Man-Made Magical Sword: Sixth Attempt—Galeforce Blades

“So, Professor Oswald is in search of fire dragon scales...” During lunch on the second floor of the Green Tower, Dahlia recounted yesterday’s conversation to Volf.

“I’m sure Master Jonas would be okay with that. Should I ask, just in case?”

“Could you please? The rings are consumables, you see, so I wouldn’t want to cause any offense.” As Jonas had been blighted by a fire dragon, red scales grew on his arms. He had given Dahlia some, but she wanted to make sure he had no problems with someone else using them, especially for a disposable tool. It wasn’t as though Jonas hid his blight, but Dahlia still worried about it.

“Of course. I’ll ask him the next time we do sword training,” Volf said. “Oh, are you not a fan of the pie, Dahlia?” Accompanying their coffee was a beautiful round salmon pie, courtesy of Volf. There was even a cute little fish on top of the crust—the handiwork of his private chefs. Fresh salmon, spinach, and lots of heavy cream formed the viscid filling. It was very delicious, but Dahlia’s first slice had been on the larger side, so a second slice would surely be too many calories.

“No, I think it’s amazing, but, um, well, I haven’t had much exercise lately...” She worried about her waistline but left that unsaid. Volf customarily ate more than double her portion, but he hadn’t anything to trim off his body—all his physical training and expeditions undoubtedly ensured that—and that made Dahlia just a teensy bit jealous.

“Exercise, huh? How about taking up equestrianism?”

“I don’t know if I have the athleticism to ride a horse...” She had ridden a sleipnir-drawn carriage before, but only as a driver; never had she ridden a horse by herself before. She didn’t have much faith in her coordination or her balance, so the thought of falling off was a little scary.

“I’m sure you can learn. Many noblewomen take it up as a hobby, and I think it’s quite fun too. And it makes for good exercise, you know?”

It wouldn’t be all that dissimilar to riding a bicycle, she assumed, but the fastest she had gone in this world was riding in a speeding carriage, so she couldn’t say so for sure.

Volf continued, “We keep horses at home, so why don’t we give it a shot? You can go on horseback where carriages can’t, and once you get good enough, we could even go into the woods and hills to look for materials.”

“Now that’s a great idea! Oh, but what about monsters?”

“There’s nothing too strong around the capital, and if they do show up, I’ll turn them into materials for you. I think we’ll be fine if we bring guard dogs, and, if it would help you feel safer, even bodyguards.”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.” Nothing could be more fun than going deep into the wilderness in search of materials with Volf, and she now felt she needed to learn horseback riding. Though neither of them had approached the subject, they both knew it would just be the two of them.

After lunch, Dahlia and Volf headed downstairs, where a shortsword and enchanting materials had already been laid out on the workbench. It had been some time since they were last in the workshop together.

“It’s been a while, but I’m aiming to make a properly functioning magical sword today.”

“How I’ve waited for thee, O magical sword of my dreams!”

Oh, no pressure or anything, she thought as she handed her enthusiastic friend a set of overalls.

This marked her sixth attempt at artificing a magical sword; the first five times had either been failures or not quite right. She did not mention to him that today would be another go at perfecting the first magical sword—what Volf had dubbed the Blade of the Dark Lord’s Minion. Where the previous attempt had been faulty was in the coating of black slime. This coating was meant to counteract magical interference, but the result had been such that touching it would also dissolve the wielder’s hand—very dangerous indeed. She had since learned a new method, and the process should be straightforward; it would require no unusual materials. Today would surely be the day she crafted something worthy of being called a magical sword.

“I plan on using unicorn horn, so I’ll start with a shortsword. If it works out, then we can try a longsword next time. Would the usual self-sharpening on the blade, self-cleaning on the guard, a wind crystal in the hilt for haste, and weight reduction on the scabbard be okay?”

“Would it be possible to add haste on the blade as well? It would be handy to be able to draw the sword quickly.”

“Sure, we can do that. The effect should be straightforward too. Oh, and I have just the right material for it.” Dahlia brought a magically sealed box from the shelf and gingerly opened the top.

“Feathers from a bird?”

“From a greencrown, to be precise.” As its name suggested, the greencrown was a vibrantly green bird. In the bestiary, it looked as though it wore a very tall hat because of its prominent crest, like a green turaco at the zoos in her previous life. The greencrown wasn’t just different because of its size—its body ranged from sixty to seventy centimeters long, larger than a turaco—it also possessed magic that aided it in both fleeing from and fighting enemies. As such, its feathers could also imbue a tool with haste. This was a lesson that she had recently learned from the professor, and the handful of feathers was also from him. That should have meant it would synergize well with the air magic in the hilt.

“Those damn green things?” Volf scrunched up his eyebrows; he must’ve done battle with them before.

“I take it you have encountered them before?”

“Yeah, and not just once. They’re pesky birds, all right.”

“Really? The bestiary said they were timid creatures that avoided humans. Perhaps the ones in Ordine are particularly aggressive?” It wasn’t uncommon that a monster’s behavior differed depending on the locale, so they may have been flighty in the nation next door but not so much here.

“No, they do tend to be timid, but not at the beginning of spring—that’s mating season for them. The males fight each other, and they dart around very fast with their air magic and even get their beaks stuck in trees.”

“How, uh, how passionate...”

“The females line up on branches to spectate the fight, then court the victorious male. The losers get neglected, whether dead or alive.”

“It’s a bird-eat-bird world out there...” It sounded like a spectacle, but also a little sad at the same time.

“And if you come across a fight, the victorious males will do the same unto you. You’d better be pretty good at dodging them.”

“Or else you’ll end up getting speared?”

“Yup. Just like the trees.”

“That’s a little frightening...” Dahlia didn’t want to even imagine that. Those beautiful green feathers were getting scarier by the moment.

“It happened to Dorino, and he couldn’t pull the bird free from his arm without opening up the wound some more. He took the chance and roasted the greencrown afterward, and apparently it was rather tasty too—he said he’d try to catch some the next time.”

“Gosh, Dorino is so tough...” Never mind; humans were scarier than greencrowns after all.

When that discussion had died down, the duo took their seats at the workbench and began work on the magical sword. Dahlia prepared the guard for slotting in a water crystal, then inserted an air crystal into the hilt. She wrapped the weight reduction magic around the dark gray scabbard like a ribbon. The enchantments were quicker and more potent than they had ever been, pleasantly surprising her. She couldn’t let that distract her and ruin the process, though.

“Your magic’s become more vivid, Dahlia.”

“I think that must’ve come with my increased magic. I still haven’t learned how to control it that well, however.” The moment those words escaped her lips, her beam went in the wrong direction—she decided to keep that a secret from him. “Next, I’ll enchant the blade with greencrown.”

Dahlia slowly doused the green feather with her magic, making it flutter like puffy cotton. It looked more like a tuft of wool than a bird’s feather, but the enchantment was working as she intended, and the green cotton dissolved into the blade. The feather discharged a gust of wind, transforming the blade from a metallic silver to a deep forest green.

“How pretty...” Tears welled into golden pools; Volf was captivated.

It made Dahlia slightly nervous. “Um, I think it worked. I’m going to enchant it with unicorn now.” To prevent magical interference, she sprinkled the crushed unicorn horn onto the shortsword parts and enchanted them. Now that she was armed with the experience from making Irma’s bracelet, the process went without a hitch. She saved the rest of the powdered horn for next time.

“I’ll put it together, then,” Volf said. His hands, clad in leather gloves, moved like it was second nature. As soon as the shortsword was fully assembled, it began emitting a steady wave of magic. “Seems fine so far.”

Next, Volf pressed the base of the guard and a stream of water trickled out. The weight reduction on the scabbard seemed to be working too, but as the sword wasn’t heavy to begin with, the magic perhaps wasn’t making a huge difference. What Dahlia was most curious about was the haste enchantments on the blade and hilt. Drawing the sword activated its enchantments, so blood bonding it to Volf wouldn’t be necessary.

Volf stood up, stepped away from the workbench, and faced the wall as a precaution before giving the sword a few test swings. It didn’t look as though he was putting much power into it, yet the blade swooshed through the air. He stopped and pointed the sword at the ground. “This thing is fast. I think it would be pretty good as a throwing knife.”

“That doesn’t seem very practical, as you’d have to retrieve it somehow, right? It might be hard to keep track of too.”

“Maybe we could tie a string to it or something so I could reel it in? Well, a string would probably snap. Maybe some kind of steel wire?”

“Steel wire isn’t very durable, and it would rust too. It wouldn’t be too long, but how about mythril?”

“Isn’t it really expensive?”

“My father had just a little left over from another project, and I’ve been drawing it very slowly to practice my shaping magic. However, I’m not sure if it’ll be any good.” After seeing the steadiness of Oswald’s magic, Dahlia realized she ought to improve her precision as well. It was hardly satisfactory; the bluish-silver metal had been drawn into a fine thread with a cross section that was a barely rounded square rather than a circle—not the worst she could’ve done, but not good enough for her either. “Well, there’s only one way to find out if it’ll work. You would want some sort of handle on the other end of the wire too, right? How about this for now?”

“Is this ring some sort of magical tool?”

“No, this is just a regular loop of metal. I once thought about fashioning it into a door knocker for my room, but, well, my father used to shout out my name, so there wasn’t really any point. It’s still brand new.” The impulse purchase at the hardware store had been lying around for a long time. Since this was a prototype anyway, Dahlia used the mythril thread to attach the shortsword’s hilt to the ring and then reinforced the joint to make sure it wouldn’t come loose.

Throwing it around indoors would have been unwise, and so the two of them stepped outside into the yard. “A magical shortsword with a silver ring and mythril thread really has romance to it...” Volf said.

“Uh, sure. Let me get some boards and I’ll let you test it out.” Dahlia set a thick wooden plank in front of the fence. She wouldn’t want the mythril thread to slice up Volf’s hand either, so she brought him a pair of sand lizard gloves with metal inserts on the fingers and palms; they had been Carlo’s for when he handled blades and other hard materials.

“Could you step back a bit, Dahlia? I wouldn’t want it ricocheting back at you.”

“Of course.” If the target broke, the fence was right behind it. She stepped well away from the danger.

“All right, here I go.” With his right hand, Volf threw the shortsword.

Dahlia meant to track it, but it was as though it had blinked away. There was a whistling through the air, followed by a combination of a thunk and a crack, then a shrill clank immediately afterward—only the handle was poking out from the wood.

“Whoa, sorry. I didn’t think I’d thrown it that hard.” Volf had thrown the ring out with the shortsword, and that must’ve caused the metallic clash earlier.

“Are you okay, Volf?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get hurt. The shortsword is good as it is, and seeing how far it goes, I think I could use it as a ranged weapon against monsters,” he said as he went to retrieve his new weapon. However, the mythril thread had lodged itself into the board as well, and it was pulled taut. “Hey, Dahlia? Would you be able to make me a copy of the sword? I’ll pay for it, of course.”

Volf looked very serious about it, so she readily agreed. “I can do that. I have the materials on hand, so I’ll get on it now.” After all, having more than one throwing knife simply made sense. She returned to the workshop and collected all the materials needed, save for one—the ring. “It turns out I don’t have another ring, so should I quickly make something similar?”

“Just the sword is fine. I’m thinking of ditching the ring and connecting the swords with the wire.”

“Gotcha.”

Volf must’ve wanted to be able to reel both swords in together. He asked for a thread that was about half the length of the hilt and could be attached directly to the pommel. Dahlia had thought it would be better if the thread were attached directly to the center of the hilt, but Volf said it would get in the way. With the second shortsword now in his hand, Volf swung them both at the same time. The way they sliced through the air had a lot of punch to it—and was a little terrifying, to be honest.

“I think this will do just fine...” he said. The pair returned to the garden. Volf stood a long piece of firewood in front of the plank, likely to test out how much penetration power the blades had. After Dahlia stepped back, he set his sights on the plank, steadied his breathing, and fired a sword from each hand. The whistling through the air was more than twice as loud, and they disappeared from his hands the same way the first sword had.

“Uh...”

While the log looked untouched, the pair of shortswords had crushed the board behind it and fallen to the ground farther out. The log remained upright, at least until Dahlia began fretting that the mythril thread must’ve snapped; then the top half of the log slid off its base—exactly how she imagined it would have after a skilled swordsman had slashed it. The mythril thread was the hidden third blade.

“Wow.” She pressed a finger to her temple, thinking she had messed up for the sixth time. The shortswords didn’t seem much good as swords, but they apparently made for great arrows. But to think they moved so quickly. Perhaps she should’ve started with a longsword instead—no, throwing that would be infinitely more dangerous.

Interlude: The Golden Owl and the Cerulean Crow

That’s just how it is with generations upon generations of old money, mulled Ivano with a smile, as a servant patted him down and searched through his belongings. At one of the far ends of the nobles’ quarter, there lay an old but well-kept mansion, gray with a black roof and fenced in by tall, thick walls. An impregnable set of doors, far too heavy to be opened by a single person, separated the outdoors from the entranceway. The windows on the first floor were at least chest height at the bottom, further reinforced by metal shutters. Beside each second-floor window was a narrow opening with a round hole at the bottom—an arrowslit, so Ivano had once read in a book. This place was more a warlord’s fortress than a bureaucrat’s manor, and it was hard to imagine it was the home of the castle’s head treasurer, Marquis Gildovan Diels.

Perhaps that was not so odd; after all, House Diels had produced a long line of knights. Gildo’s late father had been the vice-commander of the First Knights’ Regiment, while Gildo’s two sons and his brothers also belonged to various chivalric orders in the castle. If anything, what was odd was that the only bureaucrat in the family tree was Gildo.

As Dahlia had Lucia’s help redecorating the tower today, Ivano had rented a carriage for his solo trip. He had enlisted Mena as the coachman, who had been left shaken upon learning their destination. When he had alighted, Ivano caught a rare glimpse of the employee’s pale face. It was Mena’s first time dressing up formally to serve as the company driver, and coming to a marquis’s mansion probably didn’t help. Ivano had figured Mena didn’t have too much to do while he waited outside, and so the vice-chairman brought him some business literature and candy in a tin—the latter of which he had already been sucking on when Ivano disembarked. Hopefully, there’s still some left by the time I’m back—so Ivano had thought as he stepped forth.

The long hallway had twisted and turned, giving someone like Ivano—who almost never got lost in a building—difficulty memorizing the right path; it was most definitely some kind of defensive architecture to make intruders as dizzy as possible. At the landing, where the servant who had been guiding him turned around, Ivano had helplessly asked, “I apologize for the inconvenience, but could you also please direct me back outside when the time comes?” The servant had returned a smile and his assent.

Gildovan Diels was an unreadable, indecipherable man, but Ivano had to acquaint himself better with that man for the sake of the Rossetti Trading Company. Though Guido was pulling strings for them, there was no telling when he would let go. Of course, it was unthinkable that he would do so, what with how close he was with both his brother Volf and Dahlia, but the company could very easily be made to close up shop if they ever fell from his grace. If Guido willed it, neither Viscount Jedda—master of the Merchants’ Guild—nor Viscount Forto—master of the Tailors’ Guild—had any power to stop him. There were other noble families to watch out for as well; the Rossetti Trading Company hadn’t the capabilities to take up arms against high-ranking nobles. There were only two people who could give the company legs to stand on: Head Treasurer Gildo and Captain Grato. They seemed to feel indebted to Dahlia, and perhaps they could be called upon if manure were to happen.

Freedom was the ability to do as one wished, to be free of restraints. Deep inside, Ivano wanted no one—not a duke, not even a royal—to interfere with Dahlia and the Rossetti Trading Company. He aimed to build up enough trust and ability so he might fulfill that wish of his—such were the thoughts in his head when he finally reached the parlor.

“Welcome, Rossetti Trading Company Vice-Chairman Mercadante.” Gildo had been sitting on a black leather sofa in the back of the room and waiting. In other words, the head of the Marquisate Diels was waiting for Ivano, a commoner. That was ludicrous, and Ivano panicked, wondering if he had gotten the time wrong. But Gildo saw right through his guest; he gave the document in his hands to a servant and said, “Fret not; it’s simply more comfortable for me to wait than to keep others waiting. Sit.”

