MCFPM 48

chapter 48

During that time, Cherylotte had been preparing for her wedding without ever publicly announcing her fiancé.

— But really, is that dark-haired man truly your fiancé? No way, right?
“…You’ll see for yourself when I get the dress fitted.”
— You’re so mean! You’re going to let me die of curiosity!

A few sharp-eyed people, including Alise, were dying to know who Cherylotte’s real fiancé was. But she only mentioned Ren Quez when absolutely necessary.

And even then, she made sure his appearance changed slightly every time he showed up—so no one could describe exactly what her fiancé looked like.

By now, it’s about time anyway.

The North still had a long way to go before it could truly beat the East, but at least they were strong enough not to be trampled on. She had reached the point where she wouldn’t embarrass herself in front of her fellow academy peers—or her senior, Aquila.

Just three days ago, she had sent out her first invitations—to her senior, who lived farthest away, and to the Pope. Her senior had been her first friend at the Academy, and the Pope was…

Better to take the hit early. If I get attacked in a hall full of nobles, it’ll be a nightmare to handle.

It would be much wiser to call them north—onto her own turf—and negotiate privately.

Cherylotte imagined the wedding dress that Alise and her colleagues were pouring their hearts into.

It was almost time for the fitting. She took Rodiae, who had insisted on accompanying her as a guard, and made her way to one of the rooms in the Grand Duke’s castle where the tailor was waiting.

“…That’s…”
“She has to…”
“It’s possible, but… we don’t have enough time…”

Just before she entered the room, she heard a strange argument. When she flung open the door with her arms crossed—

“You’re still not finished?”

“Wouldn’t it be fine to show a little shoulder? Cherylotte has such a clean neckline—it’d look much better if we cut the top a bit lower.”

“…”

And there he was—that wolf—standing in front of a dress as white as the northern snowfields, spouting nonsense in the most serious tone imaginable.

The tailor, a Northerner known for his conservative manners, blushed fiercely and shook his head as if the very idea were unthinkable.

“That’s impossible! How could a bride wear something like that—!”

“But this neckline looks too stuffy. The peony-petal frills are fine, but they’re hiding all her good points. Her skin’s perfect, too.”

“Ugh…!”

The poor tailor clutched his head, completely torn by the Grand Duke’s reckless remarks.

Cecile, Ren, and even Rodiae—who had come along with Cherylotte—were all visibly at a loss. Rodiae mouthed silently, Is he under some kind of dark magic?

Cherylotte pressed her hand to her forehead, suppressing a groan.

Typical of someone from the South.

The East might have the worst reputation for decadence, but the South—where people walked around half-naked during the hot summers—wasn’t far behind.

Still, what kind of groom showed up before his bride and started lodging fashion complaints at the tailor? It’s not as if he’d be the one wearing the dress.

Moving as quietly as a cat, Cherylotte crept up behind Aeonian.

“Just cut it like this, okay? You know it looks better that way.”
“Oh, heavens…”
“I just prayed about it, and the gods said it’s fine.”

He kept trying to persuade the tailor to change the design—not in a lecherous way, but like a meticulous designer giving an earnest critique. The more he spoke, the more he sounded like an artist with a very specific sense of aesthetics.

Is that because he’s a southern Grand Duke, surrounded by art and luxury? Still, if she listened to him any longer, she had the feeling she’d start getting annoyed.

Smack! Cherylotte finally gave Aeonian’s back a hard slap.

“What kind of nonsense are you spouting about me?”
“…Ah.”

Caught under her sharp gaze, Aeonian froze stiff. He looked away awkwardly, then spread his arms in an exaggerated greeting.

“Cherylotte, you’re here…!”
“…”
“What do you think? Isn’t it beautiful?”

He gestured toward the snow-white dress with a bright smile. Cherylotte tilted her head slightly, relieved that at least his conscience wasn’t entirely missing. She pointed under her eye.

“I must look really pretty to you, huh?”
“…What?”
“I mean, your eyesight must be getting bad already. That’s unfortunate for someone so young.”

Ignoring the dumbfounded tailor, she walked up and lightly touched the high collar of the dress.

Cutting this all the way down to the shoulders, huh…

The fabric was handmade by a master weaver from Blancora—thin, but with long sleeves and a high neck that made it wearable even in the northern chill.

The problem was, her wedding date fell in early autumn—cool, but not cold.

Behind a temporary tapestry, Cherylotte quickly changed into the dress and stepped out. The room fell into a strange silence, but she didn’t care. Clothes make the woman, after all.

“Aeonian.”
“What?”
“Bring me a pin.”

