The expenses Ariadne had to cover with a budget of 150 Ducats (approximately 150 million won) included her own personal grooming and all preparations for the debutante ball. This encompassed food, alcohol, interior decoration, the orchestra, the order of events, and entertainment. Ariadne first checked the supplies already held within the estate.
“What I can use are the family crest, the furniture, and the liquor in the basement wine cellar… Is that all?”
Sancha replied, “You’ll be able to use the kitchen staff, too. It’s not like Lady Lucrezia would go as far as to forbid that. Though, I don’t think she’ll let you touch the ingredients.”
“She is someone who always exceeds my imagination, but she has to be wary of Father. As for ingredients, I can just buy them from outside. It’s not like the house has enough to make everything anyway. The only cost that absolutely cannot be reduced is the orchestra.”
“Eh? My lady? Are you not going to have tapestries made?”
As of 1122, to decorate for a ball in San Carlo, one usually selected a specific concept and had handrail covers, chair slips, and tablecloths custom-made with fabrics to unify the hall’s atmosphere. Furthermore, embroidered tapestries evoking the theme of the ball were specially produced to hang on the walls.
“We have the family crest, but we need separate tapestries for the party. Time is tight, too. All the skilled embroidery houses in the city are likely already fully booked.”
If it were a victory celebration, they would embroider the most important battle; if it were a ball celebrating the birth of a royal, they would depict the legend of the birth of that royal’s patron saint. The more numerous and intricate the tapestries, the more effort was considered to have been invested. For luxurious balls, it was common to spend one to two years of production time and 200–300 Ducats (approximately 200–300 million won) solely on embroidery.
“Come here.”
Ariadne pulled Sancha close and whispered a few instructions into her ear.
“How about it? Can you do it?”
“Eh?! It would certainly save money, but… I could do it if you ordered me to. But… will this be alright, my lady?”
“Trust me. The reaction will definitely be positive.”
*Because I’m borrowing the latest trend of 1123 in advance. Though it will be banned soon enough.*
Ariadne shut the ledger with a sharp thud and said, her eyes bright with energy.
“I think we can do it. Let’s try!”
“Yes, my lady!”
***
While Ariadne was balancing the entire budget for the ball with 150 Ducats, Isabella was busy investing 50 Ducats (approximately 50 million won) solely into her own grooming.
“A ‘girl who sees through the truth’? Does this even make sense?!”
Isabella vented her anger toward Maletta, who was assisting with her toilette.
“I don’t even have a title like that yet!”
“The second young lady is truly getting ahead of herself. In looks, talent, and character, she falls short of you, Lady Isabella, so why is she making such a fuss?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!”
Isabella snapped the thin wooden stick she had been using to apply oil to her eyelashes in her frustration.
“At this debutante ball, I must show everyone who is superior. I must be prettier than her, no matter what.”
“That is possible just by you existing.”
“That may be, but! I must be firmer! More certain! So that there is no room for anyone to argue that I am anything less than the most beautiful!”
Maletta brushed Isabella’s hair, reassuring her.
“In thirty minutes, Madame Clemenza from Collezioni Tailoring will arrive in person. If it’s Collezioni, aren’t they the undisputed number one on Tiber Street? The fabrics are superior, the cuts are better, and the grooming will be flawless—how could Lady Isabella possibly be less radiant than Lady Ariadne?”
“Right? You think so?”
“Most certainly.”
Collezioni Tailoring on Tiber Street was exactly the sort of place Maletta would brag about. In San Carlo, establishments catering to nobles and socialites were strictly divided into common tailoring houses and elite dress shops. The former welcomed any commoner with enough coin, but the latter were sanctuaries reserved for the chosen few.
These dress shops lined the main road along the Tiber River. They utilized exquisite fabrics from the Moor Empire—shipped by merchants from the Republic of Porto—and were so heavily booked that even the wealthy struggled to secure an appointment without connections. Their prices, predictably, were exorbitant.
While standard tailoring houses followed trends, the dress shops dictated them, and Collezioni Tailoring stood at the very vanguard of fashion.
“Lady Isabella, Madame Clemenza has arrived.”
Isabella brightened at the maid’s announcement.
“Show Madame Clemenza to Mother’s parlor.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
Isabella usually received guests in the girls’ parlor on the second floor, a shared space she occupied with Arabella and Ariadne. But today, she had no intention of letting Ariadne catch a glimpse of her attire.
By ushering Madame Clemenza into Lucrezia De Rossi’s eastern parlor, Isabella ensured total privacy. She treated the woman with practiced hospitality.
“This is tea from the Moor Empire and desserts from the Galico Kingdom. They are quite delicious—my absolute favorites. Do try some.”
Isabella picked up an intricate sugar-dusted treat and offered it to Madame Clemenza. The seamstress declined with a polite, professional smile.
“You are very kind, my lady, but I have much fabric to handle today. I cannot risk getting any grease on the samples.”
Isabella bristled at the refusal, but knowing the woman’s importance, she smoothed the annoyance from her brow and forced a bright smile.
“Oh, is that so? I don’t particularly care for tea treats, either. Let us look at the fabric.”
Disregarding her previous claim with total ease, Isabella tossed the sweet onto her plate and began rifling through the catalogs and swatches Madame Clemenza had brought.
