"A letter?"
The maid handed it over as if she were a secret agent. The envelope had no seal, no stamp, not even the sender's name.
"A messenger with their face covered handed it to the kitchen maid and ran off."
"…I see. Thank you."
"Thank me? Oh, I didn't do anything at all! Just call me anytime you need something!"
The maid left with a bright smile, likely indulging in some romantic fantasy in her head.
Well, imagination is free, but knowing Dory's personality, it's unlikely she has a secret lover or suitor.
There was no use overthinking. I immediately tore open the envelope.
Inside was a glossy, high-quality card:
To the Esteemed Miss Dory Redfield,
You must be surprised by this sudden letter. But I, Madame Abigail, am confident that this message will be a delightful surprise for you.
I heard of the remarkable insight you displayed at the baron's botanical garden opening this April. Your demeanor then proved that your judgment was neither coincidence nor pretense.
Let me get to the point:
Have you ever heard of the Sacred Salon?
So, this was what they felt watching me at the botanical garden?
I knew about the Sacred Salon.
It was a secretive gathering held every Saturday in an abandoned church, where masked members of society meet to gamble on scandals and relationships.
This salon is a space for candid discussions about high society. Here, you're free to voice your opinions without being silenced by rank and can even discuss the future of the royal family honestly. The wagers add an exhilarating thrill, too.
Your privacy is guaranteed. Only the salon's owner, Madame Abigail, knows the identities of its patrons.
If you wish to join, come to the address below in disguise this Saturday. If not, burn this paper.
What a flattering invitation.
In the original story, the Sacred Salon was portrayed negatively—a gathering of fools wasting money while betting on things like, "Who will win the greatest catch of society, Arthur? Of course, it'll be the beautiful Natalie!"
In other words, a space for minor characters to showcase their greed and foolishness, all while propping up the protagonist.
…Yet, I didn't burn the paper.
Madame Abigail.
The owner of the Sacred Salon, someone who knows all the scandals and manages the identities of every guest.
And most importantly—
She grants a wish to the patron who wins the most bets in a year.
While the wish was limited to introductions, networking, and social connections, it was rumored she could even arrange a meeting with a member of the royal family. Some even speculated she might be the queen in disguise.
In the novel, the Sacred Salon was just a plot device to highlight the greed of the minor characters, and Madame Abigail's identity was never revealed.
It was not uncommon for a long novel to leave an omnipotent side character's identity as a MacGuffin.
(T/N: MacGuffin refers to an object or device in a film or a book which serves merely as a trigger for the plot.)
But now, to me, this world is no longer a novel—it's reality.
The once faceless Dory Redfield now has a face because of my intervention.
And perhaps Madame Abigail and her wish-granting powers are no longer just a plot device but real opportunities.
With my knowledge of the original story, I should have the highest win rate in the gambling den.
A wish like that could be an incredible asset.
I should seize every opportunity I can.
Sneaking out on Saturday evening won't be difficult. My family thinks I just sit in my room reading books anyway.
The real challenge is the disguise…
Just a glance at my room revealed the dresses Natalie gave me, along with the box of accessories and party masks gleaming in the corner.
Saturday evening.
Rubbing my shoulders, I slightly regretted wearing the dress Natalie gave me. Even with a shawl, the spring night still felt chilly.
Where on earth am I supposed to enter? Could I have come to the wrong place?
The church was eerily silent.
The unique coldness of an old, abandoned building hung in the air. Its large wooden doors were boarded up with planks nailed into an X, making it impossible to enter.
This feels like the opening scene of a horror movie.
I turned to check elsewhere, only to be blocked by a woman wearing a bird-shaped mask.
Just as I was about to scream, she gently covered my mouth.
"Shh, it's alright."
To muffle her footsteps, the soles of her shoes were covered with fur.
"You must be the new guest of the Sacred Salon. This way, please."
"Yes…"
I followed her, weaving through a path behind a fence, jumping over small bushes, and circling around the abandoned church.
Finally, she opened a small wooden door, and an entirely different world unfolded before me.
The smell of food, alcohol, and heat hit me at once. The upbeat music, mixed with the excited voices of the crowd, filled the air.
