Half a Step Away from Love - Chapter #3

Chapter Three

“Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives.”

Oscar Wilde

The fact that this morning I rise early is not surprising. I do have a natural tendency to have the lifestyle of a lark. My mother in her time rather disapproved of this inclination, noting that such a schedule befits farmers, not noblewomen. In a way she was right. Most of the palace inhabitants tend to wake up late, often getting out of bed closer to eleven. Of course, I do not mean the servants. But do not judge my fellow courtiers too strictly. It is important to remember that their day also ends quite late. Ordinary people wake up and go to sleep with the sun. Life in the palace is not dependent on the cycle dictated by nature. It's not customary to economize on candles. And if the Duke arranges a ball, no one goes to sleep until morning.

You may wonder how I manage to stay on my feet that late, given my habit of waking up early. In fact, it is not difficult. It takes only an hour and a half of sleep during the day. I have an opportunity to do this most days. After a rest in the afternoon in bed or on a lounger specially designed for this purpose, I am again cheerful, energetic and ready for action. Fortunately, there is always activity taking place in the castle, because of its busy atmosphere.

Once again, the morning is the opposite of boring. By around nine o'clock I am fully dressed, washed, my hair and my makeup done; as usual, that does not take me a lot of time, and I am soon walking through the corridors of the palace. One could say that I have come by the Duke's chambers by accident or by some gift of clairvoyance.

However, in reality there is a much simpler explanation. After yesterday's conversation with Mireya, my mind has been preoccupied with thoughts of the question of her dowry and possible solutions to this problem. It is therefore unsurprising that my legs unconsciously have led me to the Duke — the person responsible for the whole situation.

Obviously, the fact that I see Cameron Estley at the entrance to the Duke's office doesn't surprise me. Something else shocks me. The Count is speaking to some servant, whom he apparently has run into just before reaching the door. And out of the room, through the open crack Emma looks at me pleadingly.

I mentally curse, using expressions that Ilona would approve of. In fact, it takes me only a few seconds to understand what is going on. Everything is clear as day. Mireya was never going to give up her daring, or, rather, insane plan. After Ilona and I did not support her in this endeavor, she just found herself another helper — Emma, of course, agreed to everything. She did not even think of somehow evaluating Mireya's intentions. She just did what her mistress asked of her. More precisely, she tried to.

Here's the catch. Apparently, she was able to sneak into the office of the Duke. It is likely that she was also able to find the seal. I wouldn't be surprised if at the moment the maid has it hidden in one her pockets. The problem is Lord Estley's sudden arrival. It is quite likely that the office was his goal at first. I gather this from his posture, half-turned to the door. One time he even reaches for the handle, but the servant's words make him linger. However, in a short while this conversation will be over. The servant isn't a courtier; hence they aren't going to move into another room to continue their conversation. They'll discuss everything, Estley will finish giving orders and they will each go their own way. Then the Count is obviously going to enter the office.

 I tensely purse my lips. In a minute — two at most ‒Estley will catch Emma in the act. What should I do?

No — for the maid, I would not lift a finger. She has only her own stupidity to blame. Dedication is one thing, but a person should still have a head on her shoulders — it's actually quite useful. After all, I'm sure Mireya didn't force her to assist her — Emma is acting of her own free will. Devotion to a person does not mean strictly abiding by her every whim. In my opinion, sometimes it is just the opposite. For example in the case at hand. If Emma fails and is caught, it will hurt Mireya too. That is what causes me to intervene.

Oh, I do not want to have anything to do with the theft of seal and the diamond! But it seems that fate itself will not allow me to stay away.

The footman bows in obeisance and then heads down the hall, hurrying to execute the Count's orders. Estley steps closer to the door; Emma's terrified face disappears from the slot as she quickly withdraws more deeply into the room.

"Lord Cameron!"

I rush towards him. Estley stops expectantly, slightly surprised by my haste. Without giving the Count a chance to come to his senses, I grab both his hands and excitedly look into his eyes, while simultaneously, as if by chance, turning his back to the door.

"Lord Cameron, you were absolutely right!" I exclaim emotionally.

Estley frowns, slightly bewildered by my charge. However, his answer sounds very confident.

"Of course, I was right," he confirms without a shadow of a doubt. "About what exactly?"

What a cocky jerk! But out loud I say something quite different:

"You were right about me! Then, at the ball. When you said that I don't have lovers, because there is one man whom I've desired with a burning passion for a long time, secretly."

The words pour out of my mouth more and more quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I see Emma once again approaching the gap and eagerly watching our conversation, ready to use the first opportunity to escape. The trouble is that, because of their current positions Estley might still notice her in his peripheral vision, if she emerges into the corridor. So I grab the Count's arm even more strongly, and imperceptibly turn him a bit more.

"I did not dare tell anyone who it is," I go on chattering, carefully distracting Estley. "In fact, I did not even dare to admit those feeling to myself. But I can no longer remain silent. This person is you."

And before the completely stunned Lord Cameron can somehow respond to this confession, I stand up on tiptoe and kiss him on the lips.

Perhaps "kiss" is not even the right word. I grab his head with my hands and literally dig into his mouth with mine, trying to crush it so the pressure would not allow him to break from the embrace and focus on anything else. However, he doesn't seem so keen on escaping. At first he just freezes, not responding to my actions. Then his hands wrap around my back and shoulders, and his lips start to move no less passionately than my own. Well, it would have been foolish of him to not take advantage of the situation.

