There was perhaps an hour left until dinner.
I stood before the full-length mirror in my room, holding my left hand up to the glass.
I had been wondering—almost childishly—if I executed all eight variants of the Sleepiness spell, and the mirror was directly in front of me… would the spell reflect back at me?
It was a foolish thought, but I couldn't stop turning it over in my mind.
As I stared into the mirror, a knock came at the door.
I was surprised. Finally, someone in this manor knew the proper etiquette for entering a duke's chamber.
I walked to the desk, leaned against it, and called out,
"Come in."
The door opened slowly. William entered with measured steps and bowed his head quietly.
I was genuinely astonished at how suddenly polite he had become—when he spoke.
"My lord… I have brought someone. If it pleases you, he may assume the role of your cultural and artistic advisor."
Irritated, I replied,
"What's wrong with the current cultural and artistic advisor?"
William scratched the side of his jaw with one finger and gave a small, uneasy smile.
"In truth, my lord… your previous cultural and artistic advisor passed away approximately thirty-seven days before your arrival in London. Frederick informed me of this. When you returned to the capital, so many events followed one after another that we completely forgot you no longer have such an advisor."
I narrowed my eyes slightly and pressed my fingers to my forehead.
"So… what is the name of this advisor you wish to recommend?"
A small, triumphant smile spread across William's face.
"I have selected the very best person for the position. Do not worry, my lord."
I tilted my head slightly and stared into William's eyes.
He held my gaze for a moment before saying,
"Fine, fine… He is a professor at the University of London, holds an MA degree, and occupies a dedicated chair among the faculty."
I continued staring at William without blinking.
William's triumphant smile faded. He spoke with faint exasperation.
"It's just the name that matters to you, isn't it?"
I gave a small nod.
William sighed.
"Even if you were to marry, you would still care more about the other person's name than anything else, wouldn't you?"
I stepped away from the desk, walked behind it, and sat in the leather chair.
"If your pipes had names… would you marry them?"
William blinked in genuine confusion.
"What do my pipes have to do with anything I just said?"
I leaned back, ran a hand behind my neck, and rubbed it lightly.
"You have so many pipes… So let me marry them instead."
William drew a long, deep breath.
"I understand… I understand. The professor I mentioned is named John Smith."
At first I smiled—pleased that William had finally realized I was fishing for the name.
But when I heard "John Smith," a faint unease settled in my chest.
I felt certain John was the most arrogant man I would ever have to speak with.
Still, I forced a smile and said,
"Tell him to come in… I'll speak with him, and then I'll give you my decision."
William bowed quietly.
"Then I shall leave the room and inform Professor Smith to enter."
Before he could move I added,
"By the way… how do you know this man—this Mr. Smith?"
William paused mid-step. He thought for a moment, turned back to me, and answered,
"Well… two days ago, at Baron Romeo's wedding… I met him there."
I nodded slowly and waved my hand, signaling him to leave and bring John Smith in.
William bowed again and exited.
Perhaps two—or maybe three—minutes passed before John Smith entered with a gentle, refined smile.
He stepped forward a little, then bowed deeply.
I studied him from head to toe. When he straightened I said,
"Well… speak."
John—still wearing that mild smile—replied softly,
"Speak about what, Your Grace the Duke?"
I rose slowly from the chair.
"A simple question… with a simple answer. How did you meet William?"
John answered calmly.
"I encountered your chief advisor after you left. He was in the same hall, giving his opinion on a painting."
I took a step closer.
"And the moment you saw him, you told him you were a university professor? Just like that—so easily?"
But John's eyes followed me steadily. A brief silence settled between us before he said,
"Why not? As I told him—my university salary is not what one might hope."
I stared into his eyes.
He stared back.
His answer made no logical sense.
Yet I had no solid reason to reject it.
I exhaled deeply and said,
"So your only reason for wanting to become a duke's advisor… is that your current salary is too low? That's all?"
John—still wearing that unchanged, gentle smile—replied,
"Yes… exactly that."
I returned to my chair, sat down, picked up a clean sheet of paper from the desk, and began writing.
It took a little time—but when I finished, I gestured for John to take the paper.
But the moment his hand touched the sheet, I pressed my own hand firmly over his and said,
"Your salary will be paid monthly—eighty-five pounds per month. You may continue teaching at the university, since the role of cultural and artistic advisor to a duke requires very little actual work—perhaps two conversations a year at most regarding artistic matters. Also… your assigned chamber is on the first floor. You will not come near the second or third floors under any circumstances."
John only nodded—still smiling that same gentle smile.
I released his hand.
"Now leave."
He bowed quietly and exited the room.
Once again, I was alone.
But dinner time had arrived.
So I left the room and headed toward the small dining salon on the second floor—reserved solely for me. It contained only one small table and one chair.
A cultural and artistic advisor for an industrial duke like me was the most useless position imaginable.
Yet I still felt uneasy about having such an arrogant man as my advisor.
In any case… I hoped he would never actually come to live in the manor. His path to the university was probably closer from his own residence.
I gave a smug little smile and muttered under my breath,
"Well… I hope he never sets foot in this manor. Let him stay in his own house."
I descended the stairs toward the dining salon.
A few hours later—after testing the spell again and shattering the circle once more—I felt overwhelming fatigue.
So I decided not to leave the manor that night. I simply went to sleep.
Probably tomorrow night I would go out again—unless something unexpected happened.
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The long corridor of Westminster Abbey that led to the Celestial Conclave lay in deep silence and shadow.
Only two people stood there—both facing the transparent orb that held The Legend of Idris.
They wore very different clothing.
One had a long coat patterned with small red and yellow squares—his trousers matched—and red shoes. He wore no hat.
The other was dressed entirely formally.
The man in the red-and-yellow coat stood closest to the orb. His hand rested lightly against the glass.
A tiny crack had formed on the surface.
The Legend of Idris slowly wrote:
"Mystiquire"
Both men stepped back slightly.
Nighttime mist clung low to the corridor floor.
Perhaps it took only the blink of an eye—but then both men were gone.
The crack on the orb had lengthened slightly.
Perhaps that was exactly what The Legend of Idris wanted.