Thekla winced at the tugging of her hair, a burn-like sensation spreading through her scalp. Her hair wasn't even long—what need did she have for so many braids? Nonetheless, she held her tongue. She had to choose her battles, especially after how difficult it had been to convince the elderly butler to let her incorporate the optimal amount of small tiles into her attire.

Hildegard—whose family name embarrassingly eluded Thekla—had not always been around. For all she knew, the estate had been home to staff that basically came with the place, since long before even Beryl's birth, but they had never had a butler while their mother had been alive. She still wasn't convinced Bernadette hadn't come up with the position on the stop just to give the old woman a position above all others.

It felt like a lifetime ago—try as she might to worm her way into high society, the only wedding Thekla had ever attended had been his father's, and it had been strange even then. She had known the bride—now her stepmother—for years before the event, and she had already thought of her as family.

Bernadette going from her future sister-in-law to her stepmother had taken a while to get over, though. Thekla hadn't been so young as to miss the oddity of that.

"What troubles you, child?" Hildegard asked, though she didn't stop making Thekla's scalp regret its existence as another braid was tied and wrapped around.

Think fast. She couldn't exactly tell this woman she'd been thinking about how weird her ward's incorporation into their lives had been. "Are you sure those are enough tiles?"

"Yes," the butler answered through gritted teeth almost immediately. "Not to mention, it cost a limb and a half to commission the replicas. You have expensive tastes."

"We have the coin," Thekla countered with a shrug. She found herself regretting the gesture soon after, as Hildegard had to remake the braid ruined halfway by the movement. "Ow!"

"I told you to stay still."

"And I've stayed, still? I thought you meant I shouldn't leave?"

Thekla suppressed a grin—she could almost feel the glare burning into her back, but the butler was unlikely to put the misunderstanding beyond her.

At least, by when the braids were done, Hildegard had relaxed enough to bristle. "Getting married so young…"

Now that was the kind of statement that had Thekla raising an eyebrow. If it'd been up to her, sure, she might never have married—but she loved Abelard enough. She knew she could count on him, even if she could have counted on him in exactly the same way had they remained an unofficial couple. "Bernie was much younger when she married my father."

Given the lack of a reaction, Hildegard must have been resigned to just accept her ward's nickname by now—oh, Beryl, that child of yours has to be the best thing you ever made for that nickname alone—but she still scrunched her nose up in a most unladylike manner. "Ugh," the butler took a deep breath. "Do not remind me."

Thekla shrugged again, now free to do so without her scalp suffering the consequences. "Eh, it is what it is."

The butler went stiff all of a sudden, her expression shifting to one so serious that Thekla found herself growing momentarily worried.

"If any part of this troubles you, just say so. Even at the altar. I am not Little Margreth—battles of will are beneath me, and your father is overdue a lesson."

That had been unexpected—she wasn't even close to Hildegard for the woman to speak to her like this. For a moment, Thekla could only blink, before shaking her head. "I love Abelard, and while I am not too thrilled about how this came about, I will not regret taking this step. Though…" She only hesitated for a split second. "I mean, if you get into a fight with Father, let me know beforehand so I can watch."

Hildegard's eyes widened.

Then she started cackling.

It was contagious, almost, and Thekla found her remaining concerns melting away as she joined in with more reserved chuckles.

Perhaps things would be alright, after all.

"What in any Devil's name are you wearing?"

Since he woke up, Otto found himself needing to rub his eyes repeatedly in order to reorient himself, and—unfortunately for all involved—he was left with no choice but to accept that his lover's appearance was not the product of sleep paralysis. As much as it pained him to, he had found himself with no choice but to try and intervene.

"My attire to attend sister-in-law's wedding," Munnehilde mimicked the twirl she must have seen countless times when she went to shop for clothes, spinning in place to show off. There was nothing wrong with her dress, by itself—it looked like the cross between a mop and fabric scraps, but the materials were of visible quality, silk and chiffon and who knew what else. He had no problem with that.

The problem was the mushroom. "Munnehilde. I'm talking about the hat."

"What?" she put a hand to her chest and feigned offense with an expression that would have fooled anyone who didn't know her well enough. "Are hats not acceptable in this kind of event?"

"Hats are fine," Otto raised a finger, and repeatedly pointed at the… object for emphasis. "That thing is not."

"This 'thing' is a type of mushroom that does not grow anywhere near where your family lives, which makes it the perfect choice to attend such a gathering as a guest with," Munnehilde said, as if that made perfect sense. He got the impression that she was more offended by his dismissal of the thing on her head, than by the fact that he did not find it suitable for her to wear—she seemed to have her explanations ready to go, after all.

"While I do not doubt your knowledge on… mushrooms far outweighs my own, I am far from soothed. I fear this might give off a… dubious first impression."

