Chương 91: 37-2.Cute Time for Girls

Dinner was served in the side hall. Side hall being relative to the audience chamber that could have hosted formal judicial proceedings. Seated at the long table, observing the silver service arranged with geometric precision and dishes still releasing steam, I concluded that my sister could conduct even family dinners in a manner resembling politely catered interrogations. I hadn't touched my cutlery. More precisely, I hadn't decided whether taking the first bite was tactically advisable.

Victoria sat at the table's far end, her composure unshakeable as ever. She turned her wine glass slowly between her fingers, the red contents catching candlelight with dark, deliberate gleams — like blood, but considerably more refined and expensive. She raised her eyes to mine.

"Dear brother," she said, her tone perfectly measured, carrying that particular quality of warmth that existed in precise, controlled quantities.

"I don't believe you've properly introduced me to your companions yet." I sighed internally. There it is.

"... In the order I encountered them, then," I said. I looked at Jessi first. The moment our eyes met, she smiled like she'd been waiting for this exact second all evening.

"This is Jessi," I said, far too quickly.

"My first companion. She taught me how to start a fire with flint." Jessi burst out laughing on the spot.

"Young master, that introduction is absolutely brutal." She propped her chin on her hand, grinning at me with the kind of dangerous delight that meant my evening was about to get significantly worse.

"Especially since that night you were practically glued to my side, begging me to stare at the water stains on the ceiling, whispering that once we counted every speck, the night would finally be over." My sister's gaze snapped toward me like a physical blow.

"Cedric, you—""She's making it up, sis." I cut her off without hesitation.

"Don't listen to a word she says."

"Oh, how cruel." Jessi pressed a hand to her chest with a wounded expression that could have won theatrical awards.

"Young master, is this really how you treat people? Use them up and toss them aside, not even a shred of sentiment for old times?" My grip on the knife and fork tightened until my knuckles went white.

"I will literally throw you out of here."

"Cedric." My sister's voice wasn't loud, but my scalp prickled all the same. That wasn't a reprimand. It was a quiet reminder: this is my table, not some tavern you've been crawling around in. I drew a long breath and forcibly buried the urge to flip Jessi and her chair straight through the nearest window.

"Anyway. Jessi is Jessi," I said, keeping my expression carefully neutral.

"Loud the entire way here, but genuinely useful." Jessi blinked, looking like she had at least three more follow-up attacks ready. Then I leveled a death glare at her, and she finally smiled and closed her mouth. I moved on immediately, before she could reload.

"This is Lucas." I turned to the other side.

"Drives the carriage, fixes the carriage, handles the horses—and the one who reattaches the wagon shafts before I can make everything worse." Lucas dipped his head slightly.

"An honor, madam." My sister gave a brief nod. Her gaze rested on him for only a moment before moving on without questions.

"And this—" I glanced at Matthews and paused.

"Matthews. Veteran. He watched our backs on the road and took a blade meant for me. What came before that isn't appropriate for dinner conversation." Matthews lowered his head once.

"Madam." My sister looked at him, her gaze lingering longer than it had for Lucas. It wasn't ordinary scrutiny—more like she was carving out space for a question she hadn't decided to ask yet. Matthews noticed; his spine straightened by a fraction, but he didn't waste a single word. Before I could continue, Alvira stood up on her own. One look at her expression, and my heart sank straight to the floorboards. Of course.

She executed a bow so textbook-perfect it belonged in an etiquette manual, then spoke in that flat, precise voice that somehow made every syllable sound like a sacred oath:"Greetings, madam. I am the Inheritor of the Ancient Silver Moon Covenant, Chanter of the Shattered Emerald Stars, Child of the Sunset Forest, and Freeman of the Council of Eleven—Alvira von Rosenberg." She didn't skip a single word. My eye twitched. I had stopped caring whether my sister thought I collected weirdos as a hobby.

