— Shit.
Yesterday was the first time in my current life that I used such a word. It was grotesque, shameless.
No one of my status, or anyone raised in this theatrical and stiff society, would use such a word. Well, maybe Evelyn, but my sister has always been an exception.
But, frankly? No other expression in the imperial vocabulary captured the incoherence of my current reality so well.
I watched the rain run down the office windowpane, turning the duchy's gardens into smears of gray watercolor.
The newly awakened memories were no longer a violent storm, but a persistent mist, hovering in the back of my mind.
I was Lucian Vane. But I remembered, with irritating clarity, having been Ryuuji.
Part of me longed to go back to being him, like we sometimes catch ourselves wishing to be as we were in our youth.
If Ryuuji were a distinct entity, maybe my life would be easier. Instead, this new moralistic part of me acted as if I were still on Hana's couch, grumpy, sitting, evaluating every step, every word, and every dramatic cliché of this world with silent and annoying judgment.
The most bothersome thing was the insistence of this side of mine to try to "soften" me. As if Lucian's harshness were a revision error. Foolishness. Strength. Fear. Control. All of that was just a set of tools to survive in this world.
Only now, this was no longer an immutable story. I knew the script. I knew exactly what my creator — or Hana — had planned for my interactions with Livia Roseheart.
I respect Hana, that hasn't changed in this life. In reality, I am now able to admire her for her courage to make me strong.
Even so, if she has survived and is following this story, I will be forced to disappoint her.
Not because of the morality that guided me when living as Ryuuji. I decided not to follow the script because now I am more than a line of text. I have my own consciousness. I will make, for the first time in this second life, my own choices.
A rhythmic and discreet knock on the door interrupted my internal monologue.
— Enter — I replied, solemn.
The door opened revealing my sister, Lady Evelyn Vane, dressed in virginal white.
— White — I commented dryly.
She blinked and, understanding that I referred to her clothes, offered me the most cynical smile in her vast arsenal. — Someone needs to bring light to the darkness of this house, brother. Besides, black clothes don't suit me well.
She walked to my massive oak desk and sat on the edge of the top, swinging her feet as if the ancestral furniture had been made to support her insolence.
— Until I fulfill my duty and produce an heir, you are the successor of House Vane — I pointed out, without taking my eyes off the financial reports (which were, by the way, an accounting mess). — Perhaps you should consider a little more... decorum.
— We have you to ensure decorum for the entire Empire — she retorted, melodiously.
The silence stretched, comfortable only for her, before the question came bluntly:
— Are you better?
— Yes.
— And when will you call her to talk?
I continued flipping through the ledger, pretending the price of wheat was fascinating. — When it is appropriate.
She laughed unconcernedly. — Do you really think you can use work to escape this?
— I am not "escaping". I am studying my options.
— Of course. After your spectacular exit yesterday, a whole day has passed and here you are still studying. Keep it up and soon you'll be able to graduate from the royal academy.
She stopped and looked at me before continuing:
— The servants are already commenting that the Lord Duke hasn't cast even a glance toward the West Wing.
I opened my mouth to answer — something pointed, logical, and perfectly defensible about mourning and property management — when three light knocks sounded on the door.
Evelyn smiled. It wasn't a sisterly smile. She looked like a cat that just pushed the crystal glass off the table.
— Come in! — she called, before I could authorize or protest.
The door opened and Livia entered.
For a brief moment, I had one of the moral relapses that sometimes afflicted me since yesterday. I expected to see a trembling Livia, crying, or perhaps dressed inappropriately due to negligence or some prank that only my sister would find funny.
Instead, I saw... composure.
She wore appropriate mourning attire. Black dress, simple cut, closed up to the neck. Her hair was pinned up, not a rebellious strand out of place.
She executed an elegant curtsy, well-practiced.
— Your Grace. Lady Evelyn.
My sister responded with surprisingly genuine enthusiasm: — Lady Roseheart! How good that you came so promptly.
I stared at her, trying to figure out if she was an accomplice or a victim of Evelyn. There was something excessively flawless in her presence.
Yesterday, at the funeral, she seemed terrified. Today? I still saw fear there, but there was also purpose in her movements.
— I didn't invite you — I said, direct, testing the armor.
— No — Evelyn answered for her, quick as lightning. — I told her that you had requested her presence.
I glared at Evelyn. She just sustained the amusement, immune. — If I didn't do that, you would stay in this office for three more days "studying" a way to run away from the poor thing.
I turned my gaze back to Livia. What would the "Shy Heroine" do? Should she stutter or blush? Instead, she looked away quickly. Her eyes swept the room; I didn't know if seeking comfort, or mapping the environment.
She took a deep breath. Then she spoke: — If... you do not wish to see me, Your Grace, I can withdraw immediately.
I replied slowly, leaning back in the chair: — Since you are here... sit down.
She hesitated for only a microsecond before obeying. She sat on the edge of the chair, back straight, hands crossed in her lap. The image of textbook submission.
Knocks on the door. It was Orestes bringing tea. The clinking of porcelain was the only sound for a moment.
Evelyn, as expected, took the lead. — Lady Roseheart, I know that arriving at House Vane can be... intimidating. Especially considering the sad circumstances.
— The hospitality has been adequate — replied Livia. — As for yesterday — she said suddenly, and I noticed a slight tremor on the surface of the tea she was holding — I fear I caused discomfort. If there was any misunderstanding on my part, I wish to make amends.
The memory of the burial crossed my thoughts like a flash of light. Her look. The shock. The pain. I kept my face impassive, searching for a flaw in that porcelain mask.
— No amends are necessary.
It was a simple answer — but I saw her shoulders relax. An almost imperceptible movement.
Interesting, I thought, feeling a drop of reluctant respect. At least she's not a crying useless thing. She thinks.
Silence settled again — heavy, tense, but now charged with a mutual and veiled curiosity.
It was then that the sound echoed in the hallway. Footsteps.
My office door opened after a hurried knock. Orestes entered in a rush.
— Your Grace — he announced, voice hanging by a thread — His Highness, the Crown Prince, requests an audience.
A charged pause that seemed to suck the air out of the room.
— He is accompanied by the Grand Sage of the Court.
Evelyn raised an eyebrow, the smile disappearing to give way to sharp curiosity.
I looked at Livia. And there, the mask of "perfect acting" cracked. She didn't just get apprehensive. She went deathly pale. The cup clinked violently against the saucer, spilling tea onto the black dress.
She recovered admirably well. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw her murmuring something I didn't catch to herself.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the migraine return. Naturally, it would be today. The day after the burial, the other two love interests would make their initial appearance in the manga.
— Very well — I said, feeling the weight of the script trying to crush my spine. — Accommodate them in the main drawing room. My fiancée and I will receive them shortly.
Orestes nodded and went without delay to fulfill his orders.
The story wasn't waiting for me; it was trying to run me over. I don't know how, but my fiancée seemed to know this — and feared it.
I tried once more to organize my thoughts and plan my next steps, but I could only think of that vulgar word Ryuuji liked to use in these situations.