Most of the samples were in deep, autumnal hues. As the season turned, the young ladies of San Carlo were favoring muted tones of navy, burgundy, and mustard. None of them caught Isabella’s eye. She flipped through the collection absentmindedly before pausing, her fingers hovering over a page.
“Do you not have anything in brighter colors? Perhaps white or cream?”
Madame Clemenza, taken aback by the request, signaled her assistant to retrieve the sample patches tucked at the bottom of the trunk—pieces she had deemed unnecessary for today. She sought to confirm the customer’s intent before handing them over.
“Pardon my boldness, Lady De Mare.”
“Yes?”
“You are tailoring a dress for your sister’s debutante ball, are you not? Is it truly wise for you to select white?”
By social etiquette, the debutante was the only woman permitted to wear white, save for her partner.
Isabella herself had worn a white gown to her own debutante ball the previous year. On that day, she had hurled every insult imaginable at any woman whose dress leaned even slightly toward a lighter shade, condemning them as rude, uneducated, and malicious.
But Isabella was, above all, Isabella. She had no qualms about inflicting upon others the very indignities she would never tolerate being subjected to herself.
*If she would just shut up and do her job, why all the meddling…!*
Isabella bit the tip of her tongue, swallowing the harsh words threatening to spill out. Madame Clemenza was a titan whose services were notoriously difficult to secure, even for a De Mare. Terrified of being blacklisted from Collezioni, Isabella stifled her urge to lash out. She reminded herself of her own supposed grace—convincing herself that a truly virtuous person would endure such slights—and then lied without even batting an eyelash.
“Well, if this were a public debutante ball, it would be rude to other young ladies to wear white. But this is a private ball held at home, just for my younger sister, isn’t it?”
Isabella continued with a sweet, practiced smile.
“We are so close that she insisted the three of us sisters wear matching white gowns.”
“……Is that so?”
Drawing on twenty years of experience running her atelier, Madame Clemenza sensed something fishy about the request.
If the sisters were truly meant to wear matching dresses, they would naturally have been fitted together. Yet, Isabella’s younger sisters were nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, as far as she knew, the youngest daughter of the household was not even of age to attend a debutante ball. It made little sense to coordinate colors for such an occasion.
However, Madame Clemenza was a dressmaker, not a judge.
“If a white dress is what you desire, my lady, then so be it.”
It was her job to craft the gown; the consequences were for the wearer to handle.
Ominously, Isabella’s eyes twinkled as she added one final request.
“Please make it the most extravagant and shockingly new design ever.”
* * *
Isabella had lost face among her peers following the recent scandal involving the stolen musical composition. Yet, the social web in San Carlo was too tangled to easily sever ties with the city’s most beautiful girl, and her influence remained immense.
Thus, Camellia De Castiglione, unable to vent her frustrations to anyone, headed to the afternoon tea party hosted by Isabella De Mare, with her fiancé in tow.
“Please step inside, Lady De Castiglione.”
The most dapper *il domestico*—a male servant chosen for his height and handsome features—guided her inside, his luxurious uniform a testament to the Leonati family’s wealth.
Today’s gathering was held at the Leonati estate. It was Lady Leticia De Leonati, a viscount’s daughter and Isabella’s loyal subordinate, who had organized the event on her behalf.
Leticia, who possessed a brawny build and features quite at odds with her delicate name, compensated for her lack of social presence by tethering herself to the beautiful and popular Isabella. Naturally, she served her with absolute devotion.
“Thank you.”
Camellia De Castiglione forced a smile to maintain appearances before the servant. Beside her, Ottavio De Contarini escorted her as they stepped into the foyer.
“Signor Ottavio. Welcome to the Leonati estate.”
Unlike Camellia, who was addressed by her surname, Ottavio De Contarini was hailed by his first name. As the son of a count, he outranked her; children of count-rank families and higher were addressed by their given names, while those of lesser status—barons, viscounts, and the untitled—were addressed by their surnames. Even Isabella, whose family influence reached the heavens, was no exception to this rigid protocol.
“Lady De Mare. Welcome to the Leonati estate.”
Receiving the servant’s respectful greeting, Isabella furrowed her pretty brow.
“Signora Giulia,” she corrected, “the Leonati estate welcomes the daughter of the Marquisate of Baldessar.”
She was being directly compared to Julia De Baldessar, who followed right behind her. Because Julia was the daughter of the House of Baldessar, she was addressed by her given name rather than her family name.
Isabella could afford Madame Clemenza’s dresses and commanded the admiration of every young man in the capital, yet she could never be addressed by her name in an official setting.
‘What do I lack compared to Julia De Baldessar?’
There was no doubt that the future of Isabella De Mare—the greatest beauty and talent in San Carlo—was brighter than that of the sharp-featured, plain-looking Julia De Baldessar. At the very least, Isabella believed so. Yet, in official settings, Isabella’s place was always one step behind Julia.
Isabella was tired of being relegated to the shadow of a tiresome family name. The house belonged to her father, and in time, it would belong to her brother. The only glory Isabella could truly possess was not the reflected light of her lineage or her surname, but the glory that would follow her own name alone.
‘Her Highness, Princess Isabella.’
When that day came, she would stand as an individual in her own right. Until then, she had no choice but to make the most of what she had. To reach that position, Isabella intended to use every trick at her disposal, regardless of the means.