Cameron Estley sure knows how to kiss. He is better than all of my former lovers; however, it has been so long, I might have just forgotten. But he certainly uses his lips skillfully, hot and soft at the same time. He smells pleasantly of some expensive perfume, of the kind that does not give a sharp smell, but so to speak surreptitiously envelops you, forcing women close by to experience the slightest dizziness. At first I feel goose bumps spreading through my body, and then I, on the contrary, feel feverish. My fingers clutch Cameron's hair eagerly, to the point of risking tearing out a clump, and my lips move more aggressively. My hands begin to gradually sink lower and lower, slip to the back of his neck and down to his hips. At the same time, I feel his long fingers caress my own back.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a slight movement to his left. Emma finally decides to slip out of the office, tiptoe a few steps, and then walk down the hall as if nothing had happened. As if she were just going upstairs, she walks past us.

I could now stop the kiss — the only problem being, I don’t really want to. Hey, Nessa, pull yourself together! The play is over; it is time for the actress to retire before her deceived audience decides to throw rotten tomatoes at her! Nevertheless, I cannot resist and my palms eagerly explore his hips, while I simultaneously kiss him as though I want to swallow him.

Then, I abruptly pull away. I let him go, lower my eyes, and clasp my hands in front of me.

"Please forgive me! I'm sorry; I do not know what came over me!" I exclaim. My cheeks blaze with a blush quite suitable for the role. "I beg you, forget what just happened!"

With these words, I run away. Fortunately, Cameron doesn't try to either catch up with me or call me back.

For some time now, loud female laughter has been ringing out under the high ceiling of the Duchess' boudoir. Mireya has reached the stage when she just sobs, one hand resting on the back of the chair on which she sits sideways, and the other wiping tears from her eyes. Ilona also laughs, although my story shows that I ignored her advice about Lord Cameron. That doesn't stop her from giggling, her head in her hands. I, too, am smiling, but with a little more restraint: after all, for me, unlike the others present, the recent incident is associated with some awkwardness.

"Poor Lord Estley!" Mireya barely squeezes out through her laughter, rubbing the tears from her face. "How will he live? What did you say to him? 'Forget everything that happened?'"

"Something like that," I say.

"Right — as if he could just forget such an incident!" Ilona shows skepticism.

"Come on, he'll be fine," I shrug her of.

One thing I am sure of is that Estley won't suffer. That he could, with no difficulty, find a girl who would not demand any forgetfulness at all from him.

"Well?" Meanwhile, Mireya asks. I look at her, puzzled. "Tell me!" she insists.

I look blankly at Ilona, just to be sure: my friend Ilona too, is awaiting something from me. It makes me tense up and sit up straight. Until now, I have been half-lying, at ease on the banquette, as befits the woman of the hour.

"But I have already told you everything," I express my bewilderment. "Do you think one such incident is not enough for one morning? Personally, my nerves have been shaken more than enough!"

"You do not understand," Mireya shakes her head. "Your story is quite enough, but you have missed something."

"What?" I bat my eyelashes in confusion.

Mireya leans forward, her eyes flashing with avid curiosity.

"How was it?" she asks.

"How was what?" I, on the contrary, draw slightly back.

"How was it? What do you not understand?" Mireya asks, fondly exasperated. "Is Lord Cameron a good kisser?"

"Oh, that..."

I purse my lips and look at my companions from under my brows. I have no desire to delve into such details. No. The facts themselves I am ready to recount as many times as necessary. But to expatiate upon my feeling — no, thank you. Especially considering that I liked the kiss a lot more than I had expected. It would be a different matter if I had kissed a decent person — then I wouldn't be ashamed to admit that I enjoyed the process. But when it comes to this self-confident scoundrel! By the way, I wonder: did he like it? Judging by his reaction, it seems he did ... Goddamn it, what am I thinking?!!

"I don't know," I say aloud, dryly. «It’s been a while since I've kissed someone. It's hard for me to compare. He's probably okay."

Mireya capriciously purses her lips, unsatisfied with my answer.

"Anyway, what does it matter?" For some reason this subject begins to annoy me. "What difference does it make how he kisses?"

"What do you mean 'what difference?!'" More than ever Mireya livens up. "Kissing is an important part of a relationship with a person."

"Very important!" Ilona backs her up.

"Lady Mireya, you're worrying me!" I plead. "What personal relationship? With whom? Cameron Estley?"

"What's wrong with that?" the lady feigns surprise. "He is a prominent suitor, by the way."

I clutch my head and groan loudly. Fortunately, in the absence of witnesses I can afford to behave relatively unceremoniously with Mireya. Ilona doesn't count — she is one of us.

"Very prominent," the latter says gravely.

Again I put my head in my hands.

"Ilona," my voice is full of sarcasm "didn't you recently tell me some spiel about how dangerous Cameron Estley is? Now, you're proposing I have an affair with him?"

"Oh, Nessa, Nessa," reproachfully sighs my friend." Do you still not understand that dangerous people make the best lovers?"

Mireya chuckles approvingly.

"And why do you suppose that we are just talking about a simple affair?" She adds. "Perhaps we are referring to a pure and true love? We could arrange you to be wed. I would personally organize the wedding."

"A-are you making fun of me?" I stammer hopefully.

"Well, of course, we are!" laughingly Mireya admits. "More precisely, pulling your leg. There, there, do not be offended!" She sits down beside me on the banquette and puts her arm around my shoulders. "Of course, I would never place you at the mercy of such a man as Estley. I am extremely grateful to you for what you did today!" She stands up from the banquette, takes a few steps and turns back with a mischievous smile on her face. "However, I wasn't kidding about this: if you decide to marry, I will arrange everything in the best possible way."