"Here, over here! Will the second prince's marriage proceed smoothly? Let's discuss!"
"Who will win the leadership election for the Southern Merchant Union? Does anyone have any interesting insights?"
People huddled around the tables, passionately debating. Everyone wore masks, making the scene feel like I had fallen into some bizarre, fantastical world straight out of Alice in Wonderland.
An attendant spoke to me, "Madame Abigail will be summoned shortly. In the meantime, feel free to converse with other guests. The music will make your voice sound different from usual, so you don't need to worry about revealing your identity."
Interesting. So that oddly grating string music serves that purpose.
Feeling slightly more at ease, I leaned against the wall and observed my surroundings.
For a supposedly abandoned church, I'd imagined something gloomy and haunted, like a hipster café that looks like it's crawling with ghosts. But the interior was unexpectedly cozy.
The mix of marble, hardwood, and tree trunk tabletops with visible growth rings harmonized beautifully, showcasing the owner's refined taste.
One section had been cleared of tables to create a dance floor. The enthusiastic dancers were lovely to watch, though as an introvert, it immediately made me want to head home.
By the way, when will Madame Abigail arrive?
"Hello, lady."
Huh?
Instead of the anticipated Madame Abigail, a group of men stood before me. Beneath their masks that only covered their eyes, their mouths twisted into unpleasant smirks.
"Judging by the way you're looking around, it must be your first time here."
"Come to our table. We'll give you a little introduction."
The table they pointed to was littered with bottles. It didn't look like any constructive conversation would happen there. Moreover, the way their eyes blatantly roamed over my shoulders was downright disgusting.
Fortunately, an attendant seemed to notice the situation and began approaching us.
Unfortunately, before they could intervene, the drunken men grabbed my wrist, trying to pull me along—
"Ahhh!"
…That scream wasn't mine.
Someone suddenly stepped between us, grabbing one of the men's wrists and twisting it with a vice-like grip. The drunk man let out a piercing cry.
"Who… who the hell are you?!"
The man blocking me—his broad back the only visible feature identifying him as male—spoke in a low, icy tone.
"Before you proposition a lady, perhaps you should reflect on the stench of filth seeping from your own gut."
"Ahh! Let go of me!"
"Such words hardly suit men who dare to lay hands on a lady without permission."
The drunken man thrashed, trying to free himself, but only when the attendants arrived did he finally escape the stranger's grip.
A woman in a bird-shaped mask bowed politely.
"Thank you for your cooperation, sir. We'll handle this from here."
"Why are you only taking us? He's the one who used violence first—"
"This way, please. Let's have a little 'conversation.'"
The attendants quickly surrounded the men like pigeons swarming bread crumbs. The drunks were dragged away before they could resist further.
The swift and orderly resolution left me momentarily dazed.
"Are you alright?"
The man who had protected me turned to ask, his voice suddenly gentle.
Behind a full-face skull mask, unfamiliar green eyes lowered to meet mine.
"I'm fine! Thank you!"
"You don't sound fine—you're still shaken. Could we get a warm apple tea here?"
The skull mask effortlessly ordered from an approaching attendant, who nodded and stepped away.
Wow. How can someone be so kind?
He rescued me from trouble? Checked if I was okay? Ordered me apple tea? And he was polite to the staff?
Is he a con artist trying to lull me into a false sense of security?!
…No, calm down.
After months of dealing with a family full of dysfunctional personalities, a fiancé with 200% concentrated arrogance, and gossip-hungry nobles, I had run out of faith in humanity. But I shouldn't think like this.
There were still good people in the world!
While I drummed up this internal pep talk, the skull mask glanced around and pointed to an empty table.
"Please rest over there. The apple tea will be here shortly."
He didn't stop at giving directions. Gently taking the end of my fan, he guided me to the table.
Finally snapping out of it, I bowed my head in gratitude.
"Thank you so much! I don't know how to repay you…"
"There's no need. If you can end today on a happy note, that's thanks enough for me."
Without any self-congratulatory remarks, the skull mask turned and walked away.
I stared blankly after him.
Who is he? Is he someone I know from the original story?
I need to figure this out. Time to focus on his hair color.