Ivano reset himself and greeted his host, then passed to a servant several tins of dried barracuda, flounder, and other fish—Grato’s recommendation.

“Thank you for the gifts. I take it that you have a favor to ask, then?”

“I am just here to pay my respects today, though I would be delighted if I could come to you for advice if anything arises.”

“Nothing at all? I was sure you had questions for me already.”

“That’s correct, sir, nothing in particular today.”

“I see. Let us change topics. I have heard that your company has hired someone via the Scalfarottos. How much do you know about him?”

Ivano tensed up. As far as he knew, no one had informed Gildo, but like blood through a body, information coursed through the creatures called nobles so naturally. The company all of a sudden seemed so exposed, and Ivano could but force a smile. There was no use in trying to keep Marcella under wraps now, but he didn’t have to tell the whole truth either. “He is a friend of the chairwoman and Sir Volfred, and he was one of the company’s guarantors. Through the Scalfarottos, he has become a knight and bodyguard to the chairwoman.”

“Have you heard much about his background?” Gildo wasn’t looking at Ivano, who was trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. Instead, Gildo received a piece of parchment from a servant and elegantly cut through the wax seal with a silver knife. “Marcella Nuvolari is from a marquis family.”

“Excuse me?”

“I suppose that is news to you. Guido erased the footprints, so to say, to prevent others from tracking him. Your other new employee, the one who was raised in an institution, has history too.” Gildo set down a yellowed parchment with nothing written on it. “Blood bond yourself to it—that’s enchanted baphomet. From now on, only you will be able to read the text, and only when you course your magic through it. Once you have it all memorized, burn it.”

On top of the piece of parchment was a quill, though a needle was affixed to the tip instead of a nib. Ivano braced himself for the prick and dripped two drops of his blood onto the yellowed parchment. Immediately, dark red text appeared.

Beside Marcella’s name was the name of a marquisate that even Ivano had some familiarity with. Below was Mena’s name, and details from when he had entered the institution—around when Marcella had been born—to the present day, recording their pasts. The breadth of Gildo’s information network brought Ivano to his knees. “Thank you very much,” he said. “What can I do to return the favor?”

“Nothing. I am merely repaying the debt I owe your chairwoman.”

“But our chairwoman believes she has received much more assistance than anything she has given...” What an upright man, Ivano briefly considered, before realizing better. Nobles would never do anything that didn’t benefit their own clan—Forto had taught him that much. Guido was the same; he would’ve never considered Dahlia to be anybody if not for Volf’s involvement with her. Why, then, would the man before Ivano be so accommodating? Did he have feelings for Dahlia? Was he after the company’s money? Did he see the true value of magical tools? All unthinkable. Ivano could not get a good read on Gildo, and there was no real way to find out. When he looked up, he found a pair of amber eyes staring back.

“Vice-Chairman Mercadante, you are undoubtedly mistaken,” Gildo said.

“About what, exactly?”

“A nobleman must repay his debts. As long as I am indebted to your chairwoman, we shall be ‘connected,’ come hell or high water.” There was no uncertainty in his words, and after they had left his mouth, his lips were shut tight.

Ivano finally understood. Not only was Gildo a nobleman through and through, he was a chivalrous knight too. He was the man who had dragged Dahlia into his dispute with Grato—something that initially hadn’t sat well with Ivano, but he’d come to understand the reasoning behind it. A friend of Grato, Gildo had sacrificed himself as a scapegoat, consequences be damned. He had figured out Dahlia and made peace with Grato; whatever debt he was now claiming seemed to be nothing more than stubbornness. “In that case, Lord Diels, I do have a request to ask of you.”

“Do tell.”

“I would like your continued support even after you feel you have paid off your debt, so I would like to ask what steps I could take to ensure that.”

Gildo returned Ivano’s smile with a sly look. “That dried barracuda sure is tasty.”

“How about some forest serpent next time?”

“That, Grato brought me a bundle of it already. His Beast Hunters must’ve hunted one.”

“Ah, Sir Grato has beaten me to the punch.”

“It was not bad. The next time you find something new and interesting, bring me some, and we shall chat.” Gildo and Grato seemed to be good friends again, so perhaps the next gift would be something they could snack on over a drink. He continued, “Going back to the debt I owe your chairwoman, she has turned nearly twenty years of sour wine sweet and delicious. Add in interest and round it up to twenty-five years. This year is almost over, and so I shall start counting next year. Whatever jerky or the like that would go well with a dry red you bring will add to that clock.”

Ivano nearly burst out laughing but somehow managed to hold it in. “Thank you very much. I shall convey the message to our chairwoman.” Twenty-five years from the next—how old would Gildo be by then? As long as he was alive, he would give his support to Dahlia, but he just couldn’t be honest. “Lord Gildo is kind, but stubborn and unforthcoming,” so Dahlia had once bemoaned, and boy, was she right.

“For the Rossetti Trading Company’s sake, spend time and socialize with different nobles—though I must say that you would be better suited to that task than your chairwoman. They will come to you too, seeing how you are purveyors to the royal Order of Beast Hunters. It ought to be Grato guiding you through this, but, well, he’s no good at it either...” Though Grato was a marquis as well, it was likely his personality got in the way.

“I am most grateful to receive your instruction.”

“I learned that you, too, have an adroit grasp on the gossip-birds. I learned your nickname too.”

“My nickname? Not our chairwoman’s?” Ivano didn’t even know he had one.

“They call you the Cerulean Crow.”

“Not the ‘Mustard Crow,’ I see.” He was named not after the color of his striking hair but of his eyes. Whoever had given Ivano the name must’ve gotten a good look at him.

“Your eyes are reminiscent of your mentor’s, you see.” The person Gildo was referring to was the vice-guildmaster of the Merchants’, Gabriella. Her eyes were closer to a true navy blue, while Ivano’s were closer to indigo, but that was only a matter of coincidence. “They even question if you aren’t related to the Jeddas or one of Gabriella’s relatives.”

“I suppose I have to apologize for causing them trouble.” Not only might that rumor be disrespectful to Gabriella, Ivano was terrified as to what Leone—a man who loved nothing more in the world than his wife—would do unto him. Besides, he was relatively close to both of them.

“Fret not. It was Viscount Jedda himself who circulated that rumor. Seems as though he still wants to keep you under his wing; he must cherish you.”

One more debt among the many that he owed the husband and wife team who ran the guild. “For that, I am very grateful. I digress, but a crow?” Was that a compliment or an insult?

“No need to look so disappointed. Take it as being compared to a clever animal. You will know your approval has fallen when they call you a hawk or eagle instead,” Gildo said. “Chairwoman Rossetti has earned a few names as well, but, hmm, it would be best if you do not ask.”

“May I, though? I shall keep it from our chairwoman.”

“One of them is ‘Red Cat.’”

“That’s a somewhat cute nickname, isn’t it?” Must’ve been something that stemmed from the camp stove thing with Gildo.

“Others include ‘The Sandalbearer’ because of the drying insoles and ‘Culinary Revolutionary’ for the camp stoves.” Nothing too bad, and frankly, the latter was rather cool, if anything. It was nothing that had to be kept from Dahlia either; she’d be happy to learn of it. “There is one more, and I am afraid it is the most common one: ‘Goddess-Savior of Athlete’s Foot,’ or ‘Goddess of Athlete’s Foot’ for short.”

“I will keep that from her!” Why would anyone shorten it like that unless it were supposed to be defamatory? Ivano pressed his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes—his headache was worse than his stomachache today.

“I believe it comes from a good place, but it certainly does not sound like it...”

“Truly. Surely there is a better way to phrase it...” Ivano found himself very like-minded with Gildo on that. “And if you don’t mind me asking, Lord Diels, what do they call Sir Grato?”

“Grato has his magical sword, so they call him the Sorcerer of Ash. They call me the Golden Owl because of my position, even though I keep my eyes not on the royal treasury but on the accounting records. I break my back to keep those numbers in the black...” He pressed his left hand against his stomach—a second thing the two men had in common. “By the way, do you have any nobles with whom you would perhaps like to share a drink? I may be able to introduce you to them, depending on who you have in mind.”

“Let’s see. Personally, I would love to have a drink with you, Lord Diels.”

“With me?” Gildo seemed utterly shocked by the answer, and he eyed Ivano suspiciously. “I am a boring man. There is nothing I can say about finances, and I alone am powerless to make changes to the budget.”

“I have no interest in either of those things. Rather, I was hoping I could hear some stories of your time in college. See, I’m not from the capital and I never attended college either, so I have long adored school life.” It was neither flattery nor deception; it truly was what Ivano had been curious about for some time. There was, however, another side to it. He was so curious about this dual-natured man who was so upright, dutiful, and was fine playing the villain, yet on the other hand, so kind and caring to Dahlia.

“School life, eh? That, I have plenty of stories about.” Gildo looked serious as he leaned forward. “Do you have plans afterward, Ivano?”

“No, Lord Diels, I have no obligations afterward.”

“Send your company’s carriage away, and tell your man that I shall send you home tonight,” he instructed. “Oh, feel free to call me Gildo.”

“Thank you very much for the honor, Lord Gildo.” To call a marquis by his first name was frankly bad for Ivano’s heart, but “feel free” wasn’t an invitation to say no. Not making Mena wait the whole night was a good idea, though—for both the vice-chairman’s and the employee’s nerves.

Gildo ordered a servant to serve some food, and the long list of dishes the servant responded with didn’t sound like they could possibly fit on the table. Then, the host opened a cabinet behind him and brought out a bottle of clear amber liquor and two thin glasses. “Shall I start with the mountain of trouble that Grato put me through when we were students?”

“That is most intriguing.” Ivano sat upright in his seat, and, with a finger, loosened up his collar—this was going to be a long ride.

“Ever since we were in primary school, I helped him with his homework and schoolwork; if it wasn’t for me, he would not have achieved what he did in his studies. But because of that, and for whatever other reasons, I was made to take up civil service studies in college, despite my desire to advance in chivalric studies.”

“You did a double major, Lord Gildo? I have heard that is quite the undertaking.”

“It is, but nothing compared to everything that Grato dragged me into.” The glasses were topped with the amber liquor and served neat; his eyes, the same color, swirled like the liquid. “Speaking of whom, let me tell you more about our colorful history together. It may help you in the future.”

Ivano remarked to himself just how supportive Gildo was of the Rossetti Trading Company—and how adamant in pretending he wasn’t. The food then arrived, and Ivano, as instructed, started on the colorful dishes while he listened.

“Grato and I are around the same age, our families are in the same faction, and we share many relatives. We had encountered each other numerous times ever since we were young, though we were not particularly close at that point in time.”

“That means you two became friends in primary school?”

“I suppose that is true, but ‘friends’ is not quite the word I would use. We were in the same class, and our teacher was at a loss for what to do with him because he was mischievous and didn’t do his homework. I thought of him as a troublesome younger brother—but don’t tell him I said that.” Gildo had a few younger brothers himself, though he might have learned to take care of his siblings because of Grato.

“Of course. That said, I have a hard time imagining Sir Grato as a mischievous child.” The Grato he knew was a knight who suited his uniform and armor, the dependable captain of the Order of Beast Hunters. He seemed cheerful and jocular, but also very serious about his duties.

“Oh, he would come to school by coach but still arrive late to class because he was too busy playing in the schoolyard, doodle in his notebooks, slide around the halls in his socks, fill his schoolbag full of rocks to see who could carry the most, climb up to the roof, hop over fences; the list goes on. The worst part was that he would drag the people around him into his antics, and other children would lament their luck being stuck in the same class as him.”

“Wow...” Ivano didn’t know what else to say—Grato had behaved exactly like any lowborn kid would, stressing out teachers the same way.

“He made playmates with anyone, whether they were a noble or a commoner, but only I could rein him in.”

Nominally, all students were equals, but there seemed to be a hierarchy amongst school children as well. Standing up to the heir to a marquisate ought to have been impossible; hence, the role had fallen to Gildo, a friend and another son of a marquis family. “You were your brother’s keeper, in a sense.”

“Someone had to tell him that cotton was better than silk for sliding around in. The view from the rooftop was not half bad either.”

Ivano was trying his best to place a steamed prawn on his fork, but hearing Gildo’s words caused him to run the tines straight through it. They were close friends—partners in crime, even. As Ivano racked his brains, trying to recall whether etiquette dictated that he remove the prawn from his fork with his knife, Gildo stabbed a prawn and brought it straight to his mouth; Ivano saw his smile and decided to do the same.

Gildo continued, “In college, I pursued chivalry and civil service, and so I saw Grato less. Without me, he began to play hooky and roam around town without his guards.”

“He did as he wished, so you couldn’t be blamed for it. Still, it is shocking to hear that Sir Grato was so, erm, different while he was in school.” Grato was popular as captain and a very capable knight; it was hard to believe he was the same person who had been such a rascal as a schoolboy.

“One of Grato’s younger brothers was very smart, even hailed as a child prodigy. Grato himself was better suited to knighthood, and people often told him he could simply let his brother succeed the family. The brothers were very close with each other, so I’m sure it was no easy decision.” Succeeding the marquisate was surely a complicated matter; nobles had it rough too. But Grato was still the head of the household, though perhaps only in name—it was said that one of his brothers handled family affairs. As far as people knew, the brothers were still close.

“Did Sir Grato come to you for advice regarding that, Lord Gildo?”

“No. The succession matter, joining the Order of Beast Hunters, those things he figured out by himself. Besides, I was still a child at that time, and there was little I could do. Well, aside from dragging him home when he ran away and getting into fistfights with him at school—of course, the teacher and my father weren’t very happy about that,” Gildo said with a chuckle, making his stories seem far happier than they actually had been.

Ivano caught himself staring at his host. “Erm, I hope I’m not being too presumptuous in saying so, but you two sure were good friends.”

“I suppose that is true. We fought often too, but the next day, we would speak to each other as though nothing had ever happened. We were good friends.” Gildo looked off into the distance, likely recalling memories of his time with Grato. That friendship had ended once, after all. “My younger brother, a Beast Hunter, was killed in action, and I stopped speaking to Grato. I thought I would do so until he spoke to me first, but I jumped to conclusions and was too stubborn anyway. Grato, being Grato, blamed everything on himself too. For far too long was my wine sour.”

That last sentence had barely been a whisper, but Ivano realized it was the truest to his feelings Gildo had been. “Nothing but good wine now, then?” He wasn’t sure if it was proper to do so, but he topped up Gildo’s glass with the amber liquor.

A tender smile, one that didn’t seem possible for him, appeared on the man’s face. Gildo took his glass into his hand. “Say, Ivano, your other mentor, Chairman Oswald Zola—do you know his nickname in school?”

“He hasn’t always been the Silver Fox?”

“There was more to it: the Silver Fox, Collector of Handkerchiefs.”

“Oh...” Ladies’ handkerchiefs—were those something that one should collect? Were they something one could collect?

“Grato received his fair share of them, but Chairman Zola was on an entirely different level. Every time he received a handkerchief, he would slip it inside a card and write the sender’s name on it to keep track of who had sent which one. There were even girls who would prepare a card for him ahead of time.”

“Incredible...” Oswald must’ve had a fulfilling student life, and it was no surprise Jean from the Adventurers’ Guild would revere him as a mentor. He was a mentor to Ivano as well, but only in the art of business.

“Keep these names in mind as well.” Gildo then proceeded to list out the names of various noblemen as Ivano jotted them down in a notebook that he had retrieved from his breast pocket. The noblemen were from all sorts of families and occupied all sorts of ranks, but Ivano couldn’t figure out what linked them. Afterward, Gildo explained, “These were some of the men whose wives gave Chairman Zola their embroidered handkerchiefs. I recommend that you refrain from mentioning his name in front of these men. And, of course, you ought not to address him as ‘Professor Zola’ either.”