"Thank you!" I laugh. "I think you won't have to worry about that for a long time. I will marry only if I find an optimal candidate. You could say a perfect candidate. That is quite unlikely."

"What, in your opinion, would be an ideal candidate?" With keen interest Ilona asks. "What kind of a man is the ideal husband?"

Mireya awaits an answer with no less interest. I gather my thoughts, my head thrown back. It is not an easy question to answer, especially clearly.

"An ideal husband — he... he is..." I pause, snapping my fingers. A blissful, romantic smile blossoms on my face. "He is, you know..." The right words finally come to mind. "Someone who does not get in the way."

I say this with languid eyes. Then I stare resentfully at the laughing girls. I would just like to know what is so strange about my feelings?

The door swings open, and Emma bursts into the room, not even bothering to knock. The laughter ceases instantly; we all look at the maid. She stops at the door, panting, leaning on the door handle.

The thing is, Emma was able to steal the seal out of the Duke's office. When I helped her escape, she rushed straight to Mireya. The forged letter, needed to enter the treasury and carry out the gem, has been prepared beforehand. The maid took it and immediately headed there. She has only now returned.

Judging by the rapidness of Emma's breathing, her flushed cheeks, and upset, guilty expression, the trip to the treasury did not go well. The maid clutches in her fist the letter, which has become crumpled from such treatment — the letter which sports the Duke's personal seal.

"Well, how did it go?" Mireya is already on her feet. "What happened?"

"Forgive me, Madam," Emma murmurs, bowing her head apologetically." I did not succeed."

We all wait for an explanation, but none follows: the maid just stands there in a fit of self-deprecation, her head bowed and her hands, which continue to crease the letter, clasped in front of her.

"What happened?" Mireya demands, as she takes the maid's hand in order to bring her out of her stupor.

Emma sighs and lifts up her eyes to her mistress, and speaks:

"I was not allowed to enter. They said that without a special order they cannot do anything."

"And what about the letter? Did you show them the letter with the stamp?"

"I did. But they did not even bother to read it. Just skimmed it."

"But they did see my brother's seal?"

"They did," in the same apologetic tone Emma says. "But they said it did not matter. They have received a new decree, according to which only the Duke, his valet, and Lord Estley are allowed to enter the treasury. Anyone else can only enter accompanied by one of these people. I tried to insist, but they threatened that they would call the security chief ... so I left."

Emma lowers her head again.

"Did they tell you when this decree was issued?" I speak up.

The maid's shoulders quiver as if she considers herself guilty for that too.

"Just a few minutes before my arrival, Madam," she whispers.

Mireya grits her teeth, barely restraining herself from cursing.

"Relax, Emma," she says. "Drink some water and calm down. It is not your fault that all this happened. You have served me well."

The maid, a little comforted by such kind words, but still worried, goes into the next room. I sit back, leaning against the foot of the bed, which is close to the banquette I am resting upon. My lips stretch into wide smile, in which admiration mingles with anger.

"He figured it all out," I state. "And so fast! How did he manage that? All the same, he's an incredibly smart bastard."

"Whom are you talking about?" Mireya abruptly asks.

"About Cameron Estley, of course," I confidently respond. "No one else could have calculated all our moves in advance, and so quickly."

My words almost immediately receive unexpected confirmation. We hear knocking, and a footman accompanied by a maid enters the room.

"Lady Almikonte." He bows in a manner befitting the occasion. "I am authorized to deliver a letter from Lord Cameron Estley, addressed to Lady Inessa Antego."

I look at Mireya for instructions. After receiving a nod from her, I put out my hand. The footman hands me the envelope.

"I told him to give me the letter, but he refused" complains Mireya's maid, justifying allowing a stranger into mistress' private chambers.

"I was ordered to give you the letter in person."

The footman speaks humbly, as if apologizing, but his face simultaneously expresses self-confidence. Well, he is right in a way: orders are orders. Especially when a man like Estley gives them.

"Come on, read it!" impatiently Mireya urges me, as soon as the door has closed behind the servants, when once again it is just the three of us.

I open the envelope and unfold a square sheet of pale yellow paper. On it a few sentences are written in beautiful cursive handwriting. I begin to read. As I skim the lines of text, I become more and more angry. I literally feel my rage physically entangling my body and soul. My hands tremble, my eyes darken.

I painfully grit my teeth. I feel that had the writer of the letter been in this room, I would lunge at him and strangle him with my own two hands.

As I finish, I crumple the letter in my hand, taking out my anger at the author. Then, in a fit I toss the piece of paper aside. Unfortunately, it does not fall far: the paper is too light.

"How dare he!" I hiss, surprising myself.

Frankly, my strong reaction to the letter frightens me a little. I could not remember ever being so angry at someone. To the point of gritting my teeth, and the world turning red and black in front of me. It seems at this point that any additional small thing would be enough to push me over the edge and make me lose control.

Meanwhile Ilona picks up the letter which I have cast aside so cruelly. She smoothes out the paper and, without asking my permission, starts to read. I don't really mind. I care very little about what is happening around me at the moment, because I am so focused on my overwhelming fury.

"Who does he think he is?!" I continue to rage.

At first I do not notice the way my friend's lips stretch into a smile as she reads. I notice her reaction only when Ilona, once she reaches the end, bursts into laughter.

