single remark at Isabella before turning to leave.
“Mademoiselle De Mare, your shoulder strap is showing.”
Isabella reflexively looked down. Indeed, a deep pink strap was peeking out from the shoulder line of her daring, pure-white organza dress. It was the strap for her “chest pouch.”
“Oh!”
Isabella’s face flushed a violent red. She had confided in Julia, believing them to be close, and had even told her the secret of the chest pouch. Isabella had claimed it was a magnificent item imported from the Moor Empire. While Julia had dismissed the idea without a second thought, Camellia had cheered and promised to buy one—though she never actually followed through. Isabella had mistakenly assumed that moment had brought her and Julia closer.
*She trusted me, and this is how she… stabs me in the back?!*
Leaving a mortified Isabella behind, Julia De Baldessar walked out of the powder room without a single backward glance.
A few of the other girls exchanged wary glances, stood, and trailed after Julia. It was only four or five of them—not quite half, but certainly a third—yet it felt like a mass desertion.
“Y-y-you traitors…!”
Isabella’s rage pierced the ceiling. Camellia De Castiglione looked around with anxious eyes, while the remaining girls began to curse Ariadne and the deserters even more loudly, desperate to suppress their own growing unease.
Outside the room, Julia De Baldessar headed toward the central banquet hall. There, Ariadne was chatting, surrounded by a circle of middle-aged matrons.
Julia approached Ariadne and greeted her with directness.
“I am Julia, the eldest daughter of the House of Baldessar.”
“Signora Julia…!”
Ariadne, caught off guard by the unexpected approach, offered a polite, surprised greeting.
“I have heard much about you.”
Julia glanced toward the powder room where Isabella’s faction remained, muttering to herself, *Though there was nothing of value to be heard.*
The young lady of Baldessar simply stated her purpose.
“I hope we can become close. I look forward to working with you in the future.”
In her past life, Ariadne had never really had female friends. She had risen to a position of power too quickly and had handled her relationships poorly; she had been surrounded only by those who envied her or sought to use her for their own gain.
To have a girl of her own age approach her like this—someone like Julia, who had nothing to gain from the association—touched Ariadne deeply.
“I have heard much of your reputation, Lady Baldessar. It is an honor to meet you.”
Ariadne warmly clasped Julia De Baldessar’s hand, offering a greeting before hesitating for a moment and adding,
“Thank you for your kindness.”
To some, this might sound absurdly humble—as if to say, ‘Thank you for acknowledging me’—but Ariadne was well aware of what it meant for these women, Isabella’s inner circle, to be exchanging pleasantries with her. Three or four other young ladies who had followed Julia from the powder room surrounded Ariadne and introduced themselves in turn.
After the greetings, Julia extended an invitation in a casual tone, as if it were a matter of no importance.
“Oh, it’s not set in stone yet, but we are thinking of hosting a tea party at my home sometime next week. It’s nothing grand, just a few close friends gathering. Would you honor us with your presence?”
A look of genuine pleasure, perhaps even brighter than the thrill of gaining her father’s recognition or capturing a gentleman’s attention, dawned on Ariadne’s face.
An invitation to a young ladies’ tea party—this was a first in her life. Moreover, to be invited during the planning stage, rather than receiving a formal card for a finalized event—didn’t this feel like she was actually making friends?
Ariadne smiled radiantly.
“Of course, Lady Baldessar. I shall look forward to it with joy.”
* * *
From that point on, Ariadne’s debutante ball proceeded as smoothly as one could wish.
Count Cesare, who had danced the first waltz with Ariadne as the King’s envoy, departed as soon as the music ended, expressing great regret over a prior, urgent engagement. Prince Alfonso, however, remained until late in the afternoon, finishing all his duties before bidding her farewell.
Alfonso seemed to have a premonition of something. He held onto Ariadne, noting that they might not be able to meet for a while, and strictly urged her to take care of herself, promising that he would send her letters.
After seeing off Alfonso, who could not hide his reluctance to leave, the long, long day finally came to an end.
Then, it was time to calculate the profit and loss of the debutante ball. Ariadne returned 12 ducats to her father out of the 150 allocated by Cardinal Del Mare for the budget.
“Is this truly what is left?”
Cardinal Del Mare could not hide his astonishment. Since the year 1100, when he began providing living expenses to his wife, Lucrezia, this was the first time in 22 years that money provided for expenses had been returned to him.
“It must have been tight, surely?”
Cardinal Del Mare had estimated it would cost 300 ducats to be frugal and 500 to prepare it luxuriously, so he had given Ariadne only 150 ducats—half of his modest expectation—in advance. Yet, she had managed to have money left over. For a man accustomed to supporting an extravagant wife and children, this was simply staggering.
The secret lay in bold omissions. It was not just the ‘story-filled tapestry’ that Ariadne had skipped while preparing for the ball.
Ariadne, who had made Sancha anxious by waiting until the last moment to finalize the meal menu, had instructed Sancha a week before the event to visit several farms. She had told her to check if any had an overabundance of crops due to poor production control and to purchase ingredients from there.
“Pardon? You want me to check the ingredients before even deciding on the menu?”
Sancha had questioned her mistress at the unconventional instruction, but she had faithfully checked all the locations as ordered. While most farms had refused her, citing no room for bulk orders beyond their existing clients, one farm raising black pigs happened to have a surplus after their original contractor canceled at the last minute; they sold the stock at a steep discount.
“My Lady, did you know?”
When Sancha asked, her eyes wide with amazement after completing the contract, Ariadne answered nonchalantly,
“Even if I were a person from the future, how could I have known in advance whether a farm’s contract would be canceled?”
It was a common enough occurrence. Having spent nine years managing the household of the Etruscan Royal Palace, Ariadne was intimately familiar with these procurement tactics. While such tricks couldn’t be applied to massive state events that consumed a province’s entire yield, they were invaluable for managing mid-sized affairs.
Ariadne’s methods for curbing event expenses were endless. Once the household ledger was tidied, she presented her double-entry bookkeeping to Cardinal Del Mare.
“Yes, Father. It was made possible by frugality. The detailed ledger is here.”
Cardinal Del Mare’s eyes widened again. His young daughter, raised solely on the Bergamo estate, was presenting a ledger compiled using double-entry bookkeeping—a method only recently trending among merchants in the Republic of Porto. It was a style of accounting he had only just learned to interpret himself, due to his duties at the Great Basilica.
“Where on earth did you learn this?”
“I read a book I found in your library—”
His daughter was a genius, surely. Leafing through the statement, Cardinal Del Mare confirmed that the calculations were flawless. The ledger even accounted for the losses that would have resulted from clearing the white crape myrtle shrubs on the Bergamo estate. Shaking his head in disbelief, he beckoned to the maid standing nearby.
“Summon Madam Lucrezia to this room at once.”