“Oh. Duly noted.” Ivano checked the family names of all these noblemen again and wondered just how Oswald was still alive.

“Chairman Zola had many more friends who were girls, however, and any businessman with so many noblewomen as friends is a formidable foe.”

Ivano forced a smile. “College life in the capital sure is a lively time.”

“That is one of the objectives for some people. Those who do not already have marriage arranged leave their dominions in search of a partner. There are also those who look for partners despite having plans for the future already.”

“I have heard that many nobles have their futures dictated for them like that. Is it usually a problem?”

“It depends. If both families stand to gain, the woman’s family might consent to her being the second or third wife. Being a second husband is a rare case, but that does happen too. It isn’t only about a man’s rank; his finances and any magic he has to pass down come into play too.”

“I see...” Unlike commoner marriages, what noble marriages all boiled down to was the interests of the parties’ respective clans.

“If one is deemed a lost cause, then their family will try to cool them down by dragging them back to their territory, having them drop out of school under the guise of poor health, sending them to study abroad, or whatnot. You may know some of these extreme cases, like—”

Gildo continued, and Ivano could hardly keep up with his memos. That day, his notebook became a chronicle of the darkest histories.

The Battleground and the Naming

They said love and its battles were always raging in the capital, but to witness it was quite terrifying.

“Liar! You never told me you were seeing other women!”

“Sorry, I guess. But it’s not like you ever asked me about it. Besides, you’re friends with other guys.”

“What, you think you can two-time me just because I never asked? You said you weren’t about free love either! And my guy friends are coworkers, not lovers!”

On the landing between the first and the second floor, a man and a woman were engaged in a shouting match. Though they were at the back of the building where foot traffic was at a minimum, the Merchants’ guildhall was hardly the place to air out dirty laundry. There was no way of getting past those two and thus no choice but to backpedal and use the other staircase—so Dahlia whispered to Mena.

“Chairwoman, would you mind keeping your distance?”

“No, but what are you...”

“Here, hide behind this pillar. Allow me to blaze a trail.” Mena set down the large crate of parchment he had been carrying and then trotted up the stairs, giving Dahlia much concern as to what he was about to do. “All right, all right! That’s enough!”

“Are you trying to stop us?!” snapped the woman.

“That’s correct, miss. Surely you’d expect someone to poke his nose in when you’re going after each other this loudly in public.”

“Oh...”

“And you, sir—the receptionist area is getting swamped. Would you mind going to lend a hand?”

“N-No! Right on it!” The man hightailed it down the steps, speeding past Dahlia. She had never spoken to him before, but she recognized him as a guild clerk who usually worked on the first floor.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?! Who said we’re done here?!” The woman was about to give chase when Mena deftly stepped into her path. Dahlia returned behind the pillar after seeing that.

“Okay, so what if you chase him down and catch him? Do you wish to be so conspicuous inside the guild?” asked Mena. “Come on, you don’t need a joker like that.”

“Wha-What’s your deal, muscling your way in between us and cutting our conversation short like that?!” Volatile was her voice, jumping an octave. Dahlia had to admit she’d be acting the same way in that lady’s shoes—wouldn’t it have been better if he had let them play it out?

“You thought you two were exclusive, but he had other intentions—does that summarize your conversation? Did you notice how you cornered him like that, but all he wanted to do was run away? He didn’t even say he’d break it off with the other woman he’s seeing. I don’t think your talk was going to lead to anything other than a breakup anyway.”

“Don’t act like you know me. This has nothing to do with you!”

“You’re right, this doesn’t have anything to do with me. But do you still have feelings for that jerk? Are you going to pretend like he didn’t do anything to hurt you? If so, you know where to find him,” Mena said, his voice suddenly becoming as calm as possible.

“I...” The woman was on the verge of refuting him, but her tears choked her up—Dahlia almost wanted to stop Mena herself and beg him to be merciful.

“Even if you get back together with him, you’ll always be wondering whether he’s lying to you again. Once a cheater, always a cheater, so just get rid of him, I say.” No objection followed from the woman. Dahlia had extended one foot out of the shadow of the pillar—what if she’s crying?—but hesitated to walk up those stairs. What came next was Mena’s voice, soft and soothing. “You two just aren’t meant for each other. Besides, you’re such a pretty lady; you can find someone much better than him.”

“Smooth talker for someone on his side. Are you working for the guild too?”

“No to both, actually; I’m a complete stranger. I also happen to be a free lover, but for a guy or a girl to cheat on and hurt someone is scummy. You should take a look in the mirror when you have the chance as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your hairstyle is a little dated, and your clothes aren’t very flattering.”

“And now you’re harassing me, calling me a hag?”

“No, no. I’m saying that you’d look even better if you parted your bangs and tried clothes in brighter colors and with cuts that show off your hips a little. Your figure is worth bragging about, you know?” Mena sure had the silver tongue to support his free love lifestyle. Maybe Lucia could help with the woman’s makeover too. “If you’re still going to be angry at him, you could always ask your friends to spread rumors and ruin his job. It’d be silly to get anywhere near him, anyway. But the best thing you can do right now is to go out with your friends and eat a lot of yummy food. Forget about that lout.” He must’ve been smiling—he sounded jocular and not preachy.

“Ugh. I think we’d make for good friends if you were a girl.” The lady heaved a heavy sigh, dispelling all the poison she had bottled up inside. “I might be interested if you weren’t a free lover and if you weren’t younger than me.”

“How unfortunate for me. Regardless, I’d love to go for lunch with a beauty like you. We’ll even split the bill. Think about it once you feel better. I’m always here at the guild.”

“That isn’t a bad idea.”

After the two introduced themselves, Mena gave her a last thoughtful word of advice. “He might be waiting for you to walk down these steps, so why don’t you head up to the second floor and try another staircase?”

“You sure have everything thought out. I’ll do that.”

“And I’d wager that he’ll come running back to you, which you should respond to by giving him a hard slap across the face. A better choice, though, might be to simply smile and ask, ‘Who are you again?’”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen, but I’ll keep it in mind, just in case,” the woman said. “And, um, thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure.”

As the lady’s footsteps became more and more distant, Dahlia silently wished her the best for what was to come.

“Thank you for waiting, chairwoman.” The way Mena dealt with people was astonishing; after he rushed down the steps, Dahlia looked at him with amazement. “Chairwoman, you’re staring a hole into the side of my face.”

“Oh! No! I was just moved by how you handled that!”

Mena chuckled; he didn’t seem to take any offense. His aqua blue eyes lit up with a roguish glint. “I’m used to this kind of stuff. I’ve always played arbitrator in lovers’ quarrels.”

“Wait, really? I believe you are only two years younger than me, right?”

“That is correct, but in the institution, nobody could wait to grow up. Love was everywhere for us teenagers, and, puppy love being what it is, fighting abounded, so there was always a need for someone with good communication skills to sort them out. That’s how I got to where I am.”

“I see.”

“Can’t have silly things like that making girls cry either. They have to stay positive and be beautiful so they remain a feast for our eyes.” Spoken like a true playboy.

If Dahlia had only had someone like Mena when her engagement had been broken, she might have been able to take a more positive attitude toward the situation. She’d been blessed with new friends since, but even so, getting over it alone had been tough at times. That thought had her worried for the lady from earlier. “Will she, um, be all right?”

“She’ll be fine, I think. She looked like she was over him already. They say men get over relationships like sliding down a staircase, but women jump out through a third-story window.”

“Is that true?”

“As far as I know. Guys probably don’t tend to get hung up when thinking of previous partners. By the way, chairwoman, I don’t suppose you practice free love, do you?”

“I suppose so, but I have no thoughts of dating right now, with work up to my neck.”

“Hm? Forgive me for asking, but what about Sir Volf? I was certain you two were dating.”

“What? Oh, no, we’re just friends! I’m very much obliged to him.”

“Is that right?” Mena readily accepted it. He picked up the crate and the two of them walked up the steps together. “Sir Volf sure is a good-looking fella. I got way too jealous when I first met him. Those golden eyes of his are so unusual and striking. It must be something else when he’s beside his brother.”

“His brother’s eyes aren’t golden, actually.”

“Really? Oh, but I suppose a lot of brothers have different-colored eyes. Beats me how that works, though,” he commented. Dahlia almost asked Mena about his family too but immediately realized it wasn’t something she should ask someone who’d been raised in an institution and was likely an orphan. Mena continued, “I went over to Marcella’s place the day before yesterday, and both of Irma’s younger brothers were there as well. All three of them have the same eye and hair color, and the same face as well, so I thought Sir Volf and his brother would look similar.”

“I don’t think Irma and her brothers would be very happy if you told them they look the same, though.”

“Well, I did already, and all three snapped at me, shouting ‘Absolutely not!’”

Dahlia could imagine that; Irma and her brothers behaved the same way. They would never have admitted anybody could peg them as siblings by their black tea hair, cinnamon eyes, and facial features. Dahlia believed they took after their father, though Irma would probably have denied that one too.

Mena said, “Since no one has any idea whether they will have boys or girls, they’ve come up with dozens of names for the twins.”

“They still have a while to go, so they’ll have plenty of time to rack their brains.” Double the babies, double the trouble, but she was sure it would be a joyful time regardless.

“They’re thinking about Bernholt for a boy name and Bertina for a girl name—very graceful, if you ask me. Speaking of names, though, I presume yours is from the flower?”

“That’s right. The flower is from the other side of the border, and there, they call them ‘dahliya’ in the singular and ‘dahlia’ in the plural.”

“The plural, huh? Despite being one person?”

“Well, um, I think my father was hoping I would be surrounded by a whole garden of people.” Not only was she somewhat plain, she had no family remaining—Dahlia supposed that was what they called “failing to live up to one’s name.”

“I see. Your name suits you perfectly, then, chairwoman.”

“Do you really think so?” As soon as those words had left her lips, she kicked herself for probing an off-the-cuff remark like that.

“You have plenty of friends, partners and allies in business, and colleagues, don’t you? I believe it is a great name that rolls off the tongue,” he said. “On the other hand, a lot of people get ‘Mezzena’ wrong, and spelling it out is bothersome. They should have just named me ‘Mena’ from the get-go, I say.”

“I think ‘Mezzena’ is a stylish name.”

“Thank you. The institute’s director gave me the name, but I always thought that I would prefer something easier to pronounce and spell. Believe me when I say I don’t have it that bad, though—the director believed that ‘others look down upon half-hearted names,’ and so many kids had awkward names.”

The director must’ve been quite particular about children’s names, and Dahlia wondered what those were. “What kind of awkward names?”

“Take Anvéta, Stephania, Jesterice, or Danavini for example. They’re something, all right.”

They were a little off the beaten path but very noblelike. In that sense, it was great to give the children names they could grow into, she reckoned. “I think they’re all wonderful, but it must have been hard remembering them, I imagine.”

“Children don’t have the best articulation, so we all gave each other nicknames, like An, Steph, Jess, and Dana. The director, though, would only use everybody’s given names. He has an awfully good memory and will never forget the prank I played on him a decade ago.”

“That’s amazing. What kind of prank did you play, though?”

“Late one night, after the director went to bed, I snuck into his bedroom and put glue all over the underside of his hairpiece. It was a strong glue, and it covered the whole underside.”

Dahlia stopped in her tracks. What a terrible thing to do! No wonder he won’t ever forget it. “I take it that he was very, very angry at you?”

“Quite the opposite. With a big smile, he said, ‘Perfect for the breeze we have today. I shall head out like this.’ It was a little off-center, though...” How touching it was to hear the director was such a magnanimous character and knew exactly how to act toward children. “Every one of us learned that day that we could not get the best of him, and so we listened to him like good little kids from then on. Even now, I still visit him occasionally and bring him some wine.” It was rare to see such an embarrassed smile on Mena’s face. The director must’ve been a great teacher.

At the threshold of the room that the Rossetti Trading Company called their office, Mena shifted the crate of parchment onto one hand and opened the door for Dahlia with the other. He followed behind her, placed the crate down, and pulled out her usual chair for her. Though Marcella was the one training to be a knight, Mena seemed to be the quicker and smoother chaperone.

“Oh, uh, thank you.”

“You needn’t thank me, chairwoman. Just smile and accept it.”

Then there was Dahlia, who was not used to having someone serve her like this and had suddenly become a mentee. She realized it was a serious shortcoming and vowed to study the etiquette book for thirty minutes every night before bed.

Marcella was sitting beside her and frantically scribbling down notes summarizing the day’s chivalry lessons at the Scalfarotto estate. It was no easy task—not only was he forbidden from taking memos on location, he was tested before leaving every day and had pop quizzes the next morning as well. The company had an unspoken rule that Marcella wasn’t to be disturbed until he put down his writing instrument.

Ivano raised his eyes from the account book in his hands. “Did you study noble etiquette somewhere, Mena?” He must’ve been impressed by the employee’s cleverness too.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I have studied it, but, erm, I have spent some time with a noblewoman before.”

“And she taught you?”

“No, I merely borrowed a few books on manners and escorting, and the rest is from experience. I did ask her to check that I was doing things correctly, though, so I suppose it would not be a stretch to say that I have been taught.” The fact that a few books and a few questions had gotten him so far spoke eloquently to his hard work. Mena, looking composed, began taking documents from the box and shelving them.

“Was she a free lover as well?”

“No, and neither was I at the time. We were not together for a long time either.” His expression did not change, but his voice became ever so slightly quieter. “That is the way it goes with nobles and commoners. That, and I’m an orphan too. Our worlds were simply far too different.”

A pang shot through Dahlia. There was no avoiding the chasm between the social classes. Even after being bestowed with her barony, she could never escape her base birth. Their worlds were indeed too different; that was something she had learned from the first day she’d set foot in the castle.

Dispelling the gloom was Marcella. “Don’t say that, Mena. It ain’t hopeless. World’s much smaller than you might think. Look how far you’ve gotten—you’re a part of the Rossetti Trading Company.” Mena agreed, and he turned around with the cheerful smile that was usually seen on his face.

“Oh, that’s right, Mena, you mentioned you know how to ride. How much time did it take you to learn?” Dahlia asked, changing the topic to something that had popped into her mind out of nowhere.

“It took me about two months while I was learning how to take care of the horses. Are you looking to try your hand at equestrianism, chairwoman?”

“It sounds like a fun sport to take up.” For someone who seemed athletic enough, it had apparently taken two months; how long would it take someone like herself, with zero athletic abilities?

“Vice-chairman, you know how to ride as well, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m very good at it, but I can manage myself on a docile rental in short bursts.”

Dahlia had known he could drive a carriage, but this was surprising news to her. “Did you learn through your job at the guild?”

“No, just so I could go out with the missus.”

“Chairwoman,” Mena began to explain, “commoners don’t go out of their way to learn how to ride horses if not for dates, you know?”

“On horseback, though?”

“Yes, it’s common to see people riding double to a local coaching inn for a day trip.” Just like how people went cruising in cars or motorcycles back in her previous life.

“What’s wrong with a carriage, anyway, Dahlia? If you really want to hop on a horse, you can always get Volf to give you a ride. But riding double sure sounds fun, don’t it?” Marcella added.

“I was hoping to be able to ride by myself as well.” Volf had offered to let her ride his family’s horses, but she really didn’t want to embarrass herself, and so she would rather get used to the animals before she took a few lessons—not that she was brave enough to tell Volf that. “Would, um, would you be able to teach me, Mena?”

“Erm, I have never had formal lessons either, so I wouldn’t be able to, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry for putting you on the spot like that. You’re right. I should probably find a proper coach...” Just because someone knew how to ride didn’t mean they knew how to teach; she shouldn’t have asked.

Though Dahlia couldn’t see it, Mena, beside her, mouthed, “I’d be in trouble,” to which Ivano nodded in agreement.

“Aaaaand that’s all of it. Guess I’ll go through it once more before I hit the hay.” Just as Marcella finally shut his notebook, there was a knock at the door. It was a little earlier than usual, but this was around when the guild delivered the daily mail.