"Does something strike you as funny?!" I am indignant, transferring part of my wrath onto the lady in waiting.

She puts her hand to her chest, apparently deliberating whether to explain something to me, but was unable to utter a word because of her laughter. I gasp indignantly, unable to say anything in response to such blatant disregard of my feelings.

Mireya decisively snatches the letter from Ilona's hands. She sits down in an armchair, her whole appearance broadcasting calm and steadiness — qualities her maids currently lack — and begins to read aloud at a measured pace. After the first couple of lines she stops and looks up in amazement, but then forces herself to continue. The letter reads:

"Dear Lady Inessa!

I hope you enjoyed the short-term possession of the Duke's seal as much as I enjoyed the short-term proximity of your body. I hasten to inform that your chosen payment method entirely suits me. The passionate kiss of a young woman descended from a count’s family is worthy of the price of borrowing the seal. If you wish to pay in a similar manner for other services, please contact me without hesitation.

Yours sincerely,

Cameron Estley.

P.S. Be so kind as to return the seal to its rightful owner as soon as possible. To pay to possess it on a regular basis, you would have to not leave my bed for at least two months."

"Oh, my..." Mireya says, speechless.

"I'm going to kill him," I hiss. "Tear his head off. And then I'll strangle him. Or vice versa. I don't care if they do execute me for it."

"Well, well, stop with this nonsense," Mireya gently asks. «We’ll find another way to make him regret writing it in the first place."

"And you!" I point at Ilona with a trembling forefinger. "From you I did not expect something like that!"

"I'm sorry, Nessa, really," begs my friend, trying to look serious again. "But don't you see? This letter — it's almost an admission of defeat! I know I said that it's better not to mess with people like Estley, but I still cannot help but admire your success."

"What success?" I frown, ready to take offense seriously, if it turns out that Ilona is mocking me.

Personally, Cameron's letter doesn't seem a sign of success to me, but rather the greatest humiliation of my life. He has openly hinted at the fact that I acted like a courtesan. Most disgusting of all was that this presents the situation in such a way that I myself am almost ready to agree with him.

"What?" Ilona repeats, as if the answer is obvious. "Nessa, do not you see how furious he was when he wrote this letter? He was livid!"

"You really think so?" I dubiously drawl. Being able to interpret the letter in such a manner would be nice; in any case, it would help me to come to terms with its contents. However, I don't really believe Ilona's speculation is correct. "I don't see it. He is just making fun of me. He is smugly making it clear that he will always outwit me — spewing insults — obviously enjoying himself."

"Just making fun? Enjoying himself?" Ilona asks, shaking her head in disbelief. "Nessa, but he rages and fumes! I bet this perfectly honed letter is at least the tenth version, while the first nine are lying crumpled in the trash. At first, he worked on the wording and then threw out the drafts because of how shaky his handwriting was from anger. He probably paced from corner to corner, clenched his fists in anger and, perhaps, even punched something a couple of times."

"You have a very vivid imagination," I say glumly. "In my opinion, it was not so. He was just sitting quietly, lounging in a chair, slowly sipping wine and grinning mischievously while inventing some other disgusting accusation."

"Oh, my friend, you still don't understand men!" Ilona reproaches me. "You should paint the town red as soon as possible, or at least drag someone into your bed. The fact of the matter is that Estley offends you in almost every sentence" she explains to me, patronizingly, as if I were a small child. "If he were, as you say, calm and relaxed, he would have done it exactly once in the entire letter. But no, he was so furious that he knew no measure. It is, incidentally, not at all like him. Apparently, you have managed to hurt him very much."

I look askance at my friend, still not knowing whether or not to agree with her reasoning. At least, Ilona herself seems totally convinced that she is right. Okay, I'll have time to think about it later, with a clear head. More specifically, when I regain the ability to think logically. This clearly is not about to happen for at least the next couple of hours.

At this moment Emma enters the room. I spin around and walk slowly toward her, like a snake gliding towards a tasty mouse.

"Emma," I coo softly." I assume you still have the seal?"

The maid nods nervously, guessing from the look in my eyes, that she is in for a scolding.

"Well," I say in the same soft, gentle voice. "Now you must make sure the seal returns to its usual place. How you do it I do not care. You understand that?" I wait until the maid cautiously nods. "Otherwise," I sharply raise my voice, almost shout: "I'll sell you to Lord Estley as a sex slave! Do I make myself clear?"

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Half a Step Away from Love - Chapter#2

Chapter Two 

“Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.”

Oscar Wilde

Entering my bedroom, I lean wearily against the wall, and, throwing off my shoes, take a few steps barefoot. I stop near the mirror, remove the veil from my head and take off the red wig. Then the maid helps me to remove the luxurious emerald green dress with gold needlework, which belongs to Mireya.

Today the Duchess, along with several of her ladies in waiting, visited the fair. Such trips mean increased security risk, because even trained guards can have difficulty keeping up with a motley crowd. Therefore, during such events additional precautions are taken: namely, Mireya exchanges places with one of her ladies in waiting. To be precise: with me. It is worth noting that to my knowledge there has not been a single accident during those outings; however, as they say, better safe than sorry. I have long been accustomed to the fact that once every couple of weeks I have to put on a wig, wear another woman's clothes, and along with the other maids, hide my face under a thick veil. Something about this elaborate masquerade is even funny.