But my sister simply watched her quietly, then replied with perfect calm:"Many titles. And yet you still chose to accompany my brother all the way here. You have my gratitude for that." Alvira visibly faltered. She'd probably braced herself to be treated as some troublesome foreign elf. She hadn't expected my sister to lift her out of the "strange outsider" category and place her gently into "someone who chose to stay" with a single sentence. Alvira pressed her lips together and sat back down.

The tips of her ears were noticeably redder than before. Next was Adeline. In a setting like this, she was steadier than any of us. Standing, squaring her shoulders, bowing—every movement looked carved into her bones. Even though she looked more like someone recently dragged out from under iron and ice than a noble's daughter, that training hadn't died.

"Adeline von Brandt. Eldest daughter of House Brandt, vassal knights of the Northern Reaches." A knight's salute sharp enough to cut glass. My sister's gaze settled on her, then paused—just for a breath.

"Lady Brandt, the marks on your hands—what happened?" The air over the table went heavy in an instant. Adeline didn't answer immediately. I spoke first.

"I'll explain that to you separately. Later." My sister looked at me. The glance wasn't heavy, but it said everything clearly: Fine. I'll be waiting for that explanation. She nodded and let the matter drop. Then came Erina. The moment she rose, the carefully maintained atmosphere shifted entirely. If the others had been complications I'd dragged through my sister's door, then when Erina stood, the whole thing stopped being personal and became something larger—nations and bloodlines, rank and order.

She lifted her chin and offered my sister a measured bow.

"Good evening, madam." Then she stated her name clearly and without hesitation.

"I am Erina Eckhaus, daughter of Varen Eckhaus the Third." The table went quiet in perfect unison. Lucas, Matthews, Alvira—even Jessi, who had been enjoying my suffering—all rose to their feet.

"Your Highness." I stood as well, pressing Jessi's wandering head down with one hand. My sister looked at Erina. This time, she actually rose from her seat. The bow she offered was precisely calibrated—respectful enough, dignified enough, without a single degree more deference than necessary.

"It is an honor to House Blackwell that Your Highness chooses to rest here." After Erina sat again, the entire hierarchy of the table seemed to quietly rearrange itself. And then my sister's gaze moved past me, landing on the one person who had been in no hurry to speak at all. Olivia. No. Olivia von Eisenberg. She had been quiet all evening—quiet in that particular way that had nothing to do with not caring. I knew her well enough by now.

The quieter she was, the more she was watching, waiting for everyone else to declare their positions before deciding exactly where to place her own. My sister smiled faintly.

"This last one needs no introduction from you." My chest tightened. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. There it is. My sister set down her wineglass, voice remaining perfectly steady.

"Miss Olivia von Eisenberg. I received Lady Matilda's letter some time ago. She mentioned, should the timing prove favorable, that both houses might wish to discuss the possibility of a union." The atmosphere at the table changed again. Not the way it had when Erina revealed her identity—that had been the tightening of hierarchy, the instinctive adjustment of rank. This was something finer, sharper, more poisonous—the kind of thing that got under your skin in ways that were considerably harder to ignore.

I didn't even need to look to feel the temperature drop on Erina's side of the table. Olivia simply raised her eyes. She didn't rush to respond, didn't show a flicker of being caught off guard. But in that moment, I could see her posture straighten—just slightly, just enough. My sister looked at me, picking the exact worst possible moment with surgical precision.

"However—" A pause.

"You don't have a title yet, Cedric." I wanted to drain my wineglass right then and there. Not because I was thirsty. Because coming from her, that sentence was never just casual family conversation. It was a reminder—to me, and to the other two women at this table—that this wasn't simply a matter of mutual affection. It was rank, lineage, the capital, and a long chain of political headaches attached to all of the above. Then Erina spoke.

"That need not concern you." Slow. Deliberate. Each word placed like she wanted to make sure no one could pretend they hadn't heard.