Dahlia opened the door and found a clerk as white in complexion as the envelopes she had been expecting.

“Oh! Chairwoman Rossetti, Viscount Luini of the Tailors’ Guild is here to see you. May I show him in? It, um, seems to be urgent; in fact, he is already waiting in the hallway...” squeaked the clerk. There must’ve been some kind of problem with the insoles or toe socks or zephyricloth, Dahlia fretted. Everyone stood up as she ushered in the unannounced guest.

“Forgive me for visiting without any prior correspondence, Miss Dahlia, but I have a question I need to ask.”

“Yes, what might that be, Mr. Forto?” She could but tense up—Forto even declined a cup of tea after his very brief greeting, and the skeptical look in his eyes reminded her of a customer demanding to see the manager to air out grievances.

“I have heard that you introduced Lucia to someone from Earldom Goodwin.”

“I did?”

“So I heard correctly, then. May I ask what the earl’s man wanted from Lucia?”

Hold on a tick. She had been caught by surprise, and there had been a question mark at the end of her response—it hadn’t been an affirmative. She explained herself to her interrogator: “Sir Goodwin is a knight of the Order of Beast Hunters. We simply happened to come across him in front of a café.”

“A chance meeting, yet you were there for three hours?” Forto growled.

Dahlia understood that he had security on Lucia, but she would never have expected they would scrutinize her friend’s every action like that. “We were on the street when Lucia pointed out that Sir Goodwin’s clothes could use some improvement, and so she described what styles and colors would work better for him. Rather than be a hindrance to everyone passing by, we decided to head inside and chat over a cup of tea and some sweets.” That was nothing but the truth. Lucia had even written down her advice on a slip of paper for Randolph.

“I see. I hope you can forgive me, Miss Dahlia. I was worried that Lucia would be taken away by the Goodwins, you see.”

The Earldom Goodwin defended the kingdom’s border; Dahlia’s first thought was that that had little, if anything, to do with Lucia. But a territory at the frontier might want to deal garments to the neighboring country or even send Lucia across the border to work for them—Forto had the right to worry, especially because Lucia had activated her anti-eavesdropper at the café and so had likely left her guards wondering what the three were conversing about.

“I have no doubts that Lucia would refuse any offers to leave her current position, as she seems to really enjoy her work at the Magical Garment Factory,” Dahlia said.

“Is that right? That’s very reassuring to hear.” Fears assuaged, he finally smiled.

Lucia was the head manager of the Magical Garment Factory, and she was responsible for products—everything from the toe socks to the zephyricloth—that were hugely popular with every social class. Not only that, but the seamstress had also become more involved with fashion design and was even rumored to be Forto’s right hand. Any headhunters aiming for her would surely be firmly refused.

“I apologize for taking up so much of your precious time.” After giving a small update about next year’s zephyricloth, Forto bid them farewell.

The ordeal had drained Dahlia somewhat, and she needed a break. She decided to head down to the break area on the first floor of the guildhall and purchase treats for everyone—a well-deserved reward after such a tense day. Marcella offered to accompany her, but she asked him to brew some coffee instead and headed off alone.

“Was that the guildmaster of the Tailors’ guild just now? He is as handsome as they say. Are he and Ms. Lucia...” Mena omitted the end of his sentence.

“Yeah, seems like it,” Ivano said in return. Forto had likely been afraid that Dahlia had set up Lucia and Randolph, but the truth was that their encounter had been pure coincidence. Still, a busy guildmaster had taken time out of his day to hurry over for answers—he must have felt very attached to and protective of her.

“I believe the guildmaster is married already, but regardless, Ms. Lucia could very easily become his second wife.”

“Well, like you said earlier, a noble and a commoner.”

Marcella looked toward the other two speaking in hushed tones, his terra-cotta eyes filled with either pity or sympathy. “Hey, should we, y’know, say something to our chairwoman?” His question was met with poignant silence.

The Heated Low Table and the Salmon Hot Pot

In the workshop of the tower, Dahlia held in her hands a beautiful horn of pure white—one of the unicorn horns that Jean had given her. It was about twenty centimeters long, and though it felt much like ivory, it was much denser than that. The magic it emitted warmed her fingertips.

She had been practicing immediately before this, channeling magic into a crystal beaker of powdered ocean worm. “Simply flow your magic evenly for three minutes”? Pah! She had failed a dozen times yesterday, and it had been a chore to scrub out the beautiful blue sand with blobs of ooze every time. But today was different—in the two glasses that lay on her workbench was a uniformly goopy liquid with specks of gold throughout, and it was so beautiful, she wanted to use it to decorate the house. It hadn’t separated even when left alone for some time, so Dahlia felt safe considering it a success—she now felt comfortable enough to move on to the unicorn horn. She had heard that Jean’s wife was suffering from a bad case of morning sickness, so if possible, Dahlia wanted to have the necklace completed today.

Unicorn horns had a shallow spiral pattern and a slight curve to them, but, like the ones in the magically sealed box, all of them were slightly different—they ranged from white to ivory in color and their sheen might be gold or silver. Dahlia took a pure white one, which was in the best condition and measured a touch more than three centimeters wide at the base. With a magical toolmaking saw, she cut out a puck about a centimeter thick and finished it into an oval. As she carved a lily of the valley design onto the face, she recalled that Jean had said he had given his wife a bouquet of them when he proposed. That same flower was carved into the dresser Dahlia’s mother had left behind, and perhaps Carlo had given them to her as well when he’d proposed—everlasting and joyous love was the message behind the flowers.

“Not that it’s any of my business.” She shook her head as though those feelings would come tumbling out of her ears, and returned her focus to the engraving. Once the intaglio was done, she sprinkled on some polishing powder and carefully rubbed it in.

With the pure white pendant complete, she laid it on her palm and wrapped it with her ribbony, rainbow magic. Now that her magic had gone up to grade ten, Dahlia was finally able to enchant unicorn horn. She was enchanting it with hardening in hopes of making it virtually indestructible, but perhaps that was overkill—unicorn horn was a very hard material to begin with.

Afterward, Dahlia attached the pendant and a small, sparkling sunstone to a metal ring. She had gone to a jeweler to look for one that was closest in color to Jean’s tawny eyes, and, perhaps because of the very troubled look on Dahlia’s face, the employee there had asked her whether she was looking for something for her own engagement—a suggestion Dahlia had vehemently denied. Fortunately, there had been a beautiful sunstone close to the shade she wanted, but from now on, she would avoid setting foot in that store. Dahlia threaded a thin gold chain through the pendant and sunstone and gently tucked it inside a box. The pure white and the orange reflecting in the light were rather beautiful to behold.

Though the necklace had now been completed, Dahlia found herself with magic and time to spare. All her tools were on the table anyway, so she brought out the unicorn horn she had received from Ireneo; this example was pure white with a slight golden sheen. Two-thirds had been used for Irma’s bracelet, and the remaining segment could be fashioned into another necklace, but this time it would be for Dahlia herself; the increased paperwork as of late had made her shoulders stiff. She cut off a puck from the base and threaded a long silver chain through it.

“Pain relief... What about a cragsnake fang?” She retrieved a gray tooth from a magically sealed box and held it in her hand—like static electricity, the unique magic bit her finger from time to time. Cragsnake fangs had the property of numbing pain for a certain length of time, and Beast Hunters took powdered cragsnake heart prior to engaging in battles. Dahlia reckoned the fangs could be used as surgical anesthetics, but the power of healing magic and potions meant that its uses in daily life were limited. It seemed like it would be good for lesser ailments that didn’t require healing magic, like headaches or stomachaches, but medicine would be a better idea, to say nothing of its cost-effectiveness.

Yet, although it was fairly pricey, the Order of Beast Hunters had readily bestowed the cragsnake fang upon her. As she’d struggled to come up with something she could give back to the knights, Volf, with a blank gaze, had explained that “a cragsnake blocked their path during their travels and Vice-Captain Griswald single-handedly slew it.” So long as humans like the Beast Hunters and Mr. and Mrs. Tasso existed, a monster’s life was difficult.

“Well, it’s better to be safe than sorry...” Now that she worked solo as a magical toolmaker, the danger of injury hung above her head. There was the chance that the pain could debilitate and prevent her from downing a potion or racing to the temple in a carriage, so warding herself with the cragsnake fang would give her many more options. Dahlia decided to make her necklace double-sided, so that the horn’s effect would be passive but the fang would activate only in an emergency.

The gray tooth was even harder than the unicorn horn; a saw wouldn’t cut it, and Dahlia used magic to shape it. She didn’t attach the two materials, hanging them together instead. Fortunately, their magics did not clash. With the cragsnake fang on the outside and the unicorn horn on the inside, it made for a peculiar necklace.

One thing that she did have to think about was how to decorate the outer surface. The obvious choice was to etch a dahlia, but she wasn’t very excited by that idea. When she had chatted in the past with Irma about how nobility from the rank of viscount and above had coats of arms, Irma had insisted that Dahlia’s would be a slime—also something she did not want to use.

In the end, she decided on a guard dog as a symbol of protection. Specifically, she engraved the silhouette of a nightdog on the cragsnake fang. It wasn’t particularly feminine, but it looked pretty cool, if she did say so herself; it shouldn’t pose any problems either, as she planned on mounting it on a long chain and tucking it.

As she was adjusting the length of the chain, the gate bell rang. Waiting outside was a delivery carriage; the clothes from her shopping trip with Lucia had arrived. Although she’d purchased only a handful of pieces, it had been the most money Dahlia had ever spent on winter clothes. Included with this delivery was the mahogany coat that her former classmate had recommended for her. She brought all her new clothes up to the third floor and hung them in her closet. She also meant to put her new shoes on the rack by the entrance, though when she took them out of the thick card stock, she couldn’t help trying them on.

After having tea with Randolph that day, Dahlia had stopped in her tracks in front of a shop window. On display were these high heels, the same color as her hair and with ribbons affixed to the backs—a rare style in this world. Dahlia had never thought she would wear red shoes, but she had been simply entranced by just how precious these pumps were, and she’d dispelled her concerns that they may have been too tall or that she didn’t have any clothes to match the red. After all, it was she herself who had told Randolph that one should embrace the things that one liked, and so Dahlia had impulse bought a pair of shoes for the first time.

The shoes, now in her hands, reaffirmed her love for their design. But as she caressed the soft leather while looking at the heels again, her brows knitted—this would be her first time wearing seven-centimeter heels in this life. Even though Lucia had no problem in ten-centimeter heels, these were very tall for Dahlia. She understood that comfortably walking around in stilettos was a matter of practice and that she needed to get used to them, or else she’d get terrible blisters on her feet. That would be just unfortunate, since she liked these shoes so much, so she decided she may as well get started today.

“Whoa...” When she stood up, it was apparent that her sight line had changed; she could now barely reach the top of the shelf without a step stool. Who knows? This might even be quite handy. Dahlia slowly took a few steps, but as the shoe store had fitted the heels to her feet, they were easy and painless to walk in. However, there were five flights of stairs to the first floor, and she went down gingerly—she still needed more practice. As she was about to change back into her regular shoes, the doorbell rang this time, so she opened the door. “Volf?”

“Sorry for dropping in on you. We came home from the expedition a day early, so I thought I might give this to you now.” In his hands was a bag filled with ice, buried inside of which was a chunk of meat.

“Is this meat?”

“Yeah, it’s longicollis thigh. It’s a little tough, but it’s got good flavor to it. You could roast it or turn it into soup—” Volf curiously eyed Dahlia. “Hm? Dahlia?”

As different as she was to him, he looked different from her perspective as well. Volf was rather tall, but right now, Dahlia didn’t need to crane her neck as much to make eye contact with him. “Oh, um, I bought new shoes and I was trying them out. They’re a little taller than what I usually wear.” Dahlia then walked to the stool where she’d left her usual shoes; she made sure to walk as perfectly as she could, though she didn’t want him to notice how hard she was trying.

“They’re gorgeous. The red fits you perfectly.”

Dahlia had to fight her anxiety to keep from asking him if they weren’t too flashy for her. She had bought them because she liked them, and she ought to let herself be happy when he complimented her. “Thank you!” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

“How was your expedition?”

“Our target was a longicollis this time; we only took a day, and only half of that time was spent breaking it down.” The cut of longicollis thigh was large, and with the additional weight of the ice, it made for quite the hefty package, so Volf brought it up to the second floor for her.

“Shall I cook it for us tonight?”

“I had a lot on the trip, actually. It’s tasty, so I wanted you to enjoy it too. And in a sense, you slew it.”

“I did?” Dahlia figured Volf must’ve used the sköll bracelet to jump into the air and take it down.

He proved her assumption wrong. “I lent the Galeforce Blades to one of the younger knights with air magic, and he took it down in one shot. We went home without a single scratch on any of us.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad to hear that.”

“Yeah, and we talked about whether we could get another set of Galeforce Blades made or even make another version using arrows.” Volf then proceeded to recount the day he’d had.

Dahlia felt a little bad for the longicollis, but the shortswords had kept the knights safe, and that was most important. “I wouldn’t mind crafting another pair, but I think we ought to start with better shortswords for more effectiveness. If we do arrows instead, maybe a thicker mythril wire would be better.”

“Good thinking. Oh, and I’m also hoping that I can keep them with me.”

“Of course; they’re yours to begin with, Volf.”

“Thank you.”

Dahlia felt it was almost strange that he was thanking her. She looked up at him and saw the delight in his golden eyes. Even though it could do little but produce a trickle of water and keep itself sharp, Volf had treasured the Lamenting Blade and brought it home with him. He must’ve wanted to keep the Galeforce Blades in his collection as well.

“After I draft the specification documents for the shortswords, could you have a magical toolmaker or a mage with lots of magic see if they could come up with any improvements? They might be able to make them even more powerful for you,” Dahlia said. “By the way, what materials are the castle’s titanbows made of?”

“I’ve been told they’re made of wyvern bone, and the bowstrings are made of baphomet and bicorn hair.”

“In that case, I don’t think I have enough magic to do the enchantment. Also, it might be bad if anyone finds out that I was the one who crafted the magical swords...” Dahlia recalled what Ivano had said to her before, and Volf agreed.

“I’m planning to talk to my brother about that as well, though that would mean he and Master Jonas will know about it. Would that be all right with you?”

“Yes, that would be fine.” Guido cherished his little brother, and Jonas was their friend and retainer, so there shouldn’t have been any problem.

“If the Order could slay monsters at a distance with titanbows, we Scarlet Armors might just be out of a job.”

“But you’d be safe.” Though the Beast Hunters never seemed to have any trouble during their expeditions, Dahlia felt a little guilty that she was delighted by the idea of the Scarlet Armors becoming obsolete. “I assumed that you use ranged attacks and magic on your hunts, though?”

“It’s not like we don’t, but monsters tend to have high magic resistance. Besides, long-range and wide-area magic attacks are something only elite mages can cast. Strong air or water magic has a chance of destroying fields and crops, while fire magic might burn down forests and grassland, so we’re careful about when and where we deploy mages.”

“I’ve also heard that people with a lot of magic have a hard time controlling their output.”

In college, there had been a time when someone with powerful fire magic had tried to roast sweet potatoes but instead had completely carbonized them. Someone who was adept with ice magic had tried to chill some fruit juice in the summer but had encased the whole glass in ice, leaving Dahlia a little jealous. Lately, Marcella had been trying to create bricks, but all he could make were huge balls of stone—which might actually have made for a modern, red-brick-colored pickling weight. The greater one’s magic, the harder it was to control.

“It’s gotten a little chilly lately,” Volf commented.

“It’s almost November, after all.” She had the windows open to get some fresh air in, but the evening breeze was a little icy. Though it felt like summer had come early, winter seemed to be ahead of schedule as well. “Do you have any plans today, Volf?”

“No, I was just going to go home and rest.”

“I hate to be a bother, but could you help me with a bit of manual labor? I’ve been tinkering with a magical heating apparatus and it’s a little heavy for me to bring upstairs.”

“Of course. What kind of thing did you come up with?”