But this time, I am just exhausted. Therefore, when I am clad in only a white chemise, extending to mid-calf, with great pleasure I sink into the armchair standing in front of the mirror, and throw my head back. I close my eyes and breathe evenly, waiting for the maid to prepare me a hot bath. Then I look at myself in the mirror, and click my tongue disapprovingly. Yes, after the bath I'll have to work on my face, because underneath my eyes dark circles have started to appear.

I unhurriedly let down my dark hair. Graceful curls fall on my shoulders. I stand up and look at myself in the full-length mirror. My shirt softly clings to my figure. In general, I can't complain about my appearance: average height, narrow bones and no excess weight. I am skinny, slim and flexible, my breasts aren't large, which is perhaps unfashionable, but I am more than happy with them. I have lively gray eyes, which, when necessary, are easy to hide under long lashes. I mastered the art of getting what I want with the right eye movements and facial expressions a long time ago, and I do it well.

I tousle my hair and optimistically wink at my reflection, as if to say "we'll be just fine", then walk around the room a little bit. My bare feet sink into the tender embrace of the fluffy carpet. I stop by the picture hanging on the wall, which depicts the sea and the waves lapping at the beach. I do not know why, but I daydream of the sea. Perhaps it is because I visited it as a young child. I was only five years old. From that trip I remember very little, but the view of the vast expanse of water, the cries of the gulls and the smell of seaweed have somehow become forever etched in my memory. Now I have two wishes. The first is to return to the sea. Just walk on the beach, bury my feet in the sand and listen to the sound of the rolling waves. The second: to have a huge mural depicting the seashore covering the wall from top to bottom. In the spirit of the one which adorns the ballroom. So that when you enter the room, you can glance at it, close your eyes, and practically feel the fresh breeze splash drops of the salty water in your face.

Except I have very little chance of fulfilling those dreams. The sea is far away, and I simply don't have the time to go on such a trip.

As for the mural, few artists could create such a work of art, at the sight of which you could believe that in front of you is not a picture, but life itself. Pablo Eskatto could, but this man creates for kings, and his works are insanely expensive. The Duke certainly would not invite him to decorate the boudoir of a lady in waiting. So I have to make do with the modest painting, which is actually quite well done. Well, dreams wouldn't be dreams if they came true, would they?

After a bath, I feel rested. Wearing my own clothes this time, I proceed to one inconspicuous little-used room. Outside the sun has already set, but the night has not yet fully fallen. I close the dense dark purple drapes and light a single candle on the table. Then I pass my hand several times over the flame, causing it to bend under my fingers. Three times towards me, once away.

"I'm already here — there's no need to call!" the cute girl now standing in front of me cheerfully informs me. She is completely ordinary, save for the fact that you can see the wall of the room through her.

"What have you brought me today?" she asks enthusiastically,

"Earrings," I declare, and smile at her childlike directedness.

I take out silver earrings with pear-shaped pendants from a secret pocket (the only kind our dresses have). When she sees them, her eyes seem to light up; of course, if one could say that about a ghost.

"Come on!" she prompts me.

I already know what to do. Which is not trying to give the earrings to the girl; rather, I place the hand with the earrings so that the shadow of them falls on the wall. She immediately slips through those shadows. When a moment later she stands again in front of me, she holds the earrings in her hand. Only this time they have a ghostly appearance as well. Meanwhile, their physical counterparts remain in my fingers.

"Wow!" Exclaims the girl, wearing the earrings and looking at them in a round mirror on a long handle, which appears out of nowhere and is as transparent as she. "Now I have something to brag about to my people!"

"My people" are the palace ghosts. However, I have never ever seen any of them. Only her: Maya Dancy, a young woman, who lived in the palace about a century ago, and died at the age of twenty-four. In general, this type of communication is, to put it mildly, unusual. The material world and the afterworld rarely intersect. Very few people have the ability to see and hear ghosts. So we are both kind of exceptions to the rule.

"Well, tell me!" says the girl, admiring herself in the ghostly mirror. "The palace is buzzing! What was the incident with the disguise in which you seem to have played a key role?"

It is believed that ghosts come to live with people in order to frighten them — to moan, complain about their ruined life or demand vengeance. I don't know; maybe somewhere that is exactly what happens. But this palace is a special place. Here, even the ghosts talk about clothes, jewelry, balls — and of course they love to gossip.

Having nothing against it, I tell Maya how I managed to lead Mireya's lover out of her chambers dressed as a woman. I have no reason to hide the truth. That's the beauty of communicating with a ghost. It won't betray you, or use the information for its own selfish interests; it won't even envy you, or at the very least she wouldn't hold a grudge.

For instance, now Maya is just having fun, and laughing merrily at my story.

"One thing's for sure: he was lucky that he was not born in my time!" She exclaims. "Whiteners would have been the least of his problems. By the way, no one could even imagine they were that dangerous. And yet now I realize that most likely my aunt died from lead poisoning... So, this lover of yours ..."

"Not mine — Mireya's!" I correct her. "That would be the day!"

"Well, yes — Mireya's." The girl waves her hand, making it clear that this was what she meant. "He should have seen the corsets popular in my time! Then he would have understood how easy yours are! In my century, it was fashionable to have a wasp waist and a flat chest. The corsets that molded your body into that shape were even called shells! And they consisted entirely of metal rods. More armor than clothes!"

"Horrible!"

I have a rich imagination; hence I shiver, vividly imagining wearing that kind of "armor" on my body.

"And the farthingales" adds Maya, surveying her own dress. "I think they would have made that poor man feel extremely uncomfortable."

I nod. Hoop skirts went out of fashion seventy years ago; today the only thing giving the dress volume is the petticoat, while stays made of whalebone have all but disappeared completely.

