Chapter 4: To Remove the Shell
* * *
A black four-horse carriage entered Lumont’s bustling district. The wide, well-maintained streets were lined with shops featuring elegant display windows adorned with decorations to attract customers.
From trendy Western clothing stores to old watchmakers and jewelers selling precious items, shops catering to the middle class were enjoying unexpected prosperity.
Until a few years ago, many shops had been closing down, but now new establishments were occasionally appearing. This was a direct result of the hotel casino’s success.
Kaylon watched the passing scenery indifferently before turning away.
‘So they finally found out.’
Last evening, he’d received word from Michel. The man who had kept his mouth shut as if gagged had finally started confessing.
As expected, the Count’s suspicions had turned toward him. This meant the countdown to war had begun. Victory would depend on who managed to get their hands around the other’s throat first.
A dark shadow crossed Kaylon’s golden eyes before disappearing with a fleeting smirk.
By then, the carriage had arrived at the hotel. As he entered the lobby, a familiar face greeted him warmly.
“Welcome!”
It was Michel Rogedale. He approached Kaylon while exchanging pleasant greetings with passing guests.
“Are you eyeing my hotel now?”
“Ah, you caught me? That was supposed to be a secret.”
“Your ambition is needlessly large.”
“Isn’t bigger always better? I learned it all from you, Your Grace. Oof!”
Michel, who had been speaking excitedly, feigned pain and fell silent when Kaylon gave him a light tap on the chest.
“But why are you here? What about him?”
“Left him sleeping quietly. He won’t wake until evening.”
“Did you learn anything else?”
“Why else would I be here?”
Having followed Kaylon to the manager’s office, Michel began recounting the morning’s events like an epic tale. He complained about how difficult it had been to torture their friend who, after finally opening up, had inexplicably decided to clam up again.
“So I just put him to sleep. Even I think it was quite humane, don’t you think?”
His looking for praise with that expression was almost comical. Though he said he’d “just” put him to sleep, they both knew well enough about the torture that would resume the moment he dozed off.
“Good work.”
“Haha, right? I knew you’d appreciate it.”
Michel, who had been speaking proudly with great satisfaction, suddenly composed his excited expression. He couldn’t keep joking around now that it was time to report important matters. He continued, addressing his superior who had assumed a bored expression.
“Count Almar is quietly sponsoring an organization. They’re planning to expand its scale now. The badge production is part of that plan.”
“Hmm…”
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“About the connection between the Count and Ghost. I never imagined they’d go as far as training their own people.”
“…”
“Did you know since going to Turia?”
“Of course not.”
The leather chair swiveled to the side. Kaylon rested one arm on the desk and turned his gaze toward the window.
How could he have known? While he’d suspected Count Almar was Ghost’s master, even he hadn’t known they were operating so systematically.
Julio Ascaso de Almar. Just how far did his influence reach? As he was about to sink into thought, Michel spoke up.
“Should we start spreading rumors now? The Count must have noticed anyway, so wouldn’t it be better to make the first move?”
“Why?”
When Kaylon met his gaze, Michel returned it with a mischievous expression, revealing pointed canines as he smiled.
“Wouldn’t that irritate him more? Think about it—not only did he lose his bride, but now noble society is buzzing with rumors. I’d be absolutely furious if I were him.”
Seeing Kaylon’s eyes narrow as if he’d heard something offensive, Michel quickly changed his tune.
“Just joking. Don’t frown.”
Michel fell quiet, honestly unsure why he was being glared at so intensely—it hadn’t really been a joke, and it’s not like Kaylon cared about noble honor anyway.
While Michel grumbled internally, Kaylon quickly considered the situation. Though Michel’s suggestion to start spreading rumors had merit, something about it didn’t sit right with him.
He was uncomfortable with the idea of throwing an unprepared woman into a den of foxes.
She would inevitably face numerous conflicts and crashes. In such situations, one either stands firm or crumbles—and given her current state, he suspected the latter was more likely.
So he decided to give her more time. After all, winning over Mrs. Beightle, with her strong beliefs in noble superiority, would be her first test.
What happened after that would depend entirely on her.