“Erm, it’s a heater that paralyzes you once you sit down.”

“Dahlia! What are you thinking, making something so treacherous?!” Volf was dead serious about halting her.

“It’s nothing dangerous! It’s just a low table with a fire and an air crystal.”

“Like a griddle? Or does it spit flames?”

That went beyond just heating—that would have been cooking. And why would he imagine that she had created something as unsettling as a flamethrower? She had already grown beyond the dryer. “Griddles aren’t tables, and anyway, those belong in professional kitchens. What I’ve made is something you can sit down in and warm up with.”

“It won’t spew fire?”

“No, it will not spew fire! Why would I want to scorch my legs or burn the house down?!”

“Oh. Right. Just kidding,” he answered as he averted his gaze.

Dahlia couldn’t believe she even had to convince him of this. But whatever—she got him to move the table from the workshop to the second floor.

“Could you help me move these?” In the corner of the workshop was a square wooden table with a removable top. The tabletop was rather thick and heavy, and Dahlia didn’t have the confidence that she could bring it upstairs without banging it against the walls.

“Sure thing. The second floor, right?” Volf grabbed both pieces together and trotted up the stairs, effortlessly as always. She watched him from behind for a moment but hurried up the stairs too when she caught herself staring.

On the second floor, Dahlia had Volf set down the table and its top to the side of the room, then move the loveseat all the way against the wall. The coffee table and armchair that had been in the living room went to the fourth-floor study. Meanwhile, Dahlia laid down a pair of large, fluffy sheepskin rugs; that should be more comfortable than the cold, bare floor. When Volf returned, she had him place the low table on the rugs; then she flipped on the switch at one of its feet.

Running on the inside of the table was magical circuitry, and depending on the setting of the connected pair of fire and air crystals, it could blow out hot or warm air—the same mechanism as the dryer. After Dahlia made sure that it was operating properly, she spread two thick duvets over the low table and sandwiched them with the tabletop. Volf looked at the finished product in astonishment.

“This is called the heated low table. It should really have a square blanket instead, but I couldn’t get one in time,” Dahlia explained. “Is it a little strange?”

“No, but I’m curious—I’ve never seen a heater that you use by sitting inside it.”

It looked a little sloppy, as it had comforters instead of a blanket, but it was close enough to the kotatsu of Japan. In fact, hers might have been even better: since it used magic crystals instead of electricity, it was cordless.

“I could make a tall version with chairs as well, but I thought it might be a little cozier like this. Why don’t you give it a shot? Take off your shoes, sit on the rug, and stick your legs in.” She handed him a wide but thin cushion.

He did as she instructed and sat across from her. “The low table might warm you up quicker, since you can stretch your legs out like this, but, I dunno, it could be a little hotter? You said it paralyzes you once you sit down; is it because your legs go numb?”

“Why don’t you relax for a while longer, then tell me what you think?”

In Ordine, fireplaces and space heaters powered by fire crystals were common, and they were much hotter than Dahlia’s creation. However, the heated low table’s circuitry was designed to reject magic when it reached a certain temperature to prevent low-temperature burns. Furthermore, it was designed to turn off after four hours of continuous use. As for the paralyzing powers of the heated low table, they would show themselves after Volf had spent some time inside.

“I want to give it an extended test run, so would you like to join me for dinner, Volf? It’ll just be a salmon hot pot.”

“Thanks. I’m always imposing on you, but today, I really did mean to just hand you the longicollis and then go home.”

“You already helped me out with setting up the heated low table, and I’d like to ask you to write a report afterward too.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

Reminded of the reports on the toe socks and insoles, Dahlia giggled to herself. “I don’t need five pages of parchment this time, though.” Volf joined her in the giggling.

The two of them moved to the kitchen, where they boiled two pots of water and seasoned the sliced salmon with some salt. The salmon in Ordine had quite a strong flavor and, more often than not, was somewhat fishy, so it was necessary to prep it with a thorough salting and scalding. Meanwhile, Volf, showing his experience, deftly cut the napa cabbage, mushrooms, leek, and other vegetables into bite-size pieces.

Once the salmon had been scalded with boiling water, Dahlia brought another pot of water to simmer. The hot pot was only one half of the meal; the other half was the medium-dry estervino. She lowered the tipple, which had been decanted in a spouted porcelain serving bowl, into the hot water.

Volf looked on, mesmerized. “Oh, you’re heating the estervino. What was that called again? ‘Caldo’?” It was a bit of a departure from their usual chilled estervino, after all.

“That’s right. I thought it’d be nice to have it warm, since it’s such a brisk autumn night.” She was hoping a tepid forty degrees would make the estervino a good match for the food, but there was only one way to find out for sure.

With the hot pot and the tin cups ready, Dahlia brought everything to the heated low table in the living room. The steaming salmon and vegetables went on the compact magical stove at the center of the table, accompanied by mustard-dressed steamed chicken she already had on hand and some quick pickles.

The only thing left to do was to fill the tin cups from the porcelain bowl. “Some estervino?” Dahlia asked.

“Please.” The liquid pouring from the spouted bowl into the silvery cups looked as though it had a slight viscosity to it. Just as she was about to pour her own, Volf, like it was the obvious thing to do, gently took the serving bowl from her hands and filled her cup. Though they did the same with wine instead of estervino, there was something about this ritual that made her tense up ever so slightly.

“To our successful expedition—and to the future success of the heated low table. Cheers.”

“Um, to the hot pot turning out okay. Cheers.” Dahlia threw a bit of a curveball, but neither of them paid it any mind and simply brought their vessels to their lips. The slightly cloudy estervino neither warmed nor chilled the tongue; instead, its flavor burst forth onto the palate. Billed as medium-dry, it was closer to the former than it was to the latter. It went down smoothly, and the ricey sweetness delighted the olfactory senses as the estervino heat warmed up her body from the core. The aftertaste begged Dahlia to take another sip.

“You can really taste it when it’s warmed up...” Volf said with a sigh, staring at his emptied cup.

As she poured him more estervino, she had him start on the deep bowl she’d filled for him from the salmon hot pot. “It should have enough salt, but feel free to add grated ginger or chilies as you like.” Dahlia would have loved to add some miso, but the fermented soybean paste was nowhere to be found in the capital; she had to make do with salt and a pat of butter. If the flavor wasn’t quite right or if the fish was still a little funky, there were at least the ginger and chilies to make up for it.

“All right, I’ll dig in, then.” Volf took his pair of chopsticks—utensils which he now had a great grasp on—and started with a piece of salmon. It must’ve been hotter than he’d expected, as he huffed and puffed before slowly relishing the morsel.

The fish should’ve been simmered to tender perfection; Dahlia wanted to tell him he didn’t need to give it such a thorough chewing. But he seemed to be savoring it, so she decided to let him be. After ladling some of the hot pot into her own bowl, she started with the salmon, and it flaked apart on her tongue and left no fishiness behind. She was glad she had pulled out all the pin bones, as now she could just focus on her food without any fuss. Dahlia tasted the mushrooms and napa too; the vegetables had soaked up all the savoriness from the salmon. She finished with the broth, and its richness and complexity made her wonder if she hadn’t accidentally saved the best for last.

On the other side of the table, Volf narrowed his eyes, looking almost sorrowful. “Where did this flavor come from?” he said to his emptied bowl in a contemplative tone.

“Is something the matter, Volf?”

“It’s just that they’re all ingredients I’m familiar with, but when put together like this, they’re inexplicably delicious. Was there some kind of secret or trick to the hot pot?”

“None at all. I mean, you were right there beside me as I prepared it, weren’t you? It’s as simple as can be—everything simmered together in a pot. There was nothing special about the seasoning either.”

“I don’t get it...”

There was nothing to get, so Dahlia helped Volf to an extra large serving, and the two made warm conversation as they ate.

As they finished the hot pot, the serving bowl and cups were emptied as well. “I’ll go prepare more caldo,” Dahlia said. “You must be tired from your expedition; feel free to lie down.”

“I know it’s not very polite, but I think I’ll do that.” Volf took Dahlia up on her offer and splayed out. The expedition yesterday, this afternoon’s drinking, and tonight’s hot pot and caldo made the heated low table and fluffy sheepskin rugs perfectly cozy in this slightly cool room. His eyelids were so heavy, he couldn’t keep them up.

When Dahlia returned with a new serving of caldo, the black-haired youth had already curled up into a ball and closed his eyes. He had even folded up the thin cushion into a makeshift pillow and pulled the duvet up to his collar. She could but smile to herself—with no instruction from her, he had already figured out how to fully enjoy her invention.

White Horse, Black Horse

It was halfway through autumn, and the blue skies loomed high overhead—as did the horses before the two friends. In the yard of the Scalfarotto family estate, Volf was calming a beautiful horse with a fine white coat and mane—seemingly straight out of a fairy tale. However, the creature kept sighing and stealing sidelong glances at Dahlia with its blue eyes.

“Erm, take your time, Dahlia. If the mounting block isn’t quite tall enough, I can bring you another one.” Volf’s kindness cut her deep. Even with his assistance, the horse was too tall for Dahlia to get on. Or more accurately, she either couldn’t get her foot in the stirrup or, when she did, failed to lift herself into the saddle. Whereas Volf could hop on no problem without the platform, Dahlia’s balance was terrible, and she had slipped off three times already. “Ah, Grecale’s just too tall. Let me find a mounting block that’ll work for you.”

“Thanks...”

Grecale was the name of this white horse, and it was said to be the most intelligent in the stable. All the same, it was Dahlia’s first time riding, so naturally, she had little idea what she was doing; Volf’s instruction and assistance only helped so much. It was difficult to get on the horse, but it might have worked if Volf had gotten on first and pulled her up, or perhaps even if he had given her waist a little lift from below. Of course, he hadn’t dared to lay his hands on her, and so he was off to find a taller mounting block. After Volf turned his back, the white horse let out another long sigh. It was tied to a post in front of the stable and had been wondering for a while if the two humans were going to get on or not, and perhaps it was fed up with waiting.

Today, Dahlia was wearing a burnt umber jacket and vest, white jodhpurs, boots, and leather gloves. She had been told that the soft outfit was something they had lying around the villa, but the clothes were surely brand new. They also fit her perfectly—too perfectly, especially the trousers. Her debts kept piling up, and Dahlia, standing beside the horse, sighed too.

“Do you think this is tall enough for you?” Volf came back not with a mounting block but a three-level step stool. It was definitely tall enough, but the question that remained was whether she could stay in the saddle after getting on.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now that I think about it, though, we won’t have a platform like that with us.”

Volf paused for a moment. “Well, I can help you on and off,” he said as he unfolded the step stool.

Dahlia felt bad; her lack of athleticism must’ve had him wondering how to respond. Still, if she required his help, then that would mean she wouldn’t be able to go horseback riding without him. She needed to work out, make a portable mounting block, or figure out some kind of magical tool to help her. The horse turned to her as she was lost in her thoughts. “Ow!” Some of her hair was now floating in the breeze.

“Dahlia!”

“I-I’m fine! It’s just a few strands of hair.” She was honestly a little worried about her scalp—in truth, what the horse had bitten off was more like a whole clump. Dahlia looked up with teary eyes at the culprit, who was now munching on her hair. It couldn’t have been tasty, but perhaps the red had reminded it of carrots. She just hoped it wouldn’t be harmful to the horse.

“Grecale! How dare you hurt Dahlia?!” Volf scolded the animal and activated intimidation, and Dahlia immediately turned away from him. Marcella had taught her that the effects of intimidation were stronger when one was facing toward its user, and sure enough, the freeze wasn’t nearly as bad as last time and Dahlia could even move. Grecale likely understood it was in trouble; it drooped its head, shaking. The other horses in the stable had turned silent.

“Volf, that’s enough! The other horses are getting scared too!”

“Sorry.”

Dahlia looked at Grecale again, and its blue eyes were now teary—the opposite of earlier. “Since I couldn’t get on properly, it must’ve been frustrated and wanted your attention. It was just a little bit of mischief, that’s all.”

“I’m the one who should feel sorry—for our horse’s behavior. They said Grecale is the easiest to ride, but if it has a mean streak, maybe we’re better off choosing another.” Volf looked toward the stable, but the other horses looked away, likely still shaken up.

However, from the farthest stall, a black horse poked its head out. It was two sizes larger than all the others; its mane was long, gray, and tightly curled; and its thick, sturdy legs were also gray below the knees. It stared back at the two of them with its sharp, black eyes. There was something special about this horse; it definitely felt a lot stronger.

“Selene?” The black horse lay down, not unlike a dog.

“That one is called Selene?”

“Yeah. They said she’s not the best one to ride, likely because of her size, but it looks like she’s volunteering. Let me go get her.” He walked over to Selene’s stall and brought her out. Now diagonally in front of Dahlia, Volf pressed both hands on the horse’s neck and looked deep into her black eyes. “Selene, be nice to Dahlia, okay?”

As though answering him, Selene whinnied, then lay down again and even lowered her head to the ground, allowing Volf to easily put on a double seat saddle. “This should make things easier for you too, Dahlia,” he said.

“Will it really be all right if I get on like this?” Selene was still on the ground; Dahlia assumed the normal thing was to mount an upright horse.

“Maybe it’s not proper, but it’ll do until you get the hang of horseback riding.”

“It won’t be too much strain on Selene?”

“Selene’s bigger than the others, so I’m sure she’s more than strong enough. We tamed her on the plains, and we believe she’s a mix of regular horse and green horse.”

The green horse was a monster that used its air magic to propel itself to nearly flying speeds, and Selene’s build and features definitely suggested that she had monster blood flowing through her veins. And upon closer inspection, her black coat had a beautiful green sheen to it too.

“Wild horses tend to be hard to break, but Selene seems to be docile,” Volf said as he caressed the horse’s neck. Selene was indeed very well behaved; she remained still on the ground.

“I’m counting on you today.” After Selene responded with a soft neigh, Dahlia mounted the horse. All she did was sit on the saddle; Volf helped put her feet through the stirrups.

Then, Selene, taking good care of her rider, rose as slowly as possible. There was a little bit of wobbling in the process, but Dahlia felt perfectly confident and appreciative of how considerate the horse was being. Volf, perhaps using the sköll bracelet or his own strength, practically floated up into the saddle.

“I didn’t think I’d be this high up. I’d say it’s a nice view, but...” For fear of disturbing her balance, Dahlia remained facing forward. For some reason, though, she could sense Volf responding with a smile.

He reached around her waist and grabbed hold of the reins. “I’ve got you; you won’t fall off. Now, let’s get Selene walking. Here’s how you hold the reins—” Volf’s voice was much closer to her ears than she had expected.

Though the autumn air was biting, Dahlia felt an incredible warmth at her back. Thus began her heart-racing horseback riding experience.

“Thank you so much for today, Selene,” Dahlia said to the black horse after her lengthy ride. She placed a brown sugar cube on her palm and held it out for Selene to see—a reward for working so hard, as Volf had said. The horse extended her muzzle and took the treat ever so gently into her mouth, her tongue tickling Dahlia’s palm.

As he watched her gray mane flutter in the breeze, Volf said, “Go ahead, you can pet Selene.”

Dahlia very much did want to, but she hadn’t known it was written all over her face. “Only if she’ll like it.”

“Yeah, you can stroke her neck. She might get a little nervous if you get too close to her eyes, though. Call out to Selene first so you don’t surprise her.”

“Uh, here I come, Selene.” Dahlia started by brushing Selene’s mane, and though the black horse tensed up her neck for a moment, she calmly let Dahlia continue. Selene’s curls were on the long side, but they were surprisingly soft. Seeing her narrow her eyes in apparent bliss, Dahlia couldn’t stop delicately caressing the horse’s mane. “Selene is so smart and gentle. What a good horse.”

“Thank you. I’ll let the trainer know.”

Though Dahlia had been a little unsure at first, her first horseback riding experience had been a good one, all thanks to a clever horse and Volf’s guidance. Feeling that relief—and a bit of naughtiness—she said, “Thank you very much for today’s lesson, Mr. Scalfarotto.”