"Lord Cedric has rendered distinguished service in the royal escort. Upon my return to the palace, I will personally present the matter to my father the King. The question of ennoblement requires no outside assistance." Her voice wasn't loud. But every word was a needle—thin, cold, aimed with surgical precision at exactly the places no one wanted touched. I sat between them, and suddenly the food, the candlelight, the wine—everything felt like part of some very expensive torture device. To my left: a princess.

To my right: Olivia von Eisenberg. Across from me: my sister, whose smile grew gentler the more impossible she became to read. And I was expected to sit here and pretend I still had an appetite. After Erina's words settled, the entire table went quiet. Not the silence of no one speaking. Everyone was still seated, candles still burning, steam still curling from the soup—yet every person understood that what had just been said had turned everything on the table from "dinner" into "cutlery."

Caught in the crossfire, I seriously considered emptying my wine glass. Unfortunately, my sister was sitting directly across from me, and I hadn't grown tired of living yet. Victoria didn't respond to Erina's declaration immediately. She simply touched the base of her glass with one fingertip, let the wine inside shift with a faint swirl, then looked at me with calm, unhurried eyes. The meaning was transparent. Look. The trouble you brought home has started biting each other at my table.

I hadn't decided which side to patch first when another voice stepped in and pressed the blade flat.

"If madam permits, matters of marriage and titles might be better revisited at another time." It was Olivia. She set down her knife and fork without a sound—the motion so controlled that her sleeve didn't even brush the table's edge. Yet precisely because it was so composed, every gaze drifted naturally toward her. She raised her eyes, meeting my sister's first, then added in that level, measured tone:"What we brought back from Angel City wasn't only people.

We also brought names that have a way of getting people killed very quickly." The table seemed to go quiet by another layer. Erina said nothing more. Even Jessi let the spectator's gleam fade from her expression. And I exhaled slowly, somewhere in the back of my mind. Good. At least someone was willing to move the target off me. Victoria looked at Olivia von Eisenberg.

The faint curve at the corner of her mouth faded, replaced by a different kind of attention—the kind that was considerably less comfortable to be on the receiving end of.

"Very well," she said.

"Since Miss von Eisenberg has raised the point, let us speak plainly." The moment those words left her mouth, this stopped being a family dinner at all. It was more like someone had quietly moved the plates and candelabras onto an interrogation table, handed everyone a fork, and told them to decide who ought to die first while they ate. Olivia von Eisenberg did not stand on ceremony.

She reached for the flat leather case I had seen her handle several times before, opened it, withdrew folded pages, and placed them at the center of the table. There was nothing formal about them—no wax seal, no official heading. They looked more like notes rushed into writing in the back of a moving carriage. But the moment I saw those pages, the back of my neck went cold. The insurance ledger. Or, as she had put it herself—the list of people we could drag down with us before we died.

"This is only the first page," she said.

"Not enough for testimony. But sufficient to establish direction." Victoria didn't touch the pages. She didn't even look down at them immediately. She simply raised her chin.

"Who speaks?" Olivia looked at Adeline. Brief. But it carried more authority than any reassurance could have. Adeline set down her barely-touched cutlery and rose. Her movements were steady—not the composure of someone trying to hold it together, but something older, trained into the body until it became reflex. She didn't look like someone who had recently been pulled off an auction block.

She looked like someone who had always belonged in a room with candlelight, silverware, and people with the power to decide things.

"We begin with the Syndicate," she said. Victoria didn't interrupt. She gestured for her to continue.

"The Conquistador Syndicate keeps more than one set of books in Angel City." Adeline's voice was measured, unhurried.

"The external ones are for trade that can be shown. The internal ones record who touched the cargo, who received handoffs, and who needs to stay quiet. Find only the first set, and at worst you have black market commerce. Find the second, and people start dying." Listening to her, even the steaming soup felt cold. Victoria finally lowered her gaze to the pages.

"Names." Adeline didn't hesitate.

