A magnificent bouquet of red roses was delivered to the De Mare Mansion, accompanied by a dress.
The gown had been sent from Collezioni Tailoring and arrived in an unfinished state, prior to the final fitting. The attached note specified that it should be tailored and completed according to the recipient’s exact measurements.
Upon discovering the hundred crimson blooms, Isabella naturally assumed they were intended for her. She was accustomed to receiving gifts from both anonymous gentlemen and those who proudly declared their identities. Today seemed no different; since gifts arriving at the De Mare Mansion were invariably meant for her, her deduction felt logical.
Isabella fanned herself, gazing at the roses with a flutter of excitement.
“Oh my, how lovely! Such refined taste. Which gentleman sent these?”
To Isabella’s casual inquiry, the servant in charge of the mail felt a chill of foreboding and answered cautiously.
“It is a gift sent by Count Cesare De Como.”
Isabella’s eyes widened.
“Count Cesare? Oh my, why would he send me a gift? We’ve hardly had any contact.”
“That is….”
“Put the roses in my room. I’ll try on the dress right now. Could you please schedule a fitting appointment at Collezioni for me?”
Isabella, now in high spirits, made the request in a soft, polite tone—a rare occurrence. However, her pleasant mood was soon shattered. The servant squeezed his eyes shut and blurted out,
“Begging your pardon, eldest young lady. This is a gift for the second young lady.”
“What?!”
—Snap!
Isabella snapped the fan she was holding in two.
* * *
The actual recipient of the roses, who had just been the cause of Isabella’s ruined morning, felt no joy upon receiving the gift.
“He sent this to me?”
“Yes, second young lady.”
The servant had barely managed to escape Isabella’s wrath to deliver the package safely to Ariadne. Yet, despite his efforts, the gift failed to please her in the slightest.
“Red roses, Ariadne, is that right?”
“Yes, second young lady. There is a letter from the sender here.”
It was stationery from the house of Count Cesare, adorned with silver leaf. When she opened the envelope sealed with red wax, a note written in a polished, elegant script slipped out.
「From your debutante partner.
It was an honor to dance the very first waltz of your life with you. I have enclosed something befitting a beauty who resembles a red rose.
– Count Cesare.」
She let out a hollow, incredulous laugh.
— “Lilies of the valley resemble you. Obedient and knowing only me—that is just like you.”
Those were the words Cesare had whispered in the woods on the outskirts of San Carlo, picking lilies of the valley and tucking them behind her ear.
Small, white flowers. Flowers with bowed heads. Flowers plucked for free from an open field.
The memory of being treated that way was as vivid as if it were yesterday. Did the treatment change simply because her standing had shifted? Ariadne’s anger flared—a fury that ignored the fact that the Cesare of this lifetime had not yet committed his past transgressions.
These red roses were of the highest quality, pampered and grown in a private garden. He had gathered a hundred of them, creating a bouquet so heavy it would be difficult for a woman to hold alone. The arrangement alone was worth more than 50 florins.
‘If you had shown even half this much care in my past life, I would have spent my whole life serving you.’
In truth, it was difficult to blame Cesare for investing too little back then. The Cesare of the past had only given her wildflowers, yet the Ariadne of the past had served him loyally until the very end.
“Did you make an investment commensurate with the value?” she muttered, turning her gaze to the other gift.
“What is that?”
“It is a dress. I heard it is from Collezioni Tailoring.”
The mail servant removed the cloth covering the mannequin. A banquet dress, fashioned from blood-red crimson silk, was revealed. True to the reputation of Collezioni Tailoring, not a single stitch was out of place. It was a masterpiece, crafted with such calculated precision that the lace patterns shifted and caught the light with every subtle movement.
The bodice was a complex architecture of three layers: a thick outer silk, a pleated middle layer reminiscent of a tulip bud, and a base of translucent organza pressed against the skin.
The design was a safeguard; should the outer stitching fail, the underlying layers ensured that no accidental exposure would occur. It was a construction of meticulous, almost obsessive, consideration.
“He certainly put in the effort.”
But effort was one thing; acceptance was another.
“Send it back.”
“Pardon?”
The servant looked at Ariadne, devastated. She remained unmoved.
“He and I are nothing to each other. I cannot accept such an extravagant item. Besides, I have a standing agreement with Ragione Tailoring and am bound to their work for the time being. Explain this clearly to Count De Como, and return both the flowers and the dress.”
“But, young lady! The roses are fresh; they will wilt long before I can return them.”
The servant added hurriedly, “It would be no different than returning trash.”
He continued, launching into a lengthy explanation about the breach of etiquette. On the surface, it was a lecture; beneath it, a plea: *Please, I beg you, do not make me trek back to the De Como estate carrying these flowers.*
To return a gift was a public humiliation, and Count De Como was known for a volatile temper and a household of brutal men. Servants who could not direct their frustration at their master often vented it on the unfortunate errand boy.
Ariadne, sensing the servant’s unspoken desperation, hesitated before shaking her head.
“Very well. Send the dress back. Since you can return it directly to Collezioni, that should be less of a burden, shouldn’t it? As for the roses, leave them outside.”
“Not in your room, young lady?”
“No. Leave them anywhere out of my sight.”
Ariadne had more pressing matters today. She was in no position to fret over Cesare’s advances.
“Is the carriage ready?”
“Yes, young lady. Shall I tell the coachman you are coming down now?”
“Good.”
Today was the tea party for the young ladies invited by Julia De Baldessar. Ariadne felt as nervous as she had the day she stepped into the Great Basilica of San Ercole to welcome the Apostle of Acereto. Secretly, she wiped the sweat from her palms against her skirts.
* * *
“It is an honor to have you visit the house of the Marquis De Baldessar, Lady De Mare.”