“Erm, keep up the good work? Aw, knock it off, Dahlia; you’re getting me all flustered...”

Dahlia burst out laughing at Volf’s very brief attempt at playing the role of her instructor. Selene looked the other way and neighed.

That evening, after Volf had taken Dahlia home to the Green Tower, he visited the stable again to lavish Selene with praise, pets, thanks, and a good brushing. Volf looked the black horse in the eyes. “It’s not easy teaching others how to ride. I’ve been riding since I was a kid, and I’ve never done any one-on-one instruction with my squad either. I’m not much good at it, I know. Even with a horse as good as you, Selene, Dahlia’s still a little insecure, so we’ve got to do our best to keep her safe...”

What had started off as a monologue about horseback riding had become all about Dahlia. Still, the black horse lent her ears as she gnawed on a pear.

“The key to putting her more at ease will be to keep riding together, even if it does make my heart race—don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean anything by that. It’s just that I have to be careful and safe for her as her instructor.”

With perfect timing, Selene shook her head.

“Sorry for talking your ears off.”

The curtain of night had fallen without Volf realizing it, and he cut their talk short. His audience was a horse, after all—she probably had grown tired of the attention and the unintelligible rambling of a human.

“Thanks for today, Selene. Rest well tonight.”

As he began to leave, Selene quietly whinnied, lowered her head, and pushed her muzzle against Volf’s back between his shoulder blades. He turned around to find those deep, dark brown eyes looking the tiniest bit lonely.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you to the castle tomorrow.”

The black horse stiffened before heaving a longish sigh.

Until today, Selene had been known as a bit of a bronc, but she now had a reputation for being intelligent and considerate. Volf discovered a new fondness for her too, and he soon began riding the black horse to and from the Green Tower.

As an aside, Selene’s lineage had a large percentage of green horse in it; she had been dispirited ever since being captured and stabled in the absence of a lead stallion. That was why she had been uncooperative, despite understanding her trainers and riders well. When she had felt Volf’s intimidation and gauged his strength, she had realized he was her true master, after which she finally became obedient in this environment, this herd.

For his part, Volf had misunderstood one thing about Selene. She was not lonely—she was merely giving her master a physical push toward that metaphorical first step.

“Such power...” mumbled one of the spectating bow knights. Then came the applause and cheering from the others.

Through her binoculars, Dahlia finally noticed something odd: the log and its metallic plate slowly slid rightward. Whether the arrows continued flying or landed immediately behind the target was a mystery, however.

“We’d be able to take care of a forest serpent in an instant!” Volf said.

Grato did not answer with the same excitement. “If anything, we ought to learn how far the arrows go after striking the monster. If we’re not prudent about what’s beyond our target, you boys might just get split in half too.” The captain did have a very good point; it wasn’t as though the arrows had brakes. “Another problem might perhaps be that monsters would learn its distinctive noise.”

“That might be helpful if we want to scare them off, but it will definitely be a hindrance if we are out to cull.” Monsters that settled too close to civilization had to be eradicated, and it might be disastrous if they scattered as soon as they heard the whistling.

“I have heard that blades tend to slip off a kraken’s soft flesh, so perhaps if the Galeforce Titanbow were made stronger and its arrows’ mythril thread made longer, it would be more effective in that use case as well,” Jonas said.

“Honestly, the limiting factor is the user. Even with strengthening magic, I was barely able to draw the bow,” the knight who had tested the bow put in with a grimace.

Kirk turned to him and smiled. “Shot as it is and with a bit more practice on my end, I think we can give it some more air magic!”

“You think you can make it even more powerful, Kirk? Hm, if we put on some more muscle and get our strengthening spell stronger, it might just work—let’s make it work!”

“Slaying a kraken with a magical bow—how romantic!” Volf exclaimed.

“Finally, the era of the bow knight has dawned!”

“The Galeforce Titanbow could still use some improvement. I shall do some research on magical tools that can amplify air magic. I hope to count on your help with future development—”

The bow knights cut off Jonas in their rowdiness. “We should be the ones thanking you!” Apparently, magical bows were just as full of romance as magical swords, and Volf was silently nodding in empathy.

“With this much power at this distance, the Scarlet Armors might be able to make fewer appearances on the field,” said the captain.

“Perhaps one day, we Beast Hunters will all be able to wear armor of the same color,” replied the vice-captain. This time, it was Dahlia who silently nodded to herself. The day that Volf—and all of his comrades in arms—no longer had to don the scarlet armor could not come soon enough.

“Ah, Rossetti, Jonas, if you are free, join us next week for our field training. It will be a day trip by carriage to a reservoir along the western highway. Just a quick inspection, but I’m hoping to test out the portable warm air circulator and how the Galeforce Titanbow handles in the woods.”

“I would love to go. It would be great to see how the portable circulator works in the field as well.”

“I would be delighted to attend.”

“Much appreciated, you two. The location we’re inspecting is a rocky stretch in the hills upstream, and so there are likely to be many armored crabs around. We can take their shells back as material and use up everything else on location.”

Grato seemed to be saying more, but Dahlia was scratching her head. Keep the armored crab shells but use up everything else? Does he mean...

“Fresh armored crab? We’ve got to grill them!”

“Armored crab hot pot sure sounds good.”

“Ooh, can we grill up the tomalley too?”

The knights’ smiles and words just did not seem appropriate for an expedition involving monsters. Griswald laughed dryly and explained, “A celebration for the rookies upon reaching half a year with the squad. We usually hold it in the castle with plenty of liquor, but we shall be having armored crab by the water this year. Part of the field training too, of course.”

“Lucky. In our year, we had ours in the conference room with little more than red wine and cheese.”

“It was good stuff, but I didn’t know anything about wine at the time. All I could think was how bitter it was...”

“By winter, I had a little less than fifty percent of the rookies I started with. There was a lot of wine left over.”

Their reminiscing about their rookie years failed to bring a smile to the faces of the other knights, and Grato cleared his throat to dispel the gloom. “Virtually every rookie stayed with us this year, and there has even been word of other knights wanting to transfer over to our squad. Might just have to order more camp stoves.”

“Thank you very much.” Dahlia didn’t know how else to respond.

The captain of the Order of the Beast Hunters chuckled. “Putting someone through hard work and getting good results merits treating them to a good meal, you see.”

“It’s the dragon’s day off today,” he quipped back from within the heated low table.

Guido at last somehow managed to contain his laughter and said, “You deserve it, all right. Glad to see you’re reveling in it too.”

“I have been blessed to receive such a wonderful gift,” he answered, totally genuine, as his master regained his posture.

Still, a nasty smirk remained on Guido’s face. “You have Madam Rossetti to thank.”

“Truly. Have you had the chance to try it out for yourself, Lord Guido?”

“Yeah, I love how warm my legs feel when they’re inside the table. Mother and father seem to like it very much as well—recently, they’ve even ordered more for the help. I think the villa and the homes in the territories will get some too so that everyone can stay warm.”

This winter, the Rossetti Trading Company was neck deep in manufacturing heated low tables. Well, it was indisputably a good thing that business was booming, but Jonas prayed that its employees would be able to weather the season.

Including the one that Jonas was inside, the Scalfarotto estate had received a handful of them. Guido had had Jonas move one of the six-person tables, which had a white tabletop, but Jonas was curious as to where Guido had set it up in the end. “Where have you placed your table, Lord Guido?”

“In our bedroom. You know, putting my head on my wife’s lap while I’m basking in the warmth of the table might just be the greatest thing.”

“Ugh.”

Guido’s smug grin only turned smugger. “Jonas, was that some sort of scoff I heard?”

“Just your ears playing tricks on you, sir.”

“Is that right? In any case, you should find yourself a wife and give it a try before too long,” snarked Guido. Jonas had no such plan. It was true that he was basking in his table, but apparently his master’s was superior. “By the way, I want to ask you for a favor.”

“What may that be?”

“If anything happens to me, I’d like for you and Volf to be by my daughter’s side until she becomes an adult.”

Jonas perked up—his upper torso did, at least. “That is quite the large favor to ask of your attendant.”

“With you, Jonas, I know I’ll have nothing to worry about. You know everything in our household so well, and besides, you were with me for my lessons when I was preparing to take over as head of the family one day—we practically studied together. Of course, I’m more than happy to put the deal down in writing.”

The way Guido made it sound so easy really irked Jonas. “Yeah, right, as if anyone would grant you such a pain-in-the-ass favor.”

“So cold of you. Are you truly going to leave me so utterly helpless?”

“You’d best bet. Anyway, if any problem were to befall you, I’d be there to solve it.”

“That’s very troublesome. Have you thought about what would happen if I were to suddenly get very sick and—”

“You sure are dogged. If you’re so worried about your health, then lay off the liquor and the greasy food, and don’t stay up so late working.”

“All right, now you’re asking for the impossible.”

Guido shouldn’t have had any health issues; the only reasons for concern were the fact that he fastened his belt at the outermost holes now and the fact that he didn’t get enough sleep. Maybe he feels ill or the physician said something—now Jonas was worried. “Guido, why did you bring this up all of a sudden? Did something happen?”

“So, earlier, my daughter found two strands of gray hair on me, right? And then she pleaded, ‘Please live for a long time, father.’”

“Get the fuck outta my room,” Jonas said, ending the conversation as he once again flattened himself on the floor in a relaxed position and buried himself to his shoulders in the heated low table. Graying prematurely hardly deserved this precious emotional investment, and Jonas wished Guido would stop looking like he was in such anguish. Besides, how would anyone have been able to spot the gray hairs in his full head of steel blue?

“Get a load of this jerk! Here I thought I could come to my best friend for help.”

“You want advice? Fine. Just insist that it’s silver, not gray. Or you could pluck them out or dye them. And you have a wife to go to for help, don’t you? Don’t make me waste my valuable day off.” He averted his eyes from Guido and instead cracked open and resumed poring over the book at the top of the stack—a travel book on the top sights in Ehrlichia. As Jonas read about the sleipnir ranch, he enjoyed the dry estervino with his sippy straw.

His self-proclaimed best friend shot him a glare. “More grays grow when you pluck them! And it’s not exactly easy to bring up to my wife.”

Guido, nicknamed the Marquis of Ice—although still the eldest son of an earl—had been so deeply shaken by a few of his daughter’s words and so perturbed about his appearance in front of his wife. He had always had a soft spot for family, but it seemed to have gotten worse as of late, and that included how he treated Volf. Furthermore, ever since reconciling with his brother, Guido seemed to have thawed and become more cheerful. He had always spoiled his daughter, but now his affections included his little brother too—which wasn’t all that surprising, knowing how Guido had been when he was a boy. The way he doted on Volf and Volf’s new friend was somewhat sickening, but, well, those were merely displays of his extensive network and skills. And as Guido so merrily endeavored to help his brother behind the scenes, he had gotten Dahlia’s company involved in all sorts of things—and vice versa. Jonas was able to relax in his heated low table, so he supposed that showed how little he knew about relationships. Regardless, the gratitude he felt unto Dahlia was genuine.

“Then dye it. There are professionals who can help.”

“I bet the Rossetti Trading Company has connections who know something about good dyes.”

“Last I heard, she was a magical toolmaker—” Jonas was about to stop Guido’s train of thought, but it wasn’t a completely misguided notion. “Oh, what about Ivano?”

“Great idea! I’ll hit him up and see what he has to say.”

Ivano was a crafty merchant, but surely this was beyond his ken. That being said, he and Guido could certainly discuss the problem over a cup of tea. Ivano would send Guido some hair dye that perfectly matched his bluish-silver locks—the product of a magical toolmaker who had begun research on rare materials, a tailor with a great eye for colors, and a hairstylist who was an expert at dyeing hair—but that was yet to come.

What came that night was Jonas trying to stifle his laughter when he saw his master’s humorless reaction to the wisecrack. “If no one else can help, seek out the Rossetti Trading Company, eh?”

Extra Story: A Father and Daughter’s Magical Tool Invention Diaries—Heated Low Table Mk I

“What is this, Dahlia?”

“The heated low table! As a prototype, I made a miniature version for one person.” Autumn was fading to winter, and Carlo’s daughter had put a rather portable low table in the living room—it would have been perfect as a side table for when guests came over. Between the frame and the tabletop, a brown blanket was inserted. “Father, lie down inside and give it a try—it’s perfectly cozy,” she said as she lifted up the blanket for him.

It was just a smidge small considering his size. Why does an old man like me have to climb under a dang table anyway? But it was his magical toolmaker daughter’s prototype, and if he had to pretend like he was playing hide-and-seek, then so be it.

“Okay, now just stay there for a while. It’ll make sense soon enough.” Dahlia had a lot of pep in her voice and in her step as she went back down to the workshop.

“Oh, it is warm...” It didn’t take long before what had seemed to be a children’s game became a foretaste of paradise. Warm air enveloped his body, melting away all sense of time. Carlo lay his belly down on the carpet, and the heat did wonders to soothe his back, which had been nagging him lately.

Is Dahlia a genius? He knew the answer already; his daughter was full of talent—overflowing with talent, even. But this magical tool she had created was a menace. Escaping its clutches was impossible, if one could strain oneself to do anything at all. However, there was a letter he had to read and respond to before the day was over; fortunately, it was right on the table, not far from his grasp. I just have to crawl there with this thing on my back like a snail—good thing Dahlia was out of the room.

As with many things in life, there was good timing and then there were situations like this. Dahlia returned to the room with more mail in her hands. “Father! Don’t move around as though you’re a turtle! You’re going to ruin the knees of your pants!” she scolded as she lifted the whole table up.

“Ngah! My shell!”

“Humans do not have shells!”

Nay, for the tabletop and blanket from me ripped had been mine armature. Carlo’s flesh shriveled in the sudden onset of the cold, and he curled up, shivering; Dahlia, with a look of pity, bestowed upon him the blanket. It was a painful moment for a father who wanted to win his daughter’s respect. But it was cold. What was a man to do? Thinking about the paradise he had just dwelt in was enough that he wanted to hunker down right where he was.

“Perhaps it is too much too soon for the people of this world...” Dahlia’s muttering sounded as though she were a goddess. She then committed a most deplorable act—she disassembled the low table.

Carlo could not withstand the cold any longer, and he stood up to put on a coat. Dahlia’s, hanging beside his, caught his attention. Its ornamental button in the shape of a red flower brought back vibrant memories of a certain woman. Teresa Lamberti’s hair had been the vivid red of crimson clover—something she had passed down to their daughter Dahlia. The first time he had met her was in the hallway of their college.

As an alumnus, Carlo had periodically gone back to the campus to visit the Magical Tool Research Group’s advisor, Professor Lina. She had lost her voice due to a disease of the throat, and neither physicians nor priests could cure her of her affliction. Though she could muster up a meager, raspy whisper, she had been forced to make use of notes and teaching assistants to continue her lectures.

Thus, Carlo had begun to figure out a magical tool to help her. After some trial and error, he had come up with the voice caster—a piece of pure silver enchanted with siren hair that allowed its user to amplify or diminish the volume of their voice as well as to adjust the timbre. Professor Lina had strongly urged Carlo to bring it to the Merchants’ Guild and to market, so that he might help out others who were suffering as she had. His invention had apparently received such high praise that even the castle was headhunting him.

The model Carlo had given to Professor Lina that day was the fourth revision of the voice caster—a silver necklace that was lighter, slimmer, and louder than its predecessors and sounded more natural as well.

After he had her put it on and gave it a bit of fine-tuning, Lina spoke with the voice of the professor he had once studied under. “Thank you, Carlo,” she said, her smile warming his heart.

With her gratitude and in high spirits, Carlo left the staff room. The setting sun pierced the windows and spilled onto the hallway. He hopped from puddle to puddle of light, but just as he tried to swerve around the corner, he crashed into someone before he could check his forward momentum. Both of them stuck their arms out to brace themselves.

