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Chapter 01
The Royal Academy building, with its beautiful Rococo-style architecture, stood out magnificently as the sunset reflected off its surface.
At the far end of the central hallway of the main building—where a soft purple dusk had settled in the late afternoon—the door to the painting club’s studio slowly opened.
A small face peeked through the gap. The cautious movement suggested she was carefully checking both sides of the corridor.
Beneath a hat, her bare, makeup-free face revealed distinct features. Delicate red lips contrasted with her pale skin in a strangely striking way.
As expected, there was no one in the hallway.
“There can’t be anyone still here at this hour.”
That was one of the reasons Eila Clarence preferred this time of day.
It was late enough that no students remained at the academy. Even if there were, they would be in upper-floor labs with professors; the lobby and corridors were empty.
When dusk fell and darkness began to settle, the bustling daytime atmosphere calmed into stillness. There was no risk of being noticed.
Pulling her hat down again, Eila stepped out of the studio, a canvas roughly the size of her torso in one hand.
Click-clack. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, sharper in the silence.
She carefully left through the main entrance and headed to the carriage lot, where two carriages stood in the open space.
At that moment, a curtain was slightly drawn aside and a white hand signaled to her—gesturing “here.”
Eila looked around once more before walking over. Even though she wasn’t consciously trying to be cautious, her composed posture and light steps naturally carried an air of elegance.
Click. The carriage door opened and closed.
“Welcome.”
Two ladies seated inside greeted Eila. Once she stepped in, the carriage felt a little cramped, though not uncomfortable.
“You arrived early,” one of them said.
The agreed time was five minutes later. Proper ladies were expected to arrive late as a matter of etiquette, so she had assumed they would be late. Yet once again, her expectation was wrong.
In truth, since the beginning of this secret and carefully coordinated exchange, not a single lady had ever been late.
“Is… this the piece?”
A woman, visibly nervous, whispered softly. Her voice trembled.
Beside her sat another woman whom Eila recognized, pretending calm while clearly unable to hide her curiosity.
“Yes. It is now yours,” Eila replied calmly, offering what she held.
The canvas, carefully wrapped in paper and tied with a neat ribbon, was handed over.
“Wow… is this really…!”
The woman was so overwhelmed she couldn’t finish her sentence. She looked as though she were witnessing the real person rather than just a painting.
Even Eila, who had grown numb to the same reaction each time, found herself smiling slightly at moments like this. A faint smile spread across her otherwise expressionless face, transforming her into something unexpectedly beautiful.
It was only for a moment. Eila, who was naturally reserved, rarely smiled. It was a pity.
“Would you like to check it?”
“No, no need. I already know your skill from seeing your work. After commissioning it, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep all night… When I return to my hometown, this painting will be such a comfort.”
A voice filled with excitement, anticipation, and joy always felt pleasant to hear. Yet, even though she made money from such emotions, Eila could not truly empathize with them.
From young noble ladies to women of marriageable age, even married women—the existence of “them” made every woman in society tremble with excitement. Yet for Eila, it stirred not even a trace of thrill.
Moreover, the woman who had commissioned the painting was scheduled to marry in two months. Of course, her fiancé was not the subject of the portrait.
If this painting became a small source of comfort in an unhappy marriage, Eila could understand it to some degree. She even felt a little proud.
“It would be best if it meets your expectations,” Eila said.
“Of course. Here is the agreed 300 dena.”
The woman spoke in a low, secretive voice. Eila accepted the bundle of money carefully, smiling.
This was the second moment Eila Clarence allowed herself to smile.
A quiet, hidden transaction taking place in the dark—her second most satisfying moment.
She liked these moments. Doing work suited to her nature gave her fulfillment, and the compensation made it even better. Supply and demand aligned perfectly, interests balanced flawlessly. What greater satisfaction could there be?
“I’ll introduce you to a new client. Please greet her.”
Because it was an unspoken rule, the woman nearly said Eila’s name out loud before catching herself and smiling awkwardly.
In their social circle—both wide and narrow—everyone knew everyone. Yet, it was an unwritten rule to pretend not to know each other’s names in these dealings.
After the introduction, the woman who had brought the client stepped aside. Her role was finished, and she was eager to see the completed painting.
She quickly returned to her carriage and impatiently tore off the wrapping paper. Her eyes sparkled as if she were witnessing something divine.
“Her reputation precedes her. They say your portraits are so accurate they’re practically lifelike.”
The woman spoke in a whisper, maintaining elegance despite the secrecy of the place. With a graceful smile, she introduced herself.
She was Ellen of the Ziverman Count family.
Indeed, she was worthy of being called a rival to Eila’s younger sister, Louise Clarence—who was hailed as this year’s “flower of high society.”
“I’m honored by your trust and your praise,” Eila replied with a calm smile.
Seeing the joy on others’ faces always filled her with satisfaction. Her effort felt worthwhile.
Three years ago, this work had begun at a tea party hosted by her mother, Laura Clarence, the viscountess. It started when Eila met a young lady from House Holland who noticed several family portraits displayed in the drawing room.
“You draw very well.”
“It’s just a hobby. Thank you for your kind words, Lady Holland.”
“Please call me Kate. And honestly, it’s far too good to remain just a hobby.”
“You flatter me.”
“I mean it. I have a request for you—may we talk in the garden for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Kate had asked Eila to paint a portrait. However, it was not of herself, but of someone else entirely. When Eila received such an unexpected request, she never imagined it would become something so large. She had thought it would be a one-time favor.
But the request spread quietly among noble ladies, and more and more people began seeking her out.
At first, she hesitated to accept due to the complicated nature of the requests. But Kate encouraged her, ensuring she would be properly compensated and that others could also share in the same joy.
As the work expanded, so did the payment she received. Even now, she still felt somewhat dazed by it. But one thing remained clear: within this secret arrangement, all the women were bound together by an unspoken unity. Because of that, Eila believed this would remain “a secret forever.” And she always considered that a blessing.
“This is the person I would like you to commission.”
Ellen handed her a neatly folded note.
As Eila read it, her expression froze like ice. The faint smile on her lips disappeared completely.
She silently returned the note.
“I don’t accept commissions for this person. You must know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Ellen replied.
“Then there’s nothing more to discuss—”
“Six hundred dena.”
Ellen interrupted her with a higher offer. Eila paused mid-motion as she was about to leave the carriage.
The amount was unexpectedly large, but that wasn’t the only reason she stopped. She wondered why Ellen would go so far to commission this specific portrait.
“I appreciate your recognition of my skill, but I cannot take this job,” Eila said firmly.
She refused again.
The person on the note was the one she had received the most commissions for in the early days.
Prince Franz Princeton.
The second son of the current king, younger brother of the crown prince. A royal “playboy” beloved across the city of Lapland.
There was a dedicated royal painter assigned to the royal family, and painting the prince personally carried too much risk. For Eila, whose work depended on secrecy, it was too dangerous a venture.
More precisely, she had no intention of taking any such risk at all. Even the smallest danger was unacceptable to her, and she had always maintained a strict policy of refusal.
And she intended to keep it that way.