"Rudolf von Elm. Deputy Harbor Inspector, Imperial Maritime Authority, Outer Ports." At that name, something shifted in my sister's expression. Not surprise. More like the quiet, efficient turning of a page in her mental files.

"What did he handle?"

"Night cargo," Adeline said.

"Berth assignments, clearances, falsified sinking registers, and the dead-head levy." Erina, who had been sitting with perfect posture, let a small frown cross her face.

"Dead-head levy?"

"Yes," Adeline replied.

"Cargo recorded as missing, damaged, lost at sea, or confiscated with no return. As long as the manifest marked them as 'gone,' the money behind it became clean. Whether people actually died was irrelevant. What mattered was whether their names could be killed on paper." This time, Victoria didn't just listen. She reached out and drew the page slightly closer.

"Evidence grade?" Those four words made me almost look up at her. Not because I was surprised she understood the classification, but because she asked it exactly the way Olivia von Eisenberg would have. Adeline paused for only a heartbeat.

"Grade B," she said.

"I reviewed two transcribed copies. Not the originals."

"Witnesses?"

"There may be one dock recorder. Whether he's still alive is uncertain." Victoria gave a small nod. No wasted commentary. She moved straight on.

"Next."

"Hermann Graf. Imperial Inspector-General." This time it was Erina who spoke, not my sister.

"Graf?" The name wasn't loud, but the entire table heard the recognition in it. Adeline looked at her.

"Your Highness has heard of him?" Erina's expression was cold.

"I have. Two years ago, he submitted a clearance report on the Southern Port cases to the palace."

"If Graf was the one who submitted that final report," Adeline said evenly, "then it was never going to produce results." The candle flame shifted. I sat very still and began seriously considering whether I should eat something now, before whatever came next killed my appetite entirely. I didn't get the chance. My sister was already pressing forward.

"What did he receive in exchange for his silence?"

"Case files," Adeline said.

"Some investigations he pursued. Others, he made sure never went anywhere. The Bone-Shred Shark Gang's maritime abductions, the Elysian Poppy labor camps, the Syndicate's human trafficking routes—all of it passed through his hands and disappeared."

"Evidence?"

"Grade B-plus," Adeline said.

"Private residence, strongbox, and one Church-affiliated traveling chaplain as witness." I stopped wanting even the wine at that point. The Church. Of course. I glanced at Olivia. She hadn't moved throughout—no urgency, no impulse to interject. Only at the end of each entry did her fingertip touch the corner of the page, the lightest possible contact, as though confirming exactly where the next cut should fall. She wasn't helping Adeline speak. She was keeping the rhythm of the entire table in her hands.

Victoria had noticed. Anyone paying attention had noticed. Neither woman smiled. Neither gave ground. The wordless exchange between them was more unsettling than anything Erina had said with her needles.

"Third," my sister said. This time, Adeline's silence ran longer than before. Not because she'd forgotten. Because she was deciding whether this particular name should be spoken aloud at this particular table. In the end, she said it.

"Louis de Valois. Clerk to the Grand Justiciar's Office." Victoria's wineglass came to a stop against the table. Not set down hard. Just—stopped. That was enough.

"What can he do?" I heard myself ask. Adeline looked at me. Her voice didn't change.

"Delay certain case files from entering the archives by three days." A pause.

"And ensure that certain testimonies, during transcription, are missing two lines." I had nothing to say to that. Because it sounded so small. Small enough that it barely registered as a crime. But that was exactly the kind of small thing that killed people. A blade on a battlefield, at least you knew how you died. A blade in the capital might be nothing more than a transcript with two lines missing—and by the time you noticed something was wrong, heads were already rolling.

"Evidence grade?" my sister asked.

"Grade B," Adeline said.

"I witnessed it personally, once. The compound came from the Elysian Poppy side. The payment from the Syndicate." Jessi drew a quiet breath. Lucas kept his head down. Matthews' jaw line went noticeably harder. And somewhere in all of it, I was struck by a feeling so absurd it almost made me laugh. The only things at this table that still looked like a noble family's dinner were the silverware and the candelabras.