"Darling, please," Munnehilde shook her head with what for once felt like genuine disappointment, like a mother chastising a ward for not listening—it was enough to actually shut Otto up, if momentarily. "I have extensively studied the fashion of those near or barely above your family's status with the express purpose of ensuring my chosen attire fits in perfectly. Can you at least hear me out?"

Otto would have raised an eyebrow if he had any—the expression he managed was far blander. "…Fine, but what in any Devil's name did you consider to be 'around' my family's status?" He immediately thought better of it, having just uttered the question. "Actually, I don't want to kn—"

"Nobility-adjacent, privileged mortals who think they are special," she answered without a shred of shame.

"…You know what, fair."

Munnehilde shot him a glance at the interruption before continuing her explanation. "I mostly studied pamphlets and other advertisements I could get my hands on. We have next to no visitors fitting the sort of image that would be expected of a woman, in this context, so the usual tactic of just befriending locals for advice wasn't feasible," she admitted. "It did not help that not all pamphlets properly represented seasonal trends, and it's nearly impossible to account for how the region might impact these things in practice when most designers appear to be from near or around the Capital, but I put my best efforts onto applying what I learned."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"I am listening," Otto nodded along. More than anything, now that he had overcome his initial shock, he wanted to know at least the broad strokes of how she had settled on this plan—understanding her full thought process would be nigh impossible.

"Botany—no, I should say a pretend interest in botany has become quite the need for anyone who deems themselves fashionable nowadays, or so I have learned. It does seem to be limited to those who dedicate a considerable percentage of their lives to attending social events, but I digress. It's less about actually understanding the uses or origins of plants and more about knowing just enough about their rarity to identify how well-connected anyone using a particular plant as a hat decoration must be, and by extension, messages can be sent through one's choices here. Someone who wishes to give off the impression that they have travelled far and wide might seek to adorn their hat with a golden magi from the East, even if they have never left Grēdôcava. Who would contradict them? Even if they've never been to the East, in this example, they clearly have the resources to go quite far in pretending they did."

"…Why hats, though?"

"I know not—I am not a seamstress," Munnehilde shrugged, her initial comment brief and explanatory towards approximately nothing. She must have noticed this, as her addition to it was swift. "I would guess it must be impractical to sew leaves or flowers into clothes. A hat is a much simpler surface, easier to customize. It can also be worn with multiple outfits and donned or removed at one's leisure. I must admit—as much as I found most of this information to be overtly situational, I am marveled by just how much a society can overcomplicate something as simple as a headdress within the span of what, a century or two? I've seen articles that imply this might be a resurgence of sorts, but people were most definitely not doing this in the 5700s, for one, considering how many of the sketches of appealing noblewomen I found had no hats in sight."

"I feel the need to ask just how and why you've been looking at sketches of appealing noblewomen?"

Otto was promptly ignored.

"As I was saying, this resurgence. It's led to an uptick in a highly specific type of crime—namely, stealing flowers and poaching rare beasts from other people's lands just to have the most exotic hat in the room," Munnehilde continued her borderline lecture with such cadence that Otto didn't have the heart to admit how—tangents aside—he had gotten lost half a conversation ago. What did any of this have to do with the mushroom on her head? She hadn't decorated a hat with mushroom—this was the whole thing. It seemed only distantly related to this lesson on headwear, which continued as his lover spent veritable minutes telling him all about various cases of the poaching she alluded to.

Truth be told, Otto would have loved to hear more about the noble accused of stealing lizards from collectors, but Munnehilde admitted that particular case was mostly confined to gossip columns. Nonetheless, she did promise to divert a minimal amount of her resources to try to—maybe, potentially—find out more.

"Enlightening, I'll admit," Otto lied through his teeth. "But how does this relate to your attire for my sister's wedding?"

"As I said, this mushroom is not native to your home's area. That should prevent any misunderstandings about me having stolen it."

"What?"

"Either your family or fellow guests could mistakenly—if understandably—reach the conclusion that I might have plucked any decorations I use for my hat from the land of the event, given the trends I mentioned. That could lead to conflict, which is undesirable in this social context. And in most others."

Listening to Munnehilde putting her thought process to words like this was progressively making Otto's brain grow closer to a meltdown, even if he could somewhat grasp how this all would have made sense to her.

"Can you not just… put smaller mushrooms on a simpler hat or the like?"

"I could, but the logistics would require some further thought. I would also have to rethink how to handle irrigation and hiding anything I don't want to keep visible. Having mushrooms growing on a hat, outright, sounds like a speedy way to make people wary of that hat, so I would have to make it blatant there's no growth taking place. I know not—if I am to wear a decorated hat instead of this, I might as well transplant flowers that are more easily maintained."

Otto found his eyes narrowing. "Would you be preserving the flowers somehow? With enchantments or drying them or something?"

