Chapter 29
“So, you’re Lady Calliope Anastas…”
Ortea took the letter and opened it.
The contents, written in elegant penmanship, expressed a desire to discuss matters concerning their younger siblings. Calliope hoped Ortea would write back.
So Carolie seems to be having issues too, Ortea thought, folding the letter neatly again. Maybe their bond as half-sisters is stronger than I imagined.
“Bring me some stationery,” she instructed her maid.
Ortea then sat down and wrote a thoughtful reply, mentioning how her sister had still been feeling down and how she hoped the two girls might repair their friendship.
When she sent letters to the Marquisate, she always received a reply—sometimes within hours, at most the next day. And as the letters continued, she gradually came to understand why Armant hadn’t dared to write first, and why Lady Carolie had been so angry.
“That old man again…”
“Miss?”
“I know, I know…”
The letters from Calliope Anastas, now the official eldest daughter of the Marquis family, were kind and considerate. She explained, in calm and mature words, how she also wanted Carolie and Armant to reconcile. She included a brief summary of what had happened during the fight.
Apparently, Carolie hadn’t shared all the details either, but it was clear that Armant had repeated some harsh things she’d heard from adults—without fully understanding their meaning. Calliope, however, wrote that she hadn’t taken offense and only hoped the girls could become friends again.
“She must have a good relationship with her sister… and she doesn’t seem like a petty person either.”
Of course, a person can’t be fully judged by letters alone. But extending a hand to a child who once spread rumors about her showed a strength of character that impressed Ortea.
It was Grandfather’s fault.
She recalled the first time she had heard about the former Marchioness’s daughter. It was during one of their monthly family dinners with their grandparents. Her grandfather, an old-fashioned and stubborn man, had casually dropped a comment he’d picked up somewhere.
“At this week’s chess club, I heard that the Marquis is reinstating the daughter from his previous marriage. That former Marchioness—wasn’t she from a mere baron’s house? Barely had any land or fortune. What are they thinking, letting a girl with no proper background into the family again?”
Her mother had frowned.
“And who exactly told you that?”
“One of the Anastas elders. He plays with us.”
“You really should stop repeating things like that.”
Her grandmother, knowing her husband well, chose to change the topic rather than scold him. Her parents smiled awkwardly and pretended not to hear. Ortea had tried to ignore it too—until now. Until she realized that little Armant had repeated those very words.
“This really deserves a scolding.”
“Should I inform the Madam?” her maid asked.
“No. I’ll handle this myself.”
In Calliope’s latest letter, she asked Ortea to bring Lady Armant to the upcoming tea party. She planned to bring Carolie as well—hoping the two could meet, talk, and resolve things.
Ortea agreed. There wasn’t much point in sisters meddling behind the scenes. The girls needed to talk face to face. Neither of them seemed like they truly wanted to stay angry forever.
Ortea stood and headed to Armant’s room. As expected, her little sister was curled up inside, quietly holding one of her favorite potted plants.
“Armant.”
“Big sister?”
Armant looked up, blinking. Ortea pulled up a chair beside her and sat down. The plant her sister was doting on had a few buds but hadn’t fully bloomed. Ortea glanced at it thoughtfully.
No use dancing around it, she decided. Best to speak plainly.
“I know why you and Lady Carolie fought.”
Armant’s eyes widened like a startled rabbit. Her gaze darted nervously around the room. But she didn’t deny it. She knew she’d done something wrong.
“Armant,” Ortea began gently, “I know it was Grandfather who said those things first. But you were still wrong to repeat them without thinking.”
Armant stayed silent, her eyes locked on her potted plant. Assuming her sister was being stubborn, Ortea continued with a firmer tone.
“I get that you wanted to sound like you knew something important because she’s your friend. But even if you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, it’s still wrong to talk badly about someone you don’t even know.”
“…”
“You need to think twice before you speak. Do you understand me?”
Then, Armant muttered something—so quietly, Ortea had to lean in to hear.
And then it happened.
“I know! I already know!”
Armant’s voice exploded as she suddenly shouted. Ortea flinched, instinctively covering her ringing ears. For a second, she was shocked—but then she realized: Armant hadn’t been silent because she was ignoring her. She’d been building up to something bigger.