"I once had the chance to wear this atrocity to a masquerade ball," I say. "It was a unique experience. And most important, I couldn't pass through the door! "

"It requires a special skill," Maya chuckles, not without pride. "In general, progress is a great thing," she concludes a little later. "I look at the changes that have occurred in the past couple of decades, and come to the conclusion that almost all of them are really for the better. The wig was also not a…. To tell you the truth — here she lowers her voice although in any case no one could have overheard her — they made your head very itchy. However, the shoes in my time were a lot better. No offense, but yours look pretty funny. And these incredibly long trousers for men..."

I smile. What the ghost dislikes about the modern shoe, I couldn't understand. But I completely share her opinion of the trousers. Just a couple of years ago, the trousers reached only to the knee, and the attire was completed with long stockings. Then long pants abruptly became popular. Rumor has it that some progressive tailor presented the model to the King. The monarch was so pleased with the innovation that from that day on he only dressed in that way. And what wears the King, wear the courtiers. In short, fashion changed very quickly. By the way, in the ducal palace one of the first who adopted the new trend was Lord Estley.

"How was the ball?" Maya changes the subject.

"Didn't you attend?" I am a bit surprised.

Given her taste for fashion and gossip, she just could not miss such an event.

"I was only there for a short while. You see, balls have too much light, which tires us. It causes something like your migraines. Therefore, we usually prefer to stay away."

"Well, you know it was a ball like any other," I say thoughtfully. Then I wince and complain:

"Everyone tried to teach me how to live my life!"

"Who is "everyone"?" Maya inquires. "And teach you what exactly?"

"First Ilona told me how dangerous it is to mess with Cameron Estley," I begin to list. "And then Cameron Estley started to lecture me: said I should stop fooling around and find myself a lover."

Maya laughs, but does not have time to answer: the door opens a crack, and into the room peeks Collin, one of the local page-boys.

"Lady Inessa?" Seeing a familiar face, he seems to experience a sense of relief. "I was walking past and was surprised to hear someone in here at this hour. And ... to whom are you talking?"

He frowns, peering into the room — but, except for me, of course he cannot see anyone.

"A ghost," I say calmly.

"A ghost?!" The boy starts in alarm.

"Indeed," I say, as though talking to ghosts were as common and ordinary a matter as talking to seamstresses.

"And ... what does it say?" asks the page, warily turning his head from side to side.

"It says," I lower my voice, imitating his conspiratorial tone, "That it has starved for the last hundred years and wants to eat you for dinner."

"That's not true; I said nothing of the sort!" indignantly protests Maya.

The only problem is that unlike me, Collin cannot hear her.

"You're joking!" There is a note of uncertainty in the page's voice.

"Why would I?" I raise an eyebrow. "Right now she is baring her teeth, stretching her hands towards you, her eyes glazed with hunger."

Maya stands quietly, her hands folded on her chest, and looks at me reproachfully.

"And... and... what should I do?" Collin moves back, but not in a hurry to leave the room. All in all, if I'm not mistaken, he is experiencing a whole range of emotions, from fear to curiosity to excitement.

I mysteriously open my eyes round.

"I will try to persuade the ghost to leave you alone. But it will agree only if you agree to some conditions."

"And what do they entail?"

I pretend to listen carefully to the ghost. Maya only emphatically shakes her finger near her temple.

"Here's the deal. First of all, you will never again go into another person's room without knocking first," I start counting on my fingers. "Second, stop dangling after the tailor's daughter. And third, brush your teeth every morning. Do you understand everything?" I ask sternly, giving him no time to think. The page nods, though not too certainly.

"Then go."

Collin hesitates on the spot. Overall, the young man realizes that there is a probability of nine out of ten that I am just pulling his leg. But the chance that it is all real, no matter how small, makes him leave hastily just in case.

"Well, are you proud of yourself?" reprovingly asks Maya when the door closes behind the page.

"Yes," I say quite sincerely. "He shouldn't enter rooms without knocking first. What if I were busy making love to someone in here?"

"You would lock the door in such cases," Maya snorts.

"I would," I agree. "But that is neither here nor there. He still ought to knock. Besides, the tailor is really worried about his daughter, which this page has been bothering."

"Well, the first two demands I can somehow understand," begrudgingly agrees Maya. "But the third... what do his teeth have to do with anything?"

I shrug a little perplexedly.

"I don't know... To be honest, I just thought according to rules of the genre there should be three conditions. So I said the first thing that came to mind."

* * *

"Bastard! Scoundrel! Half-wit!"

           Mireya dashes around the room like a storm and furiously shouts one expletive after another, though never repeating herself. Emma shrinks frightened into a corner. Ilona, feeling more relaxed, sits in her chair, and just in case pulls up her legs. I have just come in, and now stand at the threshold trying to assess the situation.

          Mireya paces past me, sparing me a glance on her way. She definitely is furious. In this state, people of her position and temperament often tend to destroy everything around them. However, Mireya does not. First, all breakable objects that decorated the interior of the room have been picked out by her personally and with great taste. To lose them because of a momentary flash of anger would be a shame. And second, the Duchess, despite her explosive nature, is not inclined to show off. Which is what breaking dishes is really about in most cases.

A new series of curses tumbles from the Duchess, this time obscene, and concerning mainly the relatives of a certain person of the male sex. Interesting. Who has managed to drive her up the wall that much — the Duke or a new lover?

