6.
* * *
The World Tree’s fruit is a miraculous medicine. After drinking the tea Eustis sent, Philomel felt the lingering haze of her illness vanish; both her body and mind regained a buoyancy she hadn’t known before.
During the Princess’s literature class.
Philomel closed her book and looked at her teacher.
“I’m finished. What should I read next?”
“You’ve finished already? Perhaps you merely flipped through the pages….”
“I read it properly. If you’re in doubt, ask me anything from the sections I’ve covered.”
Philomel answered every question the teacher posed with effortless precision.
The nanny and the tutors watched in silent astonishment. The girl who once treated her studies with open disdain and spent her hours fidgeting was gone, replaced by a Princess who threw herself into her lessons with a fervor that bordered on obsession.
When Philomel took the initiative to compile her questions and approach the elderly foreign language teacher for clarification on complex grammar, the man nearly fainted. She began spending her free time in quiet study, preferring the company of books to her old distractions.
Her time spent with Nasar Abridon was no exception.
“Um, Your Highness.”
“Yes, Young Master? I have a question—do you know when the Battle of Silia broke out?”
“……It was in the year 132 of the Imperial Calendar.”
“Ah, that’s right. Thank you. As expected, you are quite sharp, Nasar.”
Nasar glanced at his fiancée, who was sitting across from him, entirely absorbed in memorizing historical dates.
“Shall we simply focus on our own work today? Nasar, from next time on, please bring something to occupy yourself from home. Even if it’s only once a week, it is a waste to let such precious time pass idly.”
With that, Philomel returned to her book without sparing him another glance. Even when she asked a question, her gaze remained tethered to the page. Though she had been granted permission to borrow volumes from the Imperial Library for his sake, he felt no desire to read.
Nasar drained his teacup, feeling like a spare wheel in his own company. It was the first time since he had begun visiting the palace that he felt this redundant. Until now, everything had orbited around Philomel’s whims; time had usually flown by.
*Is she angry at me?*
Knowing it was improper, Nasar stared intensely at the small face buried so deeply in the text that she seemed on the verge of vanishing into it. Philomel treated him with a smile constant enough to suggest she was anything but angry, yet he felt a strange, cold distance—as if a wall of glass had been erected between them. A Philomel who showed no interest in him whatsoever.
The young noble tilted his head, troubled by the sensation. It was an unpleasant feeling. There had been times in the past when he had wished the Princess would grow up, but this… this felt wrong.
* * *
The change was not limited to her studies. The frequency with which the Princess vented her temper had dropped significantly.
*Clatter!*
“Ah! I’m sorry! Your Highness!”
A maid dropped a teacup, and it shattered against the floor. The bluebird painted on the porcelain split into three jagged pieces. It was a favorite of the Princess, a gift from Young Master Abridon on her birthday last year.
“I, I’m sorry! Please, forgive me!”
The maid trembled, bracing for the inevitable scream. She had fallen out of favor with the nanny recently—a consequence of failing to bring a souvenir from her trip home—so she expected no protection. She waited, eyes squeezed shut, for the fury that had always followed such a mistake.
Instead, she heard a cool, detached voice.
“What are you doing? Clean it up.”
“Pardon?”
“The carpet will get wet. Clean it and be on your way.”
“Ah, yes! Understood!”
The maid scrambled to gather the shards, her hands shaking. Philomel’s next words stopped her cold.
“Be careful not to cut your hand. People are what matter; why would a mere teacup be important?”
The Princess, who once shrieked to high heaven over minor slights, was now concerned for a servant’s hand. From that day on, the maid bragged about the experience to every servant in the palace.
At first, the staff dismissed the change as a passing whim.
“She must have been scolded sharply by His Majesty over the Foundation Day incident.”
“Even so, how long will it last? I’m sure she’ll be back to her old self by the day after tomorrow.”
“Regardless, at least the palace will be quiet for a while.”
They remembered her too well: the sensitive, spoiled child; the troublemaker who neglected her duties to chase after play. But as the change persisted through the days, their skepticism gave way to a new reality. The troublesome Princess had finally come to her senses.
Philomel’s desperate struggle for survival was viewed by the palace as nothing more than the natural process of growing up.
“It seems all my earnest efforts to teach the Princess have paid off. If I had retired just because my back ached a little, I would have regretted it.”
The nanny preened, acting as if the transformation were entirely her own doing.
“As expected of you, Nanny.”
“You are truly amazing.”
Philomel let the flattery drift past her, unmoved. Word of her behavior eventually reached the Emperor, and a few days later, she received a summons.
They met at lunch. Rare and exquisite dishes were served, one after another, at opposite ends of the long table. Philomel struggled to keep her composure under the Emperor’s sharp, analytical gaze.
*Why did he call me?*
It was impossible that he suddenly desired a cozy meal with his daughter.
The Emperor broke the silence.
“I heard the news. You are dedicating yourself to your studies. A fine attitude.”
The tone was so indifferent that it took a moment for her to register the praise. A meal with her father, a compliment from his lips—both were firsts. It was a bitter irony that the things she had once hungered for now felt meaningless.
Philomel offered a polite, practiced response.
“……Thank you. But I still have a long way to go.”
“Your teachers have been praising you until their throats are dry.”
“It is all thanks to the excellent tutors you have provided, Father.”
*Father?*
Eustis knitted his brows. Everyone else addressed him that way, but hadn’t Philomel always called him ‘Papa’?
“……You have learned to speak quite maturely in the time I haven’t seen you.”
“I must strive to acquire the dignity befitting a member of the Imperial Family.”
Philomel offered a thin, aristocratic smile. Eustis studied her in silence. If he had known his daughter even a little better, his keen intuition would have recognized how unnatural this transformation was. But Eustis, lacking that insight, felt only a vague sense of discomfort.
“Understood. Continue to strive.”
“Yes. I will keep that in mind.”
“Come to think of it, how is your body now? Have you fully recovered from your cold?”
Philomel’s fork faltered. She hadn’t expected him to ask after her health.
“……I have fully recovered after taking the medicine you sent.”
It felt strange, as if he were showing genuine concern.
*No. Do not let your heart weaken from kindness tossed out like alms.*
Philomel steeled herself. She knew the reality: if it were revealed she was a fake, or if she failed to obey, the man before her was the one who would eventually end her life.
“That is fortunate. Your mother was also very frail.”
“……Yes.”
Just as the Emperor was not her father, the Empress she had worshipped for nearly ten years was not her mother.
Eustis, who had let his gaze drift toward the window, looked back at her.
“As a token of praise for your hard work, tell me what you desire. If it is within my power, I shall grant it.”
Compliment, concern, and now, a reward.
Philomel swallowed hard. The moment she had been waiting for had arrived. The Emperor lived by a strict code of reward and punishment; she had known this day would come. However, she could not appear too eager.
Philomel hid her true intentions behind a mask of humility.
“There is nothing in particular. It is honor enough that you acknowledge my efforts.”
The Emperor said languidly, raising his wine glass.
“You are humble. But one who is to stand on the Imperial throne should possess a reasonable amount of ambition.”
Since he had opened the door, it was safe to drop the pretense.
Philomel pretended to ponder for a moment before speaking.
“Actually, I am not sure if I should call it a desire…… but there is something I would like to ask of you, Father.”
“What is it?”
Philomel relayed the wish she had been harboring for a long time. She prayed that her performance was natural, and that her request would appear as sincere as she could make it.