After reading the letters, Altair finally understood why they had all arrived at once.
Most of them had already left Backlund when the royal summons came; as soon as they returned, they wrote to ask for lesson times.
They had all included their own schedules in the letters.
From memory, Altair grouped students with similar subjects and set shared classes.
Monday: etiquette, dress, jewellery… Tuesday: dance, music, piano… Wednesday: painting… and so on through Friday, three or four tutors a day.
Since he'd already drunk the memory-boosting potion, he might as well speed-run the whole curriculum.
Saturday and Sunday were reserved for the Army Club—firearms and hand-to-hand—and for occult practice with Vivian. After handing the replies to Hahn to post, Altair kept the appointment and went to Vivian's house.
He passed the twenty-minute ride in meditation; there was simply nothing else to do. The carriage stopped at Number 3 Wellington Street, West Borough.
His first thought on seeing the villa was: Are all Demonesses this rich?
A servant led him inside, and Vivian appeared.
'Little Heart, I didn't expect you so soon—clearly I'm irresistible.'
Altair answered her teasing with, 'Of course. You're the only one who can make me drop everything.'
Vivian covered a laugh. 'Then perhaps I should give you a warm welcome.'
Altair swept her into a princess-carry and sat them both on the sofa.
'You'll be the death of me!'
Looking down at Vivian in his arms, he said, 'Weren't you offering me a warm embrace?'
Thank the memory potion: every cheesy trick from his past life resurfaced fast enough to keep Vivian smiling.
As for flirting with a Demoness—
all I can say is, my predecessor was right. Even without the full experience, holding her feels indescribable… After the small talk, Vivian led him to a room and pointed at five huge trunks.
'These are the clothes you're taking home. Be good and deliver them safely—no mischief.'
Altair stared. 'This much?'
'Of course. Only part of my autumn wardrobe. More pieces aren't finished yet.'
He had come prepared with two carriages, but five crates almost two metres long and a metre wide still looked excessive.
While he wondered whether to hire more, Vivian simply said,
'Stop gawping; come with me.'
Puzzled, he followed her into the next room.
Seeing similar trunks, he asked, 'More of your clothes?'
Vivian smiled. 'Clothes, yes—but not mine. These are your outfits for the season: garments and jewellery. Autumn pieces will be delivered later.'
Altair froze. He had known this was coming—just not so soon.
'Relax,' Vivian soothed. 'Most of these are comparatively modest. Only comparatively, mind you.'
'You'll have to face it sooner or later; may as well be gradual.'
'Now, let's get you changed.'
Realising escape was impossible, Altair picked the least revealing outfit.
'Quick, undress. You'll never manage these laces alone.'
He stripped to his shirt and, with her help, wriggled into the new ensemble.
In the Lord of the Mysteries' Victorian setting, corsets and crinolines were unavoidable; the latter could be skipped, the former could not.
And damn Roselle for perfecting stockings and heels instead of pushing industrialisation!
Vivian surveyed her handiwork.
'There—your figure finally shows. Grow your hair; such a waste to crop these golden curls. For now we'll hide it under a bonnet…'
Altair felt like a dress-up doll.
And he was the doll.
Checking the mirror, he admitted, 'Damn, I make a fine woman.'
Still dazed, he felt Vivian's hand on his waist. 'Even slimmer than mine.'
Certain he was being teased, he groped back; Vivian squealed.
Following the principle that he couldn't lose, he kept flirting until, at six, he left for Empress Borough without staying for dinner.
Nine carriages now formed his convoy.
All were passenger coaches; each could take at most three trunks.
The most valuable chest rode with him: its jewels alone, Vivian claimed, out-valued all the clothes combined.
Inside were diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, rubies…
Hearing the tally, Altair thought, Maybe synthetic gems beat arms dealing.
The technique was ready; within a month he could flood the market, then invent a 'Kashen diamond mine'—practically fooling history.
But firearms might help digest his potion, so guns first, gems later.
Back home at dusk, he had Hahn detail servants to sort the crates.
Clothes and jewels went to his refurbished wardrobes—two extra rooms added.
Another room was kept clean for Vivian's future deliveries.
Only after changing did he sit down to dinner.
The corset let him swallow almost nothing.
Whoever invented this thing deserved torture.
Even after undressing, the ache lingered.