“Please forgive me! The light was in my eyes!” A large blossom, even brighter than the evening sun, bloomed before him. She was on the taller side, and her long red hair reached her waist. Most captivating of all were her eyes, which glowed like the sunset. Cladding her unparalleled figure was a dark green dress, and simple though it may have looked, the finish was obviously top notch. She also looked to be a dozen years his junior.

He stood transfixed by her incredible beauty and red eyes, and when he eventually snapped out of it, he hurriedly took a step back.

“Ah!” Suddenly, the woman fell forward, as if diving toward him.

Carlo could but catch her in his arms. They had been standing pretty close to each other in the first place, so it was only a slight stumble before they steadied themselves on their feet. It was then he finally realized that her red hair had gotten caught on his jacket. “Sorry!”

“I’m terribly sorry!” They apologized to each other at the same instant, then chuckled awkwardly.

The force of their impact had gotten her red hair tangled around a button on his left jacket sleeve. Made by a local artisan, the button had quite an intricate design—a dahlia crafted out of an iridescent shell. He had put it on his jacket because he had taken a liking to it, and now it had even brought him a somewhat fortuitous encounter. The woman in front of him was truly gorgeous, though he understood she was out of his reach.

“It looks like we’re, uh, twisted up here,” Carlo said as he failed to unravel her soft, fine hair from his arm. Perhaps it was on account of its slight waviness.

“I should like to ask to borrow a pair of scissors from someone in the office; it ought to be a fairly simple—”

“That would be such a shame.” He didn’t know what compelled him to say that, but her hair was as fine as silk thread and looked like it could be worked into a colorful embroidery project. “It would be too much of a shame to harm your beautiful hair.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Carlo tore the button off its stitches, unraveled her hair from it, and slipped the dahlia button in his poc—

“Um, erm, your button! May I please have it?” She grabbed his sleeve, and her pleading expression had him frozen completely. Perhaps the colorful flower design was novel to her, or perhaps she worked in the clothing business and found it interesting. “Oh, I’m sorry! That was very rude of me to ask—”

“Perish the thought; it’s yours.”

When Carlo handed her the dahlia button, she smiled. It was as though the large blossom had bloomed once again. “My name is Teresa Lamberti, and I am an alumnus of this school. May I ask you for your name?”

“I’m Carlo Rossetti. I’m an alumnus as well, and now a magical toolmaker.”

“The one who invented the voice caster! That and your compact magical lantern as well are such wonderful magical tools! I have heard much about you from Professor Lina, and I—oh, I do apologize for rambling.”

“Please don’t be, and thank you very much for your kind words.”

“I am so grateful for your voice caster. My granduncle is finally able to speak with his grandchildren.”

“I’m very happy to hear that it has had such a big impact on your life.” It was entirely possible that she was merely trying to be kind with her beaming smile and tender words, but nonetheless, they made him very happy. The two of them proceeded to effervesce over magical tools and monsters for so long that the sky turned from orange to navy. A knight—presumably looking for Teresa—even came by and glared at Carlo. The young toolmaker said, “It’s gotten dark out already. Maybe you’d best hurry home.”

“Thank you very much for your company today. Please allow me to come thank you at another—” The iridescent shell button was still in her hand.

Though it truly had been a lot of fun chatting with her today, and with her looks, anyone might have fallen in love with her at first sight, she was undoubtedly the darling princess of some noble family who had business with the school—too far out of reach. Besides, Carlo couldn’t accidentally offend someone who knew Professor Lina so well. What exactly am I supposed to say to a younger noblewoman in this case again? “You needn’t. It is my wish that a breathtaking lady such as yourself accept the button as a memento of our encounter today.”

Though he modeled his response after what Oswald would have said in his position, Carlo would come to greatly regret his words.

The next day, Carlo was flabbergasted when he went to the front door of the Green Tower. A coach had pulled up to his home to let off a woman in a wine-red dress; the coach was drawn by a pair of sleipnirs, which screamed nobility. After they exchanged some very formal greetings, Teresa cut straight to the point, saying, “Mr. Rossetti! Would you, um, go out with me?”

Jokes could go too far—What is she trying to do? Stop my heart permanently? “Where to? Shall I introduce you to the artisan who made that button?”

She seemed slightly crestfallen about Carlo playing the possum. “You said the button is a memento of our encounter yesterday, and I thought that, well, perhaps you might like to converse again...” Her cheeks were now almost the same shade as her hair. “I understand that this is very sudden, but even so, I would also like to—”

“This is no joking matter. A lowborn man like me and the daughter of a nobleman are worlds apart. Perhaps you ought to return home before acting rashly again.”

Teresa’s maid seemed bewildered by his response, but the two women did little to protest; rather, they simply turned around and returned to the coach.

Carlo was still a little hung up on what Teresa had said, and so he flipped open a manual on noble etiquette that had belonged to his father, a baron. A memento of one’s encounter: giving a noblewoman a small gift such as an accessory to mark a rendezvous sets the stage so that she may speak to the giver again in order to express her thanks—so said the entry, and Carlo slumped forward onto the desk. He had inadvertently been so insensitive and boorish toward her, but his ignorance was no excuse.

Then, he opened a somewhat dated list of noble families and lost all hope. The Lamberti Earldom had existed since the early years of the kingdom. There was no chance he could send a letter to her at her family home to ask to see her again, nor would he have another chance to apologize. A young lady like Teresa had had the determination to stomp here the very day after their encounter and yet had gone home immediately after his explanation—it must’ve really been an impulsive act, and that should have been the end of that. As he emptied a bottle of red wine, Carlo kicked himself for wasting his good fortune—but there she was again the next morning.

Before she could say anything, Carlo begged for her forgiveness. “My apologies! I only learned the meaning of ‘a memento of our encounter’ after you left, and I’m sorry that I was so rude to you!”

She responded with a long, stinging silence; it would’ve hurt less if she had yelled at him, dismissed him as a peasant, or even slapped him.

“Thank goodness. I thought what I did must have made you loathe me, so I came today to apologize...” she finally said in a quiet voice. He wanted to tell her that was absolutely not the case, but he could not get his words out. “Even if all we do is chat, could you at least be my friend?”

If the circumstances had been any better, Carlo might have suspected he was dreaming. He explained to her that there were so many obstacles between them—status and age, for two—and that any relationship with him would be detrimental to her. Nonetheless, Carlo thanked Teresa for coming. He could but grin after he went back inside, and he punched himself for it—though he’d never tell her of this.

People her age tended to daydream. There probably weren’t any guys like Carlo around her, so naturally he seemed exciting to her. This would all blow over soon enough.

So Carlo thought, but he didn’t count on Teresa being so overly passionate and unwavering.

To summarize, this is what happened:

The first time she visited, he told her that a commoner and a noble were incompatible and had her return home in the coach she had come by.

The second time she visited, they stood by his front door and he apologized for doing something he hadn’t meant to, gave her every reason he could think of to reject him, and had her return home in the coach she had come by.

The third time she visited, he brought her to the backyard and warned her that, as a noblewoman, she might embroil herself in a scandal by visiting a commoner’s home, and he had her return home in the coach she had come by. He heard from Professor Lina that Teresa had also visited her to chat. While they were speaking, though, the professor’s maid had been staring at Carlo.

The fourth time Teresa visited, they stood by his closed front door and he explained that she should not make her family worry for her, and he had her return home in the coach she had come by. Furthermore, he asked the coachman to report this incident to her family. It was partly to protect himself, partly to put an end to Teresa’s actions.

The fifth time she visited, they stood by his opened front door. He explained that it was extremely dangerous for a young noblewoman—and a very beautiful one at that—to venture out on foot like this. He took her to the carriage station and had her return home. However, as there were many others present, they spent some time chatting about magical tools while they waited for a ride. And if Carlo was honest with himself, it was a lot of fun.

The sixth time she visited, he brought her to the workshop, left the door wide open, and talked to her about tools and materials. He didn’t have much of a choice—it was raining cats and dogs that day, and he couldn’t just send her out in that. When the rain finally eased up, he walked her to the carriage station and had her return home.

After the third time she visited, the Lamberti Earldom had sent Carlo a letter voicing their objections in a very roundabout manner. After the fourth time, a servant had spoken to him directly. After the fifth time, Carlo received a letter of apology. After the sixth time, he received apology gifts and a visit from her knights. Apparently, Teresa had locked the door of her third-floor bedroom and climbed out the window to visit him. Her bodyguards explained that she must’ve contracted “the febrilities,” and they profusely apologized for her antics. Carlo empathized.

With Teresa coming to his home like this, the neighbors were bound to take notice. People gave Carlo sidelong glances and whispered behind his back.

“Oh, if it ain’t the dogged lady’s mark?” asked the neighborhood artisanal buttonmaker—a friend of Carlo’s late parents. “Carlo, me boy, if yer gonna marry her, then get on with it. If yer not, then be frank and reject her. Time and gossip can really hurt a girl, you know?” The admonishment was just what he needed to hear. Carlo had not meant to be vague or leave her hanging, but his hesitation had surely had that same impact. That was when he made up his mind.

The seventh time she visited, Carlo and Teresa sat across from each other at the table. He gripped his fist so tightly, it hurt his nails. “Lady Lamberti, you are a very charming woman. I find myself unbelievably flattered that you would think so highly of me. However, we live in two different worlds. I am also afraid that if this were to continue, it would impact my work, and as a magical toolmaker, I cannot have that. I implore you to refrain from coming to the tower ever again,” he said. He was hanging his head, but he didn’t sugarcoat his words one bit.

“I understand, Mr. Rossetti. I sincerely apologize for all of the trouble I have caused you, and I thank you for the treasured conversation you have given me.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. She left of her own volition, never to return to the tower again.

As hypocritical as it might sound, Carlo found it a bitter pill to swallow. There was no doubt that he had feelings for her too. He had known he was infatuated from the first time he had laid eyes upon her, and the more they chatted about magical tools, monsters, and magical crystals, the more interested in her he became. But, as he had said, they lived in different worlds, and it hindered his work, though he would never have guessed it was not seeing her that affected him so greatly.

Another season came and went, and this time, Carlo received a sudden invitation from the Lambertis. The letter said that since their last conversation, Teresa had become bedridden, unwilling to eat, unable to keep down her food, and she was growing thinner and frailer by the day. He flew to her. The first person he met was Teresa’s mother, looking terribly haggard. Contrary to his expectations, she did not get mad at him but begged for him to see her daughter.

The next person he met was Teresa’s father, Earl Lamberti, who had a horribly resentful look in his eyes. “Allow me to apologize. My daughter must have caused you a great deal of trouble foisting her one-sided feelings on you, and that despite your constant resistance to her advances, so I have heard,” he said with seemingly genuine guilt, although it did not match his glare. “We have had many physicians see Teresa. They all have said she does not have a sickness of the body but of the heart, and that no medicine can possibly help her. I never imagined her spirit was so delicate...”

Knowing that he had hurt Teresa so wrenched Carlo’s heart.

The earl continued, “It seems there will be no heirs to our earldom. I doubt we will be able to marry her off to another noble family either, nor will she ever be fit to take up the family business. Teresa will become immobile and likely need to be sent to our villa outside of the city, but my missus asked that I let Teresa see you before that happened.”

Nobles... Carlo seethed internally. Teresa was not an object to be tucked away in some far-off villa. Did they want to drain the color from her beautiful red eyes? Before he knew it, he was running his mouth. “May I ask for Lady Teresa—your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Her father laughed without so much as trying to hold it in. “Ha ha ha! I knew it. What are you after, in exchange for my daughter’s heart?”

Teresa’s heart was beyond price; what the man was saying made no sense. “I don’t follow.”

“The Lamberti family will give you nothing. We will not be your support in the future, and neither will we give you money. Teresa was born and raised a noble, and she knows nothing about the life of a commoner. And of course, she knows nothing about housework. All that will happen is that we shall strike her off our family register and send her off without a single copper as a dowry. Even if you were to divorce Teresa, she would never be permitted to return. Do you think you can truly take her as your wife?”

“Teresa is all that I want,” Carlo said with the biggest smile.

For whatever reason, the earl eyed Carlo with suspicion and then, after a long, long silence, finally laughed, admitting his defeat. Carlo would not learn until later why the earl had approved of him.

Carlo then walked to Teresa’s room. He mustered up his courage and cracked the door open, and there she was. Teresa, lying on her bed, looked a size smaller than when she used to come to the tower.

“Is that you, Mr. Rossetti...? Am I dreaming?” She looked at him with eyes wide. Her red hair was all matted up, skin pale, cheeks sunken, lips chapped—yet she was more enchanting than anyone he had ever known.

He had known all along. The first time he laid eyes on her, she had lodged herself in his heart, and the day they’d first chatted, he had already been in love. Everything else had dulled in comparison. Ever since he’d been unable to continue seeing her, his work had fallen by the wayside. Yet, when he closed his eyes, he could recall her face without a single detail missing. Perhaps he was the one suffering from a serious bout of the febrilities.

They formally greeted each other; then he expressed his concern for her and added a few classy overtures in noble-speak—those had all been premeditated, and Carlo employed them all. “I’ve come for you!”

“Oh, Mr. Rossetti!”

“I have received your father’s blessing. Teresa, I vow to bring you the least hardship and the most joy—be with me.”

“I will!”

“It’s a small place, but come live with me. And I’d love for you to call me Carlo instead; what shall I call you?”

“Please call me Teresa, Carlo.” The redhead’s great bloom of a smile blossomed. She reached out with her thin arms, and he took her into his, embracing her as tightly as he could. Witnessing everything, the maid—with equal parts tears, laughter, and anger—shouted, “And out of wedlock too!”

Every day had become a dream for Carlo. Teresa came with a seasoned maid by the name of Sofia. Soon, Teresa was able to keep her food down, and she strengthened her body by climbing the stairs. When she had fully recovered, Earl Lamberti offered to adopt Carlo into the family and to support them financially. Despite having said that he wouldn’t lift a finger for them, the earl apparently still loved his daughter.

Carlo politely yet firmly refused. He wanted the name “Magical Toolmaker Rossetti” to be passed on, and he did not want Teresa to have to leave him for her family home again. He wanted her by his side forever. Besides, even without the financial assistance, Carlo managed to keep them from living in anything like destitution. Teresa gave it her all too, adapting to her situation, learning how to do chores, taking care of the home—all with a cheerful smile on her face.

They kept to themselves—her ties to the nobility and her family meant that they couldn’t tell the world about their relationship—though the friendly neighbors would help them out and share with them; they even gave enough for Sofia.

“Congratulations! So, you ended up getting together with that dogged lady, eh?” joked the button artisan as he gave Carlo a few hard smacks on the back. Carlo choked and laughed with him.

They put in their marriage registration without any wild celebrations, and they lived their days together without the grandeur or luxuries of the nobility, although they couldn’t even visit where many commoners congregated. But they savored their time together, and that was enough for them. With Teresa, Carlo needed nothing else—he truly believed that.

His work went well too. If Carlo’s accomplishments with his inventions earned him a barony in two or three years, they would finally be allowed to publicly announce their marriage—Earl Lamberti had promised him that at one point.

What was unexpected and out of their hands was the sickness that came with Teresa’s pregnancy. It soon became very hard on her, and it lasted for a long time. There was no room for any what-ifs, and she stayed at her family home with a physician on hand until she gave birth—that was the only occasion when Carlo and Teresa ever accepted any of the Lambertis’ offers.

To this day, Carlo had never decided whether or not that had been the correct choice. After she gave birth to Dahlia, circumstances prevented Teresa from returning home to the tower. She would never call his name again. He could not even tell her that all that mattered to him was that she was still alive. And when Dahlia was still in primary school, Teresa passed away.

Carlo had failed to protect the one woman, the only woman he had ever given his heart to.

“It’s noon and it’s already freezing...”

Outside the window, fallen leaves danced in the breeze. The skies in the distance were higher and farther than all else. Beyond was where Teresa was surely waiting for him; he would finally be able to see her again when he arrived there too—so he was fantasizing when he heard his daughter calling to him.

“Father! Help me with the cheese for the salad!”