At the moment, the only thing on her mind was that wearing a slightly open-shouldered dress would be a good way to show that the North’s climate had normalized. Aeonian, awkwardly holding the pin, blinked.

“Why?”
“How should I cut it?”
“…Cut what?”
“The shoulder line.”

Aeonian’s face went blank. When she beckoned him closer, he refused to move.

“What’s wrong? You said it’d look better if it were cut lower. Go on, mark it yourself.”
“I—I’m a beginner. The tailor should probably…”
“Oh, no! I wouldn’t dare!” cried the tailor, jumping back.

“Now that I think about it, Your Grace has excellent taste,” the man babbled. “If you’ll just mark the line, I’ll do the adjustments later!”

Cecile quietly dragged Rodiae out like she was taking out the trash. Ren and the tailor followed suit, retreating quickly.

“…Why is everyone leaving?”
“…You really don’t get it?”

Cherylotte glanced between Aeonian and the door, frowning.

“They probably think we’re dating. Ridiculous, right? We’re both nobles of the Grand Duke’s house.”
“…”
“Even if we were, what could we possibly be doing with an unfinished dress? Honestly…”

She sat down on a nearby stool without a backrest. Aeonian stood there silently, fiddling with his fingers.

“You really have no idea…” he muttered.
“What did you just say?”

Cherylotte snapped irritably, motioning him over.

“Stop acting like some awkward schoolboy and get over here already. You’re not usually this shy. Why are you only like this with me?”
“…”
“What, guilty about something? Well, you should be, come to think of it.”
“You…”

Aeonian sighed and moved behind her, clearly displeased. She brushed her hair aside and pointed to the bump of her collarbone.

“You’re cutting from here, right? Mark it.”
“…Yeah.”

After a pause, Aeonian began to insert the pin horizontally.

He worked slowly—painfully slowly—like a caterpillar inching along. Cherylotte frowned slightly.

Why is he shaking so much?

Her gaze drifted up to his hand resting on her shoulder. His fingers had taken on a pale, fungus-like hue.

She had always imagined his hands to be delicate and elegant—but to her surprise, they were calloused.

From the last battle, maybe? she wondered. But no, the calluses looked layered and thick, built up over time—probably from sword training at the academy.

Big hands, too.

Slender though he looked, his build was impressive.

Compared to her smaller frame, Aeonian had the physique of a knight born for the North.

“…Must be nice,” she murmured absentmindedly.

“What?” he asked quickly, catching her words.

“Your body.”

At that, Aeonian jerked so violently he nearly stabbed himself with the needle. Startled, Cherylotte lost her balance backward, and he caught her around the waist before she could fall.

Damn it—his hands were huge. It made wriggling free almost impossible. As she struggled and turned on him—

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing!”
“You—you said it first!”
“Said what?”
“That you liked my body!”

She was ready to shout back What nonsense—! when she caught sight of his face.

Is that a volcano crater? Look at how red he is.

She couldn’t help finding it amusing—how the always-composed Aeonian now looked like a flustered boy from their childhood days. Narrowing her eyes, she said dryly:

“I just meant I was envious.”
“…Oh.”
“What exactly did you think I meant? Honestly, do I look like someone who’d say something that blatant?”

She waved her hand dismissively.

“I’m more into machines than pretty faces. And even if I weren’t, you’d never be the exception.”
“…Right.”
“And you remember our contract, don’t you?”
“What about it?”
“You forgot already? We agreed—no heirs. We’re divorcing afterward anyway.”
“…Ah.”

Aeonian nodded weakly, like a light dimming out. Cherylotte pointed her finger at him.

“Anyway, after we marry, I’ll stick to my side of the bed. Don’t worry.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll probably be up late working on magitech or documents, so just go to bed first. That’s easier.”
“I said I got it.”

Something about his tone had gotten short, almost clipped. Cherylotte pursed her lips.

Should she clarify further? She was about to, when—

“….”

Aeonian suddenly bent down, eyes fixed on a loose thread from earlier.

“Hey, what are you—”

Before she could protest, a large hand settled firmly at her waist. His face lowered toward her exposed shoulder, lips parting slightly. Warm breath ghosted over the thin fabric.

Her mind went blank for a split second as an old, unwanted memory flashed up—

“Darling, what’s wrong…”

Oh, hell no.

She jolted, about to shove him away, when—snap.

The sound of something breaking.

She froze. Aeonian pulled back, licking one of his wolfish canines and holding up the thread looped around his finger.

“What?”
“…What did you just do?”
“…”

He flicked the thread once.

“Cutting the thread.”