The rest of us—a princess, a duchess, a daughter of House Eisenberg, a knight's daughter recently recovered from an auction block, and a collection of people who had no business being here—gathered around a ledger capable of drawing blood across half the capital's streets, quietly eating dinner. How had I managed to live my life into this? It was precisely then that Olivia von Eisenberg spoke. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was exactly calibrated to pull everyone back to where she wanted them.

"Madam, this is only the first layer." Victoria looked at her.

"First layer?"

"The people who handle things directly," Olivia said.

"Those who take the real share never put their own names in a ledger. At most, they leave a seal, a steward's name, or a collateral branch title—someone expendable enough to throw in front of the blade when it comes to that." She let her fingertip rest on the page. The lightest possible pressure.

"But the first layer is sufficient. Sufficient to show us that Angel City isn't a single piece of rot—it's a supply line someone cultivated deliberately. The Bone-Shred Sharks handle the dirtiest work. The Elysian Poppy handles the quietest. And the Conquistador Syndicate makes both look like legitimate commerce." My sister leaned back slowly in her chair.

"And you walked a piece of that supply line's cargo directly off the White Wing Coronation Platform." That wasn't a question. I felt her gaze on me, and there was nothing to do but nod.

"... More or less."

"More or less?" Her eyebrow lifted.

"Sis, this really isn't the moment to pick apart word choices."

"If you had learned to pick apart word choices a little earlier," she said with that same unhurried calm she used for everything, "you might not have a habit of delivering your problems directly to my front door." I had no answer for that. Jessi coughed softly beside me—I couldn't tell if she was suppressing laughter. I very much wanted to step on her foot. Erina chose that moment to speak, pressing the blade at the table another inch deeper.

"Madam, if this ledger is accurate, then this is no longer a matter confined to Angel City."

"Of course it isn't." Victoria didn't look at her. Her eyes stayed on the pages.

"Angel City is merely the mouth of the well. The real filth belongs to the ones who reach down into it." Erina pressed her lips together.

"Then what do you intend to do?" At that, I genuinely felt my appetite leave the building. The princess was asking. The duchess was watching. Olivia von Eisenberg was waiting. Adeline was still standing. The red wine was sliding down the inside of the glass, one slow drop at a time, as though counting down for someone. My sister didn't answer immediately. She gathered the pages back into a neat stack, pressed her fingertip to the top sheet, and spoke in a voice so level it made the room feel colder.

"Nothing. For now." I blinked. Erina's brow creased. Victoria raised her eyes and looked at the full table.

"Because the most valuable thing we hold at this moment isn't the act of exposing it. It's ensuring that the people who should be afraid of this ledger don't yet know exactly how much of it has been written." Silence again. Then Olivia von Eisenberg gave the smallest nod. It was almost nothing. But I had seen enough of her by now to know the difference between social courtesy and genuine acknowledgment. This was the latter. The quiet, considered recognition of someone thinking: good—this one keeps up.

I sat between the two of them and felt, for reasons I couldn't entirely explain, a distinct chill running up the back of my neck. Because I knew, with absolute certainty, that from this moment on, this dinner had stopped being dinner. It was allegiances. It was unspoken agreements. It was a test that no one had the decency to announce. And the worst part— I still had to sit here and perform the role of a perfectly ordinary younger brother. A perfectly ordinary escort.

A perfectly ordinary person who had, in the most ordinary fashion imaginable, brought a princess and a criminal ledger home for dinner. Honestly, if someone stabbed me clean through the ribs right now, it might actually be more comfortable than staying in this chair. It was at precisely that moment that Victoria finally lifted her wineglass again and took a slow, unhurried sip. She didn't press further. She simply looked at me, and said, with perfect calm:"Cedric." I straightened up immediately.

"... Yeah."

"Eat something," she said.

"The food's going cold."