The *il domestico* of the estate bowed low. Ariadne returned the greeting with a practiced, elegant smile.
“Please, step inside, Lady De Mare. Signora Julia is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
Today, her title was not ‘Little Lady De Mare.’ Since Isabella had failed to receive an invitation, Ariadne stood as the sole representative of her family.
She wore a modest, pale green day dress, finished with a net veil adorned by tiny, fingernail-sized green topazes. It was a look of considered neatness, ensuring that no one could accuse the House of De Mare’s only attendee of being unfashionable.
As Ariadne stepped into the drawing room, the gazes of the gathered young ladies converged on her at once. Some were welcoming, some merely curious, and others scanned her from head to toe, their eyes sharp with assessment.
As if to shield her from the scrutiny, Julia De Baldessar, the hostess, jumped from her seat and hurried toward her.
“Lady De Mare!”
Julia clasped Ariadne’s hands.
“I’m so glad you came. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Ariadne responded to Julia’s kindness with a radiant smile.
“Thank you for the invitation.”
“You must see some unfamiliar faces, don’t you? Let me introduce them.”
At Julia De Baldessar’s tea party, four or five young ladies were gathered. The brown-haired daughter of Count Rinaldi, radiating a fierce sense of justice; the daughter of Count Della Torre, whose family held a sprawling, prosperous estate in the northern reaches of the Etruscan Kingdom; and the daughter of Viscount Elba, a renowned lawyer’s child—all were relatively new to Ariadne.
“Not at all, Signora Julia.”
Ariadne smiled, mirroring Julia’s warmth.
“Signora Cornelia…”
Ariadne turned first toward the daughter of Count Rinaldi, offering a graceful handshake.
“And I had the pleasure of meeting Signora Gabriele at the debutante ball some time ago.”
The second greeting went to Gabriele, the daughter of Count Della Torre. Both young ladies seemed visibly gratified that Ariadne—the hottest topic in San Carlo, who had only crossed paths with them once—remembered their names.
She exchanged introductions with the daughter of Viscount Elba, whom she was meeting for the very first time, with Julia acting as mediator. Then, her eyes fell upon one unexpectedly familiar face: Camellia De Castiglione.
“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Lady De Mare.”
Technically, Camellia was Isabella’s friend. However, she was social, quick-witted, and exceptionally well-connected—the type of guest always invited to parties because she acted as a living archive of the latest gossip. Even Julia, despite her falling out with Isabella, had no intention of ostracizing everyone in Isabella’s orbit. Ariadne steadied her heart, which had begun to sink. It was to be expected, she reminded herself. I am only just receiving my first invitation here today, after all.
“It is a pleasure, Baroness Castiglione.”
Ariadne showed no sign of her inner agitation, greeting Camellia with a practiced, pleasant smile. The social theater of the city’s young elite was only just beginning.
* * *
In a room where several teenage girls were gathered, talk of men was an inevitable fixture of the conversation.
“I heard a marriage proposal came in for you, Gabriele!”
The daughter of Count Della Torre laughed, shielding her mouth with a modest gesture.
“A proposal, you say? It is merely an offer. Whether anything comes of it remains to be seen.”
“Even so, I heard the gentleman is the eldest son of the House of Montefeltro.”
The House of Montefeltro was an ancient, prestigious lineage, an old aristocracy with vast estates in central Etruscan lands. In a society governed by strict primogeniture, marrying the eldest son of such a house meant, barring any unforeseen disaster, that one would eventually become the Marchioness of Montefeltro.
“As the daughter of Count Della Torre, your own family is a great house of the north; it would be a truly blessed union between two old noble lines.”
Julia, possessing the sharpest political acumen among the girls—Ariadne excepted—quickly assessed the match. When the social standing and interests of families aligned so perfectly, proposals tended to transition into marriage with seamless, inevitable grace.
“I’m so envious.”
Felicite, the daughter of Viscount Elba, expressed an innocent longing toward Gabriele. Her father had climbed the social ladder in the capital through his own intellect, despite his inherited lands being unremarkable; if one were to categorize him, he was closer to a court noble than a landed feudal lord. Naturally, she harbored a deep yearning for the prestige of the old aristocracy. Becoming the mistress at the pinnacle of the existing order by marrying into a house with vast ancestral holdings was the romantic dream of nearly every daughter of the new nobility.
But Gabriele Della Torre only gave a bitter laugh.
“I wonder. Governing a grand, majestic estate might be a kind of happiness, but does having just that guarantee happiness forever?”
Petruccio De Montefeltro, the eldest son of the Marquis of Montefeltro, was a widower. Already in his thirties, he had a son nearing ten and a young daughter. Known for his grave and thoughtful demeanor, Petruccio was an impeccable marriage candidate, yet calling him the dream match for a girl in her late teens felt like a stretch.
Julia De Baldessar empathized with the sentiment. Did a man necessarily need such high status? Wouldn’t it be better to be with someone handsome and kind? However, she soon sighed, offering a remark to steady both herself and Gabriele.
“Love is merely a fleeting, ephemeral joy.”
It was a cynical sentiment for a teenager to hold, delivered with the assertive conviction only they could muster. Yet, as Julia prepared to continue, the words failed her. Her mother often spoke of happiness blooming from quiet, daily peace and a harmonious family rather than the fever of a burning passion. But for Julia, whose blood still ran hot, those calm tales held no resonance. Fortunately, Felicite bridged the silence.
“Even so, once you actually become a Marchioness and enter the balls of San Carlo, the reality will set in, won’t it? Everyone will be looking only at you. I’m so envious, Gabriele!”
“Indeed. I’m so envious that it’s all going so smoothly.”
This time, it was Camellia who let out a deep sigh.
“Why, Camellia? You have your fiancé, Ottavio De Contarini, so what is there to worry about?”
“That is…”