"Lady Mireya," says Ilona, on whom the lexicon of the mistress has not made a particularly strong impression, "the mother of the Duke is your mother too. Are you sure you really want to make all these statements about her?"

The voice and expression of the lady in waiting are mildly ironic.

So, therefore, we are talking about the Duke. I wonder what he has done this time?

"So be it, all that relates to the mother, I take back," grimly agrees Mireya. "But not the rest!"

"What actually happened?" I ask, walking into the room and sitting in an armchair near Ilona.

Mireya finally stops, breathing heavily. Ilona opens her mouth, but then looks at the Duchess, reckoning it would be better if she told me herself.

With a low growl the Duke's sister plops down on the banquette.

"This scumbag, my dear brother, has decided to build a philanthropic school for craftsmen in the south," she grimly informs me.

I lean forward a little, keeping a question in my eyes; my gaze remains wondering. Charity is not a flaw; the opening of schools is a worthwhile thing. For Mireya to be so angry, obviously something else had to have happened.

"He's going to open it with my money!" She snaps.

"With your money? What do you mean by that?" I decide to clarify.

"With money from my dowry!" the Duchess enlightens me, accompanying her words with a bitter laugh.

"Who gave him the right?!" I ask indignantly.

"Exactly!" immediately agrees Mireya. "Excellent question. That's what I asked my dear brother!"

"So you have already talked to him about it," I conclude.

"Have I ever!" Mireya proudly assures me.

From her tone I gather that the conversation turned so heated that the walls of the castle shook.

"But how did he explain all this?" I inquire cautiously.

"He didn't!" Mireya snaps. "Something just came over him! 'That's what I want, so that what's going to happen!' No, he of course told me at length how important this school is for the Duchy. A whole lecture! About new opportunities for the poor, about raising living standards, about the level of masters and developing the southern part of the Duchy. As though I was born yesterday! As if I do not know that using the right words you can justify any, however ridiculous endeavor! As if I were so naive as not to guess the true reason which is hidden behind those beautiful explanations, but is far less noble!"

"And what reason is that?" I frown.

I don't have any idea as to what it may be, although in any case I believe that, whatever the motive of the Duke, he doesn't have any right to touch his sister's dowry, especially without her permission.

"Conrad plans to build this school in the Mirror Valley." Mireya chuckles pointedly. "Any more questions?"

I purse my lips. Mirror Valley is an area in the south of the duchy, which is full of all sorts of streams, rivers and lakes. It seems, because the sky and the trees growing on the shore are constantly reflected in the clear water, that people came to associate the place with mirrors, and that's how it got its name. Nature there is amazing: the water is a pleasure to swim in, and the air is allegedly healthy and even therapeutic.

"My brother is going to build a mansion for himself on the sly, maybe even a small palace," explains Mireya, just in case. "Supposedly in order to be able to supervise the school. What part of the sum will be spent on this part of his plan, and what actually on the school, I don't have to explain to you."

No longer able to stay in one place, she jumps up and begins pacing again. However, this time more slowly.

"He just wants to build a holiday resort and he's going to do it at my expense!" she says, turning sharply on her heels.

"Well, let's say that this is what he wants." I am very angry at the Duke, but I try to stay cool, to ensure clarity of thought. "But the Duke himself isn't poor. Why does he not spend his own money on the school and the mansion?"

Mireya laughs bitterly.

"Great question!" She praises me a second time. "Just wonderful. And you know, I asked Conrad the same thing. What do you think he answered me? He gave me another lecture. He says he does not have spare cash right now, while my dowry is just sitting there. Therefore, there is nothing more logical than to put it into action. "And what will happen when I set out to get married?" I asked. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," was his answer. As if to assure me I do not have to worry about anything, because I am under his tutelage. When the time comes, he'll make sure everything works out for the best."

"So, he didn't promise to return you that sum in time?" I reconfirm.

"That's what I like about you – your ability to see the bottom line," declares Mireya.

"No, he doesn't intend to give me back the money. He did not say it outright, but it was implied. If I need the money, and he has the means to repay me, and he deems my reasons valid enough, then maybe ..." She waves again and plops down on the banquette.

"Still, it's some nonsense," I mutter. "What do you mean 'does not have spare change?' Is he broke? Somehow I did not notice any signs of this."

"Again, a relevant question." The amount of praise I receive from Mireya today is blush-worthy, but alas I am not very happy. "He has great expenses, many economic and political matters in the duchy, and in a short while it will be time to send the King this month's taxes. In general, he always has an excuse for everything." She clenches and unclenches her fists again. "But this time it's not going to work." Mireya's voice is determined. "I'm not going to let him. It's my money. My dowry. Our deceased parent left it to me. I am the only one who can decide what to do with it."

"Of course, we will not allow him to have it,” I assure her soothingly.

Mireya smiles gratefully. But in Ilona's gaze I see some share of healthy skepticism. Well, she has a point: it will not be easy, and we'll have to come up with a strategy. But I firmly intend to handle it, and everyone knows that's at least half the battle. I get up from my chair and slowly walk around the room, hands behind my back.

"We should appeal to the King," I say confidently. "He is the monarch and your relative. He's the one who should interfere when your rights have been infringed. Strictly speaking, this is the Duke's job. But when the Duke is the offender, only the King may judge you and give him a rebuff."

To my surprise, Mireya shows no enthusiasm regarding my proposal. On the contrary, now she also gives me a skeptical look.