* * *
From the next day onward, Lyra’s days began to follow a strict routine. Mornings were spent reading etiquette manuals and literary works provided by Mrs. Beightle, afternoons began with tea time and basic lady-like comportment lessons, and the rest was filled with learning various social etiquette practices common in high society.
She could barely keep her head above water amid the flood of knowledge. Breaking long-established habits was difficult enough, but the sharp looks and unforgiving admonishments that followed each mistake made her shrink into herself.
“Shoulders back and head up straight. When speaking, it’s proper to make eye contact with your conversation partner.”
As if her lack of confidence was the most troublesome issue, Mrs. Beightle took every opportunity to correct Lyra’s demeanor, seemingly determined to remake her personality entirely.
Whether due to her upbringing, her personality was exceedingly timid, and she was constantly preoccupied with reading others’ reactions—naturally drawing disapproving looks.
“Y-yes, yes!”
“Answer once only, and stop stammering. A lack of confidence makes you a laughingstock. Don’t let others mock you.”
“Ah, I under… no, I mean, I understand, madam.”
“Answer again.”
“Yes. Ah, I understand, madam.”
“Haah.”
Mrs. Beightle shook her head wearily, seemingly getting a headache from Lyra’s stubbornly unchanging speech patterns.
Lyra felt nothing but shame at her own behavior. But she couldn’t help her tongue freezing up whenever she felt tense or frightened.
She would practice the same phrases repeatedly before bed, and drink tea meant to relieve fatigue and tension both morning and evening.
Yet her speech habits showed little improvement, leading to daily disappointment in herself.
“Why can’t I do it?”
Lyra asked her reflection in the mirror. Of course, her other self couldn’t answer.
Pushing up the corners of her mouth with her fingers, she tried to encourage herself against the creeping gloom.
“You’re doing well. It will get better from here.”
Without such belief, she felt she might never improve.
“You can do this.”
Perhaps because of this self-encouragement, she gradually became able to withstand Mrs. Beightle’s scolding. Though her disappointment in herself hadn’t completely disappeared.
Apart from that, she was learning relatively quickly. Bad habits were slowly being corrected, reading became progressively easier, and previously unknown social customs gradually became ingrained in her mind.
While it was unrealistic to develop innate noble qualities in such a short time, even Mrs. Beightle seemed to acknowledge this much. The thunderous scolding that had filled their early lessons had gradually softened.
So perhaps it wouldn’t be wrong to say that Lyra Norris was beginning to develop some noble bearing.
One day, Mrs. Beightle arranged a simple scenario to test the results of her education so far. Lyra was the invited guest, Mrs. Beightle the hostess, and several maids were recruited to participate in the role-play.
After initial nervousness at the realistic setup, Lyra carefully followed the etiquette she’d learned.
Fortunately, the first scenario involved visiting protocols and wasn’t too difficult. However, as the role-play continued, the difficulty gradually increased.
She faced various situations: a host suddenly refusing to meet, having to unexpectedly stay for several days, or how to handle being served subpar food.
Lyra did her best with what she knew, but it fell far short of satisfying Mrs. Beightle.
Things like conveying one’s intentions clearly while maintaining politeness, perceiving a host’s true meaning in refusing a meeting, or offering tips to manor staff as a gesture of gratitude—she struggled with all of these.
“Situations are always unpredictable. Remember that how you conduct yourself in such moments determines your quality as a lady.”
“Yes…”
“Speak clearly, always! How many times must I say that making yourself understood is crucial! From now on, no more mumbling or trailing off.”
“Yes!”
“Your tone is too high and loud. Don’t let others detect your emotional fluctuations. Keep your voice clear and elegant always. Remember, proper posture is the foundation of a pleasant speaking voice.”
“Yes.”
“You may lower your chin slightly.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now we’ll move to the reception room.”
Lyra’s shoulders slumped at realizing the test wasn’t over. Mrs. Beightle, walking ahead, turned around.
“I said shoulders back. If you intend to disgrace the Lianton name, we might as well stop here.”
Lyra hurried to keep up with Mrs. Beightle as she strode away. It felt like the longest day she’d experienced yet.
