The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“…Is this… a tailor shop?”

Dorothy was surprised by the exterior of the building they had arrived at, following the chamberlain’s guidance.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, not a problem at all…”

Were tailor shops usually this large?

Dorothy knew what a tailor shop was – there were even some in the slums.

But the tailor shops Dorothy was familiar with were cramped spaces filled with cigarette smoke, barely managing to maintain a semblance of inventory using cheap fabric scraps.

“…It’s huge.”

“This is a tailor shop operated by a noble family from the Nordland Alliance in the northern continent… the Mannerheim family.”

“Mannerheim…”

Unfamiliar with Nordland, Dorothy nodded vaguely as if she knew, trailing off. Unlike Lombardy, Nordland was far too distant from Orléans for her to have any knowledge of it.

“The young lady of the Mannerheim famoly happens to be staying in Hyperion, so we should receive better service than usual.”

“But… by using such an extravagant tailor shop, won’t we stand out? The staff alone…”

If the operating entity was a noble household, there was a risk of rumors spreading through high society’s grapevine.

Dorothy’s concern wasn’t baseless, for the noble social circle had an expansive information network transcending national borders.

‘No tale walks on footless legs.’ The default trust among nobles by virtue of their status, coupled with humanity’s innate desire to share juicy gossip – the social circle was effectively a global web.

“Don’t worry. The Nordlanders are known for being tight-lipped, more averse to conversing with others than anything.”

As if to reassure Dorothy, the chamberlain informed her of the Nordlanders’ near-pathological tendency toward poor communication.

“And the Mannerheim young lady currently in Hyperion is… particularly extreme in that regard.”

Nordland wasn’t only geographically distant from Orléans, but quite insular by nature.

Thus, Nordlander nobles in Orléans were subtly ostracized, though they seemed to prefer such treatment themselves.

“If you say so, then I will believe it.”

If he went so far as to state it outright, she could believe him.

The chamberlain didn’t seem the type to make unnecessary false claims over such trivial matters. That was Dorothy’s assessment of him.

“Then let’s proceed. The Mannerheim household’s skill should allow them to swiftly produce a suitable outfit.”

“I see.”

Trusting the chamberlain, Dorothy entered the tailor shop.

“Nghh… Truly, no wine can surpass Orléans vintage.”

“…”

That trust immediately shattered upon seeing the drunken lout lying atop a desk clearly not intended for such purposes, blowing raspberries into an empty bottle.

“…Chamberlain?”

“…Despite appearances, this person is exceptionally skilled when it comes to tailoring. He also serves as the valet for the Mannerheim young lady I mentioned earlier.”

Following the chamberlain’s words, Dorothy gazed again at the drunkard.

Disheveled hair. Flushed, ruddy complexion with a vacant grin. Crumpled dress shirt, tie barely knotted around his neck.

“…That woman…?”

“…”

The chamberlain remained silent.

“Ohoho? If it isn’t Mr. Fontaine? Greetings, Mr. Fontaine~”

Spotting the two lingering silently by the entrance, the drunken tailor waved in greeting.

“Long time no see? And who’s this maid of yours? Don’t tell me… your lover?”

“…Ms. Es.”

“Just joking, just joking~. As if I’d seriously say something like that to an old geezer who could be my grandpa, you know?”

Despite appearing more like a father and daughter – or rather, a meticulously maintained elderly gentleman and his prematurely born granddaughter – the drunken tailor’s conduct was overly casual, one could say either affable or outright rude toward the clearly much older chamberlain he seemed acquainted with.

Could one truly act so improperly toward an elder, even if they were acquainted?

“Ah, care for some wine? It’s from Aquitaine, I believe… now how did they pronounce this one?”

“It is Château Margaux. More importantly, we didn’t come for wine but to have a dress tailored, so please stand up.”

“Alright, alright~ Always such a fussy old granny… hic.”

However, as the chamberlain himself didn’t seem particularly offended by the tailor’s demeanor, Dorothy didn’t comment on it either. As the saying went, ‘Turn a blind eye, and half is gone.’

“Now then, let’s see… Mr. Fontaine’s measurements from last time were…”

“Not for me, but for Miss Gale here. We need an outfit tailored for her.”

Taking a step back, the chamberlain gestured toward Dorothy.

“Oh, is that so? What kind of outfit?”

“A costume for the masquerade ball. I shall leave the design entirely up to you, Ms. Es.”

“…?”

