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That day, Ett remembered clearly the familiar face of Cashim in the Banquet Hall. Even without Akan's meticulous overview, she knew he was aware of far more than he revealed, a truth confirmed when she had asked him directly.
"That insignificant one. Truly, there is no need to dwell on him."
No, it was Ett herself who knew him well enough to form judgment.
"Who was he again?"
The novels made little mention of Cashim; only his guild the Information Guild was noted.
In such tales, the head of an information guild often played the role of a lover or hidden confidant, a figure of intrigue and subtle power. Yet by all calculation, the youth's age suggested he was still young perhaps eighteen or nineteen.
Ett would never have known he led the guild had she not seen him in person, noting the deferent gestures of his men at the House of Isolet.
"He is the son of the Count of Montcraso, the blackseed of the family," Akan explained.
"Her Ladyship may not recall, but he was abandoned to the streets, and when his talents were discovered, he was brought back under careful watch."
"Then he used the Count's title for his own gain?" Ett asked.
"Yes. That man is greedy by nature."
"It is lovely that he has not yet surpassed us."
Lovely? Way to word it.
"I have ensured that, until the Dowager herself desires otherwise," Akan replied. Ett waved a hand, dismissive.
"Merely watch over him."
"As her Ladyship commands."
"Before I forget, aid me in gathering news of the single ladies," Ett added, her tone decisive.
Akan furrowed his brow and sighed quietly. Royals already bore the weight of numerous affairs, and now yet another duty pressed upon them.
"Are we to prioritize the Emperor's potential bride, Your Majesty?"
"That is your choice," Ett replied. The sooner he completed his tasks, the lighter his burdens would be later.
"And what qualities do you seek in a bride, Your Ladyship?"
"Someone not bound by sentiment or excessive gentleness, clever of mind, able to endure my son's temper, yet bold enough to correct him when he errs."
Such a woman would ease Guren's life, allowing Ett some peace in hers.
Akan fell into contemplation, already turning the matter over in his mind.
"Is there aught else you desire, Your Ladyship?"
"No. I shall call upon you when need arises."
"Very well."
Ett flopped upon her bed as the door closed behind him, discarding her shoes carelessly. It was always so: she remained in her chamber, venturing forth only when necessity demanded.
She was as her old self, yet here, there was no distraction no literature, no diversions to occupy her mind. The tedium pressed upon her, heavy as a stone.
Before ennui claimed her entirely, Ett resolved that she must find a wife for her son, ensuring he would not grow a callous, black-hearted man. A partner who could stand by him, match his mind, and kindle a mutual bond, one that would grow through shared experience and understanding.
No mere sycophant to nod at all his whims.
Guren required a companion who would chide him rightly, steady him in weakness, and correct him when he erred. One who could argue, reconcile, and grow together in measured accord.
Ett remembered her own past of a doting lover who assented to all, who bore her blame even when unjust, whose devotion became oppressive in its excess. It had grown tiresome, until her affection faded, not from cruelty, but from monotony.
A true, profound bond demanded balance, honesty, and mutual concession.
"Not my cup of tea," Ett muttered. She would not be reminded of that past. Not all sweetness could suffice; too much would overwhelm.
Thus, the female lead was not a candidate. Yet should fate twist in the future, Ett would assist Guren from the shadows. She would consider his matches carefully; he must choose freely, but she would remain vigilant.
The boy had endured enough affection snatched from him, heartache already counted. She would not add more to his burdens.
Right. She would intervene only lightly, a whim guided by her soft spot for such villains.
"Compose yourself, Ett. You are not here to become a doting mother. Maintain your guise."
Disguise. All for the performance.
"Ah, the vial." Ett readied herself for another excursion.
She tied her hair in a simple fishtail braid, opened the secret passage in her chamber, and retrieved the eye-drop.
"Ah—it stings."
Past the forest, she wandered the bustling marketplace. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, fresh bread, and the tang of fish from nearby stalls.
Merchants called out to the passing crowd, each voice vying to be heard. This second visit made the world feel more tangible; more alive.
Oddly, more people were present than before. Decorations hung overhead, ribbons and banners fluttering in the breeze, heralding some festival.
"Two apples, please."
"That will be six copper, child."
"Thank you. Do tell, what is happening?"
The seller's eyes flickered with surprise at her voice.
"Are you not of this place?"
"…I have only just arrived."
"Oh, I thought you lived here. Your speech is unlike that of common folk—it bears the tone of high-born lineage."
Ett bristled inwardly. Tone, cadence…
"I shall take it as a compliment, madam."
"Hoho, no need for formality. Indeed, it is the Rasami Celebration."
"Rasami?"
A memory surfaced: the day the male lead first encounters the female lead the moment of delicate, troubled emotions.
"Indeed. It is a gathering for couples and individuals to mark the season's change, and to welcome summer with warmth."
"I see. Thank you."
"Many children await the nightfall. Songs will sound, and lamps will fill the heavens."
A fleeting memory surfaced: the female lead, alone on a bridge, lantern in hand, letting it fly, her emotion mirrored in its glow a lonely swan upon the river.
"Thank you, I shall remember this," Ett replied.
"Then do come again for apples," the seller called.
"Indeed, madam."
Ett wandered onward, following the crowd to a small, two-story house tucked between market streets. She double-checked her map. This was the place.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The door opened, revealing an old lady, lined with years yet smiling warmly. "What brings you here, child?"
Ett displayed the vial discreetly. "I require one of these."
The woman's surprise vanished into composure. She gestured inside.
"Come, child. You should have said you were my grandchild."
Role-playing commenced.
"I meant to surprise you, Grandma," Ett replied.
"Ah, a surprise, indeed. Come, let us sit."
The old woman motioned to a chair, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap. The room smelled faintly of herbs and wood smoke, the low ceiling shadowed by years of quiet living.
"This vial. Might I see it again?"
Ett handed it over. The room was humble yet tidy, yet a framed picture drew her eye—an image of the woman years ago, beside a young man. The boy had grown, she judged, into a fine lad.
"Oh, that is my son. A handsome one, is he not?"
Ett stifled a smile.
"Forgive my curiosity," she said.
"Hoho, it is long since anyone observed our likenesses."
"Yes… he is indeed striking."
"Striking, eh? I have learned something new from you," the woman replied, amused.
"This vial is precious—made only for her," the old lady added, examining Ett. "You serve her, I take it?"
Ett nodded. A memory of Cashim flickered through her thoughts.
"I thought you were her child."
"I am merely a servant of my master."
"Hmmm. Then perhaps another reserve is needed?"
"My master will be away too long, and this vial must last until the last is used," Ett explained.
"Very well. A treat for you milk or tea?"
"Milk," Ett said, savoring a simple pleasure.
"Then first the milk, then the vial shall be retrieved," the woman said.
"Forgive the trouble."
"No trouble. Come, drink and observe."
Ett's eyes fell again upon the picture frame. There was something strange about it a subtle depth, as if another image were pressed behind the first, concealed and waiting.