"I'm absolutely sure that the King will take your side," I try to reassure her. "In this matter, you are in the right, whatever way you look at it. It doesn't even matter how the Duke is planning to spend the money — on charity, on the development of the territory or on his own palace. In any case, it is your dowry, and no one has the right to take it from you."

"I'm not as sure of the assistance of my cousin as you are." The King is Mireya's and the Duke's cousin, which Ilona and I of course know. "Who knows which side he'll choose to take? It is even possible that Conrad has already told him his side of the story. But that's not the heart of the matter." Mireya shakes her head, forcing her luxurious red hair to swing from side to side, wrapping around her neck and shoulders." My brother has hinted to me that I had better not even think about such a solution to the problem. Meaning everything will play out exactly the same as last time."

I wince knowingly. The last time we tried to inform the King about the plans of the Duke — and, more important, to present the information from our point of view — the letter was intercepted. It happened even before the messenger had time to leave the palace.

"My brother expects this step," continues Mireya, making sure that I follow her thought process. "And he is ready for just such an eventuality. Any mail leaving the palace will be carefully examined. I suspect that in the near future, even a mosquito will not be able to fly out of here unnoticed. Therefore, we should act in a more ingenious way."

"You already have a plan?" I guess.

Ilona also transfers her gaze to the duchess.

"Yes," confirms Mireya, her eyes flashing triumphantly. «We will fight my brother using his own methods. He intends to take my money from me, I shall do the same. I'll take from him something that is worth no less than my dowry. Then I'll threaten him that if he doesn't back down from this robbery, he will be left in the lurch. While I will recoup my own losses by selling his thing."

"What is this thing that is worth such a monumental sum?" I frown.

"Strictly speaking, it has no price," calmly replies Mireya.

"Wait..." It begins to dawn on me. "Are you talking about the diamond? About 'The Giant's Tear'?"

"Indeed." A smug smile lights up Mireya's face.

"The Giant's Tear" is a one-of-a-kind diamond – light blue, of highest quality and literally enormous for such a gem. It is an Almikonte family heirloom, which the current Duke inherited from his father, and is kept in the palace's treasury.

"What do you think, Nessa?"

"But how do you intend to accomplish it? The diamond is in the treasury, which is inaccessible. A person can only come in and especially carry something out of there with the Duke present and by his consent, or by presenting an order from the Duke to the guards, stamped with his personal seal. Which is magically protected and cannot be counterfeited."

Everyone in the room knows perfectly well that Mireya has a man capable of forging the Duke's handwriting, including his signature. But the seal is a different matter. It was very carefully made by the best master of this craft; then a special spell was cast on it; thus forging it would be impossible.

"You're right," confirms the duchess, who has already had time to think over this aspect of her plan. "That's why we'll have to steal the seal. Just for a little while. Then we draw up the appropriate document, quickly gain access to the treasury with its help, and take the diamond. Thereafter we will immediately move the jewel to a safe location. If we were to keep it here Conrad's people would find it sooner or later."

Mireya undoubtedly expects my approval. But after some thought, I resolutely shake my head.

"I am totally against it."

"What?" Mireya is not angry, but in her face I can see genuine surprise.

"Madam, I believe that you must not take this course of action."

I know that I can be perfectly candid, and I consider it important to do so.

"Explain."

"The risk is huge;" I begin to list the cons of the proposed plan. «First you have to steal the seal out of the Duke's private quarters. Then retrieve the diamond using forged documents. But considering its incredible value the guards may not allow someone to take it, even with the document. What if they send a man to the Duke to clarify his intentions? In the best case scenario, the person retrieving the diamond would have a chance to escape. But what if they guard him while they check? And I haven't even started talking about smuggling the diamond out of the castle.

How are you planning to do it, given that we are afraid even to send a letter? Moreover, where would you send it? And whom would you trust to guard it? It is an incredibly valuable thing! God help us if it were stolen! What would we do then? Also" — I once again shake my head, trying to appeal to Mireya's good judgment — "it's not just a risky move. Not just an intrigue. It is against the law. We are talking about a serious offence. Furthermore, it is stealing from the treasury of the Duchy. This means it is equivalent to a state crime. The same goes for the theft of the seal. Lady Mireya, believe me, if something goes wrong, your brother will not leave it at that. Even if we manage to execute the plan to perfection, he will find a way to create a very serious problem for you. Much more serious than using part of the dowry for his own goals. And I haven't even mentioned the fate that awaits the executors of this plan. They will certainly not handle us with kid gloves. After all, the penalties for crimes of national importance are very harsh, up to and including the death penalty. Even for noblemen. Perhaps for noblemen first and foremost."

"I could not agree more," Ilona declares from her seat.

Mireya clearly doesn't like our consensus. Pursing her lips, she looks at us, not too pleased. However, as dissatisfied as she may be, our resistance doesn't enrage her, unlike the Duke's recent actions. She doesn’t like the situation, but she is ready to bear it.

"So, you refuse to participate in such a venture?" she asks me.

"Yes" I say. "I'm not going to take part in it and I think that we have to act differently." I try to speak as convincingly as possible. «We should again consider possible ways of sending a letter and in the meantime look for alternatives. Lady Mireya, I'm sure we'll figure something out. But the theft of the diamond would only lead to disaster."

"Ilona, what do you think?" Mireya turns to my friend.

"I fully support Nessa." Ilona's voice does not have the slightest hint of doubt.

Mireya thinks for a moment, biting her lip and drumming her manicured fingers on the elegantly curved backrest.

"Well”, finally, she sighs. «I’ll have to weigh carefully everything you have said. And reach a decision."

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