At the chamberlain’s words, Dorothy surveyed the tailor’s slovenly appearance once more.

“Does my assistant look too unsightly to you, dear?”

“To be honest, yes.”

Before her unsightly attire or demeanor, the more concerning issue was whether this clearly inebriated drunkard blowing into bottles could truly be trusted.

While Dorothy herself enjoyed alcohol, she generally avoided drinking while working, for alcohol was the devil’s brew that could turn men into beasts.

“Have no concerns, Miss Gale. Despite appearances, this person’s tailoring skills are unmatched by any other tailor in Orléans.”

“…If you insist, I’ll believe you for now.”

Dorothy was well aware the chamberlain wasn’t one for empty platitudes. However, her trust had already taken a significant blow.

“So, care to come over here? What… was your name again?”

“Dorothy Gale.”

“Dorothy Gale? An unusual name in Orléans. Well, whatever… strip.”

Given her unsightly demeanor left little room for gracefulness anyway, the tailor grinned lecherously as she brandished a tape measure, uttering:

“…What?”

“Take off your clothes. How else am I supposed to get your measurements properly?”

Enough for Dorothy’s mind to elevate the tailor from a mere drunkard to a lecherous drunkard.

“Just kidding, just kidding~. No need to glare at me with such vicious eyes? It gives me this feeling… like my entire body will be finely minced.”

No, restrain yourself, inner Arachne.

It was a moment when Dorothy’s patience was pushed to the limit.

* * *

“I’ll have it sent to the chamberlain’s office tomorrow, so wait for it~”

“…I have a headache.”

Despite only having her measurements taken, why did she feel so dizzy?

Dorothy muttered, feeling her eyelids growing heavier despite not lacking sleep. 

“My apologies, Miss Gale. I have unintentionally caused you trouble.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t intend to bother me purposely, Chamberlain, so it’s alright…”

Was it really alright? For in the end, this man was the root cause.

Had he not first proposed she attend the ball? Had he not brought her to this accursed tailor shop?

Dorothy thought to herself – the true origin of all evil was this elderly man.

“…Let’s return to the royal palace.”

However, it wn’t in Dorothy’s nature to nitpick over such trivialities, and she had already reached her mental limit. So rather than needlessly bickering with the chamberlain, she chose to return – the sooner, the safer for Sibylla’s sake as well.

“I wish to rest a bit-“

Unable to finish her words, Dorothy abruptly stopped in the middle of the street.

As if her entire body had turned to stone.

“Miss Gale?”

“…Just now.”

Amid the bustling crowds, among the passers-by brushing past her side.

“Something… just now.”

Amidst the mingling scents of body odor, perfume, and leather, Dorothy caught a faint yet familiar aroma.

She whipped her head around in pursuit of that scent, but all she saw were the backs of numerous heads.

“Miss Gale, what is the matter?”

“Did you not sense it? That smell… just now…”

Acrid yet sharp, stinging the nostrils.

“…No.”

The stench of blood.

“Let’s return, swiftly.”

“Wait, Miss Gale. At least provide an explanation-“

An ominous premonition spurred Dorothy’s steps onward.

“…”

And so, she failed to notice the golden eyes observing her amidst the crowd.

* * *

The atmosphere at the palace was unsettling, enough for even Dorothy and the chamberlain to immediately sense the dissonance.

“Wait, running about the palace like that… Gyaahh!?”

But Dorothy paid no heed to such commotion, for her sole concern was Sibylla’s well-being.

“…Did something not just pass by?”

“A maid. Swifter than your palace steeds, it seems.”

Dashing up the stairs, sprinting down the hallway, Dorothy arrived at Sibylla’s chamber door within a minute of entering the palace grounds.

“Haa… Haa… Whew…”

After adjusting her disheveled attire and catching her breath before that door, just as she moved to knock:

“Princess!?”

The abruptly opened door caused Dorothy to stumble backward, falling on her rear.

“…Why is your hair such a mess? And what is with all that sweat?”

“You are… unharmed.”

Contrary to Dorothy’s fears, Sibylla was unharmed. The figure before her was undoubtedly the Princess she had vowed to protect.

“While I wish to ask what happened… I feel I can already guess the reason.”

“…What?”

However, her concerns weren’t entirely unfounded.

“There has been an attempted assassination within the palace grounds.”

“…The victim?”

That the owner of that bloody scent had passed through the palace, causing such commotion, was undeniable fact.

“Prince Louis.”