And at her maid’s prompting, Princess Roella quieted, then with a prim expression, as if she had known all along, she said,
“Of course. Ezekiel would never be interested in a woman like that.”
“No matter how many thousands of men there are in the world, none could ever compare to Duke Schwaben alone. Please don’t trouble yourself over such a woman.”
Roella nodded. The maid was right. That woman was nothing.
She tried to think so, but thinking it did not make the irritation disappear. On closer thought, there was something in the maid’s words that caught at her.
“So you mean, other men are beneath Ezekiel, but that woman is at least enough to be compared with me?”
“N-no, not at all! I only meant she is a person utterly unworthy of your attention. How could anyone ever dare compare her to Your Highness?”
“Hmph!”
Roella thought so as well, yet she was still displeased.
She always needed certainty. Political reasons, the connection between House Schwaben and herself—she knew all that well. Ezekiel would be her man.
And yet… no, it was perhaps precisely because she knew it so well that she needed certainty.
The foremost lady of society must be herself, and indeed she was. What woman in this Empire could be better than its sole princess?
Even so, she had to confirm it again and again.
“It might be amusing to summon her once.”
At that, the maids were flustered. It was not altogether unexpected. Since Lady Laila had become the talk of society, they had half-expected something like this.
The maid who was brushing out Roella’s proud, dark-gold hair cautiously opened her mouth.
“She is far too low-born for Your Highness to receive. Might it not be best to leave her alone?”
“An actress, was she not? A woman of the stage? I’ll give her a place in my salon—let her come and sing a song.”
Roella replied as if it were nothing of consequence. Another maid grew even more agitated and hurriedly spoke.
“That is but a rumor, Your Highness. If she is kin to the House of Andex, she is without doubt noble, and cannot be treated as an entertainer.”
“It is fashionable now. And was it not Lady Laila herself who made it so?”
“That is true, but…”
There was a vast difference between staging a little opera among intimate company and being summoned by one of higher rank to perform. Of course, it was clear Roella meant to insult her, to belittle Lady Laila’s presence.
She continued smoothly, her face composed.
“Mother has not been in the best of spirits of late. It would be good to make a pleasant gathering for her. They say Lady Laila’s troupe has an excellent reputation—surely the troupe’s mistress sings all the better.”
It was nonsense, but the maids realized they could not dissuade her. Then their role was to shape the scheme so it would not seem too outrageous.
The maid fanning her spoke gently.
“If it is to be an audience before Her Majesty the Empress, Lady Laila will no doubt be delighted.”
“Indeed she will,” Roella answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
***
The princess’s invitation was promptly delivered to House Andex.
Countess Margarita of Andex herself carried it to the annex where Lady Laila resided.
“Welcome. Has something happened?”
Lady Laila—no, Olivia—rose from where she had been writing in the parlor, warmly greeting Margarita, then asked curiously when she saw her solemn face.
Margarita held out the letter. For a distant niece, her manner was unusually deferential.
“An invitation has come from the Princess.”
“I see.”
Olivia received it and read the envelope’s front with composure.
“There is no need to be so tense, Aunt. This is the news we have been waiting for.”
“Yes…”
Margarita answered, yet could not fully conceal her tension.
Olivia had first come to her about four months ago. In the letter announcing her visit, she had written these words:
If you remember Gisela with longing, please meet me.
That name was of the younger sister lost more than twenty years ago, at the time of the Empress Dowager’s assassination.
No body had been found, but all believed her dead. The event left a deep scar upon Margarita and her family.
Gisela had been a cheerful, bright child. When she became a maid to the Empress, she had been overjoyed. Their father had worried she might be entangled in perilous politics, but she declared her resolve boldly.
“Just watch. Her Majesty the Empress will come to rely on me completely. In ten years she will say she has no one else to entrust with matters but me.”
Though it sounded childish, their father and mother had felt reassured.
Not even three years passed before it happened. Gisela was but twenty-three. Their mother had wailed that at least her body must be found, but even that yearning could not be voiced aloud.
Margarita had lived trying to forget. Now that her daughter was grown to the same age as Gisela then, she felt she had at last almost forgotten.
Yet she had never thought to hear that name again.
When Olivia came, the first thing she did after greeting her was to draw from her bosom a single earring. It was the very one Margarita had given, the only piece recovered when Gisela vanished.
Since she herself had the other, there was no doubt—it was no imitation. Together they were a perfect pair.
“How did you… come by this?”
“I kept it as my mother’s keepsake. She told me it was a gift from her sister on her twentieth birthday—that you had even chosen the stone yourself.”
It was true. Margarita stared at her in disbelief.
“You are… Gisela’s daughter?”
She could not believe it. That the missing Gisela had married in secret somewhere, borne a child, lived unseen? Impossible. The child had disappeared at the time of the assassination. It had not been a flight of love.
At the same time she realized what the strange familiarity she had felt with Olivia from the start had been. In that instant, she had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
Gisela had fulfilled her duty to the end. Fearing discovery, she had never returned even to her family. At only twenty-three, she had fled with her child, hidden away, and raised her so nobly.
On nights when they spoke of the beloved one lost, there had been many tears.
The Gisela Olivia described was not the somewhat childish, merry young lady Margarita had known. She was gentle, kind, full of wit and culture—a fine lady. In Olivia’s bearing one could see that she had lived not only as the Empress’s maid, but as a mother.
She had kept her loyalty and faith, fulfilled her duty as a human being. Even if only the late Count Ruttgard and Olivia knew of it, still it was an honorable life.
Such a Gisela made Margarita proud—and filled her with guilt. She had been at an age still deserving her family’s protection.
Yet after all the long tale and tears, she could not but ask,
“For what purpose have you sought me out, Princess?”
She was Countess of Andex, with children of her own. The fate of a missing princess was no small matter.
Olivia, calm to the point of seeming cold, answered quietly.
“I must become Empress. Help me.”
She had not said I wish to be. She had said I must be. And in her blue eyes lay certainty.
By then, dawn had broken, and the room was filled with light.