"I suppose water would do the trick? I did make a few test hats in preparation for this, but results were mixed. Some shriveled up far too swiftly despite me keeping the stems watered, and I noticed no growth. I—"

Otto had stopped listening by then. She should have been preserving the decorations she added, and while the concept seemed novel enough, growing flowers on headwear sounded like a recipe for disaster. He tried to convey the thought to her as it was, tipping his head in the way he always did to let her know to look, and Munnehilde's features turned to outrage.

"What do you mean, I'm not supposed to be keeping the hat decorations alive and thriving? What are you implying?"

Otto loved his partner—he truly did.

But at times, her actions left him with nothing but a soul-deep desire to rush outside and scream.

Despite what the slanderous townsfolk oftentimes loved to claim, Baldur Maryem was in fact literate. He was more than capable of penning his own correspondence—what kind of mercenary captain would he have been, back then, if he had to rely on his lessers to get such sensitive matters done?

But this was beneath him now, or at least that was how things had been meant to be. In truth, the mayor was beyond irked by having this duty returned to him—it was a matter of principle. Important people did not act, they delegated as appropriate. That was the entire point.

This was Lange's fault—that Lizanąn bastard. It was a shame that the current Prince did not share his predecessor's views, at least when it came to dealing with foreigners. Baldur missed the days when they had been easy to get rid of by mere virtue of not being real Grēdôcavans. Certainly, that particular ruler's reign had been short-lived, but it had represented some of his best years on the field.

Had he erred in choosing that when he chose an assistant? Possibly. The problem was that he had come with many a recommendation, and being a Seeker—even an absolute failure of a Seeker—made it impossible for him to choose somebody else without half the council attempting to drill into his ears with inane complaints. Baldur had no doubt, by now, that his useless underlings had benefited from Lange's presence far more than he ever did.

All that Lizanąn clown had amounted to was a thorn on his side, and Baldur was arguably worse off now. He had met the Rīsan 'patriarch' and taken his measure—as a father-in-law, he would have been no threat. He doubted the man could be further along than Baldur's own third-stage hollow core, given how swiftly he'd risen through the levels.

Where Rīsan had been playing hero with a Champion, Baldur had once been a soldier—a real man of war. There was no debate there, as to who would prevail if the only people of their rank within Beuzaheim ever came to blows.

And so, Baldur had not once been worried. In his century of life, he had understood the value of women as a path to success. His dear 'wife' had been the only reason he got this far, after all. At times, he even wished the woman were alive for him to deliver his thanks in person.

Commons loved to gossip about his womanizing ways, and Baldur would not deny he loved the fairer sex. Was there anything wrong with that? Anything going on between consenting adults was their own business, and he could do as he pleased, provided there were lines he wouldn't cross—and of course there were lines he wouldn't cross.

When he had held command, he had even killed those who would.

As a person, Thekla Rīsanin was absolutely nothing special, and more than once, he had found himself wondering if she was insane. He could not exactly poke holes at her image without in turn exposing more about his true self than what he would have liked to, but no one could be that into collecting ceramic and still be right in the head. Of all the mortals he had met, for all the quirks they often had, she was the first to have him genuinely reconsidering his plans even if only due to how much of a pain it might be to deal with her in the long term.

Perhaps Lange had the right idea—perhaps he had done Baldur a favor. But, once again, it was a matter of principle. For years, he had paid the man to assist him. Lange was supposed to look after Baldur's interests as if they were his own, yet he had done the complete opposite.

Aiding the woman in her search for her missing sister should have been a simple matter. Mortals got lost or died all the time. It should have been within the capabilities of even the worst Seeker in Grēdôcava— was Lange the worst Seeker in the world?

It would have been good will for Baldur, ready to be harvested. He was a widower, and while disliked, her family was powerful. One did not need to be a beloved part of a community to be an influential part of it, no matter how Rīsan and his frankly too numerous children loved to pretend they were merely near Beuzaheim.

As far as Baldur was concerned, he was their mayor. An alliance of this sort would have benefitted them just as much as it would have been of aid to him, and while it pained him to give shape to the thought, Baldur himself was mortal. Only in the way a hollow core who had centuries still to live could be considered mortal, but still. He needed to establish himself, and while he hated the idea of tying himself down, he would need a spouse for that. He needed children, and if he was to marry, it had to be to someone who was, well, someone.

Even if barely.

A Rīsanin girl would certainly fit the bill.

Granted, this was no massive loss. They had other girls, and he was not impatient. Another would grow past 22, and he could bide his time, no matter how momentarily frustrating it would be.

The problem was just how improper Lange's actions had been. Someone who served him, had gone behind Baldur's back and all but stolen an opportunity from him. That could not be forgiven.

Still, Baldur could not simply burn all bridges—not now, not here. He could not make an enemy out of the greater Rīsan, even if Baldur was superior to him. Not if he wanted this to still work out down the line.

He would of course still punish that treacherous Lizanąn—the only question left was just the how.

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