“I know I messed up!”
Ortea jumped in surprise as Armant burst into loud sobs.
Armant, who had always taken after their mother—quiet and composed—had never once thrown a tantrum or raised her voice. Now she was crying uncontrollably. And Ortea, only fifteen herself, had no idea how to handle it. She stood there, flustered, helpless.
The maids nearby exchanged awkward glances, hiding small smiles. They knew the young lady meant well but clearly hadn’t learned how to comfort a crying child.
In a sudden decision, Ortea turned and dashed out of the room.
“Moooom!”
Her shout echoed through the halls of the Carbulet estate—using a title she only yelled in moments of true panic.
It didn’t take long for Countess Melissa, the lady of the house, to arrive. She found her eldest daughter shaken, her youngest sobbing, and immediately took over.
Cradling Armant gently, Melissa listened as Ortea explained what had happened. Once she understood, she let out a soft sigh.
“So… Armant really said that?”
Armant didn’t reply. She simply held out the letter Calliope had written.
“She also invited Armant to the tea party,” Ortea added. “Lady Calliope hopes the girls can make up.”
Melissa skimmed the letter and nodded.
“It seems Lady Calliope is being very thoughtful. And if Lady Carolie wants to reconcile too, then you should go—with your sister.”
“But how can I go after everything I said…” Armant mumbled, her voice nasally from crying.
Melissa stroked her hair and said gently,
“That’s exactly why you need to go. You owe her a real apology. If you just stay quiet, you and your friend could grow apart forever.”
“She’s right,” Ortea said, holding the letter open. “Look—Calliope even wrote that she’s not upset.”
Armant stared at the letter for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“You can’t go empty-handed, though. I’ll prepare a gift for you to bring.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Melissa smiled, hearing both of her daughters respond. Children always fight—it’s part of growing up. But once they make up, their friendship becomes stronger than ever.
Once Ortea confirmed they would attend, Calliope began preparing in earnest.
In her past life, she hadn’t started mingling with noble ladies until she turned fifteen. That delay had mostly been due to her lack of proper etiquette. But now? She was more than prepared. Things were progressing earlier than before.
At this rate… I might meet Isaac sooner too.
She slumped forward onto her desk, her head resting on her arms. Her pen tapped the paper rhythmically. The soft tapping stirred Jack, who had been dozing nearby.
“I wasn’t sleeping!”
“Then be quiet and keep sleeping.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Susan, watching from the side, tossed him a blanket with a sigh. Jack caught it without flinching and wrapped himself up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Calliope watched him, amused. Strange, she thought. I remember him being a bit more uptight.
He hadn’t exactly been proud of his noble status, but he’d never tolerated disrespect from commoners. Yet now he was curled up like a cat on her floor.
“Jack, has anyone told you you’ve gone soft lately?”
“No?”
“You just seem… more relaxed.”
Still half-asleep, Jack peeked one eye open. She’s already saying ‘used to be’ like she’s known me forever.
“Well, you certainly acted more like a noble back in Solita.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Though I think I get it.” He scratched the side of his head, where his hair had flattened from napping.
“If I remember right, I’d been awake for about 28 hours that day.”
“Ah, that explains it. Go back to sleep.”
Calliope waved him off dismissively. So that was it. Not his actual personality—just sleep deprivation making him cranky.
Back then, he’d never been assigned directly to her. He must’ve constantly lacked rest, which made him seem short-tempered. Now that he had time to sleep properly, his true nature was showing through.
“But Sir Beckham never looks tired, even when he probably is,” Susan said, watching Jack drift off again.
“I know. It’s unfair,” Calliope replied.
Even the first time he’d visited her, the only sign of exhaustion had been a slight shadow under his eyes. He never looked tired. Which was a problem—when you don’t look exhausted, people don’t know when to stop piling work on you.
“Here, Susan. Please take this to the Marchioness.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Calliope handed over a neatly written shopping list for the tea party. Since Circe, the Marchioness, was the lady of the house, any purchases had to be approved by her.