Carlo looked away from the window and answered, “Be right there.” After all, shredding hard cheeses and moving heavy pots were his responsibilities—and only for a little while longer.

It wouldn’t be long until she got married, yet he could not think of anything he could give her or do for her. Sure, he still had lots to teach her as her magical toolmaking master, but he was lacking as her father. If Teresa were still alive, she definitely would have chastised him for feeling sorry for himself.

That pair of dahlia buttons, including the one he had given Teresa, was still tucked away in a drawer. His friends had told him to forget her. They had strongly suggested he remarry. “Carlo, find love and happiness again,” they had said. But now, he could laugh off the former self that had believed he would never be happy again. His dreams of the future together with Teresa might have popped like bubbles, but he still had his daughter. The days spent with Dahlia, the days spent with his apprentices—those were more than enough to fill Carlo’s life with happiness. It didn’t matter what anyone else had to say. He was happy.

The low table he had carried on his back—the one that had already been disassembled that very same day—had been paradisiacal. He was sure Dahlia would have no trouble making it again from memory. Carlo knew it would not be for him but for the man by her side, or perhaps even the child in her arms—no, the circle of smiles that would surround Dahlia was definitely going to be much larger than that.

“All right! Watch out, cheese! Here I come! We’re making a cheese salad tonight!”

“Grow up! Everything in moderation, father!”

Whatever was outside the window was already of little significance; instead, for a sight of his precious daughter’s smile, Carlo stepped toward the kitchen.

Bonus Translator’s and Editor’s Notes

[Osman/TL]

Back here again with the bonus content! Volume 7 was rather special in that it actually focused a lot on magical tools while food and drinks were kept to a minimum! The Galeforce Blades, Titanbow, and the Table of Degen—er, the heated low table seem like they may play into the story for the next little while. What really got me was the extra story. The more I learn of Carlo and his history, the more I sympathize with him. Through Dahlia’s eyes, I think I had been led to see him as a less-than-perfect, overprotective father, but he—like the rest of the cast in this series—has a lot of depth that influences his actions. We’ll dive deeper between Carlo and Teresa in Volume 8, so look forward to it!

I’m hoping to see more antagonism in the next volume. The story so far has set up a lot of things that could potentially go wrong for Dahlia, but she keeps getting bailed out by her benefactors, like Guido. I would like to see more conflict that can’t necessarily be solved by simply talking things out, as the series tends to lean towards.

As always, my utmost gratitude to Dahlia’s editor Shakuzan. I truly believe that it is our back-and-forth we have behind the scenes that really polishes the end product for the audience. I’d like to thank Ryoko again for their foresight. The different types of bows in this universe can get a little complicated, so thank you for clearing that up for me! As well, the “getting older and being able to drink less” thing was something I hadn’t heard of before, so thank you for looking into it for me. I owe so much to you two!

Thank you, readers, for keeping up with the series. I love seeing your comments in the forums and in the Discord server. Speaking of which, thank you Rahul for the Dahlia emotes!

[Shakuzan/ED]

Even more so than previous installments, volume seven of Dahlia reminded me of how reductive it is to write off the isekai genre as an endless churn of power fantasies for male gamers. For one thing, there’s always been cross-pollination between titles theoretically intended for male or female audiences. I’m not one hundred percent convinced by the claim that Aura Battler Dunbine is the oldest common ancestor of modern isekai, but if it counts, so do shoujo titles like Fushigi Yuugi and Crest of the Royal Family—stories that, like Dahlia, are about young girls discovering their inner resources. (In fact, if Crest of the Royal Family is an isekai, it’s a modern isekai; it is still running in Princess magazine almost fifty years after the publication of its first chapter.)

Even if we’re only considering the current crop of isekai—stories serialized on Shosetsuka ni Naro about characters who expire of overwork or get flattened by trucks and then wake up in JRPG Valhalla—it’s interesting how many are, at base, fantasies not of consequence-free violence but of unalienated labor: Dahlia earns a living by using creative faculties she values in herself—her attention to detail and problem-solving skills—and enriches the lives of her friends and colleagues and compatriots in the process. Work is a social as much as an economic act.

That spirit is present, I think, even in isekai that hew much closer than Dahlia to the prototypical gamer fantasy. The key thing is that a sufficiently enterprising heroine, reincarnated in another world, is not confined to one sphere of activity: she can hunt orcs in the morning, patent reversi in the afternoon, whip up mayonnaise in the evening, and introduce the locals to Japanese bathing culture after supper, exactly as she likes—all without being reduced to a full-time orc-slayer or an inventor of board games, condiments, or bathtubs.

As to why that fantasy should appeal to so many people in Japan and around the world in the year 2023, we can only speculate.

Thanks, as always, to Osman, to Amagishi-san, to my family, and to my online pals in The Discourse.

You’ve Got Questions, We’ve Got Answers

LordRagnar asks about my name: “This one occurred to me a bit ago, but is ‘OSM’ pronounced ‘awesome’?”

[Osman/TL]

I pronounce my name with a voiced alveolar fricative (i.e., with a z-sound), but I’m definitely not opposed to being thought of as awesome! c:

Also, “osm” is never capitalized!

“Did you ever think that when working on this series you would have to write a sentence like ‘Do not make me beg you not to turn your arm into salami’?” asks Lily Garden.

[Osman/TL]

The zingers, the one-liners, the snark—those are my favorite parts to translate. There is so much joy in finding ways to convey humor in another language, like playing with the flow and order of a sentence to make the joke land extra hard.

[Shakuzan/ED]

For me, the humor is a large part of what makes Dahlia so convincing: in a world where magic was readily accessible, college boys like Carlo “Uragano” Rosetti would surely use it to wreak havoc around campus. A lot of superficially darker isekai aren’t half as convincing to me, maybe because the darkness so often seems like the author bargaining with God: “Please let me die and wake up in Dragon Quest. I’d even accept a more brutal and less whimsical Dragon Quest!”

Another question about comedy from mantel, who asks: “Do you find it difficult translating the recurring literal naming gag? And do you translate them literally or do you adapt them into English?”

[Osman/TL]

The brilliance of that recurring gag is that it transcends language barriers. There’s little adaptation needed to make them funny—Dahlia’s naming sense is just as uncool in English as it is in Japanese!

“The descriptions in this series tend to be very detailed, especially about colors. Are they that detailed (and unique) in the original? And how do you choose what words to use?” asks kingpendragon.

[Osman/TL]

They’re absolutely that specific in Japanese. I try to describe the colors as close to the original as possible, and that thankfully works most of the time. Sometimes, it takes a bit of digging on the reader’s end—what exactly does a dayflower look like? Sometimes, it’s a little bewildering—how does a doused raven compare to a regular crow? I chalk that up to Amagishi-sensei being peculiar and particular, so I try to reflect it in the translation.

A big part of this volume was the heated low table. marcus_atticus asks: “As someone who is naive to the experience of heated tabletops, I felt the story did a great job of describing how they would feel, thus increasing my curiosity to try it for myself someday. Has the translation team experienced the wonders of the heated tables? If so, how was your experience?”

[Osman/TL]

I had a kotatsu in my apartment when I lived in Japan, but to be honest—and I understand this might be blasphemy—I never really understood the appeal. It was so cold in the winter, I could see my breath indoors! The walls were thin and there was no heating except for a kerosene-powered heater. Therefore, as described in the story, kotatsu are barely warm, and it wasn’t worth waiting for it to get toasty. I also only spent like a few waking hours at home if I wasn’t at work or out drinking anyway.

However, the kerosene burner wasn’t supposed to be kept on while sleeping (danger of carbon monoxide or dioxide buildup) and I had a bed warmer instead. So, one night after work, I cranked on the bed warmer and went to bed—which wouldn’t be a problem if I hadn’t gotten tipsy at the local izakaya then got blasted at the local bar before stumbling home. Apparently, I slept with my calf on the bed warmer and didn’t feel it roasting me alive, because I woke up in the morning (late for work) with a giant blister; the doctor said it was a low-temperature burn. It didn’t hurt much, but I still have a pretty gnarly scar today.

[Shakuzan/ED]

My real-life friend Tristan Hill is translator for a number of JNC titles, including Yuri Tama, the Tearmoon Empire manga, and When Supernatural Battles Became Commonplace. He spent several years working in Akita prefecture on Japan’s northwestern seaboard, where the long winters got so cold that the olive oil in his kitchen would freeze solid. As he describes it, he was living under a kotatsu for much of the year, and when he returned to the US, he brought it along via airmail.

Tristan offers the following warning to any Dahlia readers who are so enamored of the idea of a kotatsu that they’re checking Amazon for imports: differences in voltage between Japan and the U.S. don’t matter too terribly much when it comes to small electronics, but plugging a kotatsu into a U.S. outlet can cause electrical fires. If you want your own kotatsu, you’ll also need a power converter.

“If you had to choose between the two super luxury heated tables featured in the story—the one made for the Merchant’s Guild or the one crafted by the Tailor’s Guild—which would you pick?” asks Lily Garden.

[Osman/TL]

I’d go with the Tailors’! I’m a sucker for delicately crafted details, like the embroidery of the Goddess of the Moon. That’s like having a 2D waifu printed on your duvet cover—how cool is that?!

[Shakuzan/ED]

I definitely agree, especially since I tend to anthropomorphize possessions like blankets anyway.

Switching gears to more of a general question, kingpendragon asks: “You mentioned that ‘Ehrlichia’ is patterned after the German language. Are there other names or terms which are meant to sound foreign?”

[Osman/TL]

We haven’t had many terms or words that are distinctly non-English. The nicknames Uragano and Tormenta were written in kanji and their readings were in Italian, and so we kept the reading with the meaning explained in prose. In Volume 5, Randolph describes the black chili water atomizer trap as “nebelfalle” in Ehrlichian, and the real-life German etymology breaks down to Nebel (lit.: mist) + Falle (lit.: trap).

PuckGoodfellow00 0 asks: “How often do you have to consult a dictionary or the Japanese equivalent of Urban Dictionary for fantasy terms when translating Dahlia?”

[Osman/TL]

Dahlia can be a bit of a mixed bag. It will sometimes throw out some literary/archaic words, and those are easy to find in dictionaries. There will be made-up/in-world terms here and there, and those are about creativity. The difficult ones are the jargon or niche technical terms. Those don’t show up in the dictionary, so it requires a bit of research. One example in this volume was the mounting block in the chapter “White Horse, Black Horse.” The source has it as 踏み台, and ordinarily, you’d have that as “stool” or “step ladder.” However, those translations immediately set off alarms in my head—I knew neither of them were right—and so, I went onto online equestrian stores and dug through their catalog.

When I’m working, at least one Japanese-English online dictionary is on my side monitor—sometimes, I even have more than one on my monitors. There are words that I may not recognize, of course, but most of the time, it’s because I need a good source to put the concept in my head into characters on the page. Even when I do know how to phrase something, I might be able to find a better way to do it. It’s kinda like coding—it’s not always about what you know but knowing how to find out what you need to know.

Another question about translation from Lily Garden, who asks: “Several of us on the forum hadn’t realized that estervino is nihonshu/sake until that was pointed out. Did you realize it immediately or did it take a while for you to come to that realization? And how, as a translation team, do you decide how clear to make that connection to the reader?”

[Osman/TL]

Let me start off by stating that I absolutely love the flavorful name, but it is with great sadness to say that I had no part in coming up with it. The beverage debuted in Volume 2, so that means it was the product of the brilliance of the previous translator and editor.

Dahlia describes estervino as a cloudy rice wine that compares to nigorizake, though with somewhat of a different aroma. In Volume 3, we’re introduced to caldo (燗)—estervino served warm or hot, just like nihonshu—and vetrovino (清酒)—a clear rice wine. Those exact terms in Japanese are used directly to describe its real-life counterpart. As someone who really enjoys her drink, I immediately made the connection. However, I can totally see why someone less familiar wouldn’t have realized it without looking up nigorizake, for example. There is something here I need to keep in mind for the future: coined terms in English ought to convey as much information as the Japanese does to its audience.

Mantel asks: “We can see successful commoners become nobles quite easily (and with funny surnames) but also the existence of ‘true nobles.’ Can you explain the difference between the two? And also the percent of commoners/nobles?”

[Shakuzan/ED]

Funnily enough, this issue comes up in the very first installment of Lucia and the Loom! Lucia doesn’t mention percentages, but as she explains it, the wealthiest families of common birth are about as wealthy as hereditary nobles. The biggest difference seems to be that nobles have more political responsibilities, for which Lucia actually pities them: as she sees it, they have their futures decided for them, with the girls in particular being betrothed from a young age.

On the other hand, I think we can infer from Dahlia and Volf’s relationship that in addition to the difference in rank between men like Carlo Rosetti and Earl Renato Scalfarotto, there is a wide disparity in power and prestige.

I don’t want to put words in Amagishi-san’s mouth, but it’s tempting to infer an analogy to France’s Ancien Régime: in the early modern period culminating in the French Revolution, the noblesse de race (hereditary nobility) were frequently at odds with other categories of nobles who had received their titles by royal appointment—theoretically for personal merit and service to the crown, but also, in practice, because the monarchy sold so-called “venal offices” as an important source of revenue. Naturally, this “new” nobility—consisting, as the contemporary saying went, of commoners who had been washed of their commonness—was more closely aligned with the emerging French bourgeoisie.

(Note: the preceding paragraph has been vetted by loyal Dahlia reader Everett Rummage, who hosts the exceedingly erudite Age of Napoleon podcast.)

Longicollis

Today’s mark was a longicollis—a monster that resembled an oversized heron but with more meat on it.

[Osman/TL]

The original name for this monster didn’t leave a lot of room for me to play with—首長大鳥 breaks down literally to “long-necked big bird.” I could’ve used it as is, which would’ve been accurate if a bit of a mouthful. However, we can follow the literalness of the Japanese while playing with the setting. “Longicollis” is New Latin for “long-necked” and it’s also used in the scientific names of many animals, which is perfect because we’re describing a creature of some sort in the Italian-influenced setting of Ordine.

Onion Hamburg Steak

When the bell rang, Dahlia opened the door to find Lucia waiting on the other side. The girl with the green hair in braids had a large mesh sack of onions in one hand and a bag from the butcher’s in the other. “Sure thing. Wanna make onion hamburg steaks together?”

[Osman/TL]

Turning 玉ネギハンバーグ into “onion hamburg steaks” is an example of a literal translation that worked, albeit with much hesitation from me. Right off the bat, I’m not big on it as it’s a bit of a mouthful. Another reason is because the origin of “hamburg” is obviously the German city of Hamburg. It is possible that Dahlia had brought the dish to Lucia and Carlo, so the natives of Ordine are simply calling the dish what Dahlia calls it.

The alternatives included “onion burgers,” but that is a regional specialty hamburger from Oklahoma. Another choice was “onion patties”, but that refers to an Amish fritter. My favorite of the alternatives I didn’t choose was “Salisbury steak,” but that also has its fair share of problems. Firstly, Salisbury is the name of an American physician who “invented” that ground beef, onion, and gravy dish (I put that in quotes because that combination surely has been made before his name was attached to it). Secondly, that is not the name used in Japan, which means that Dahlia would likely never have used it. Thirdly, and I think most importantly, hamburg steak is how it’s written in the source. That’s what Dahlia calls it and what everyone around her calls it. It is probable that the author has thought about this conundrum, and even if the author hasn’t, well, that’s not on me.

Jodhpurs

Today, Dahlia was wearing a burnt umber jacket and vest, white jodhpurs, boots, and leather gloves. She had been told that the soft outfit was something they had lying around the villa, but the clothes were surely brand new. They also fit her perfectly—too perfectly, especially the trousers.

[Osman/TL]

In the source, Dahlia’s pants are described as 細身のキュロットパンツ (lit. slender white culottes). However, this direct translation does not work as culottes were loose fitting, back in the day. Historically, women would wear an outfit called a riding habit, but that did not match what Dahlia was wearing. Riding breeches were pants specifically horseback riding, as the name suggests, but I believe those are rather formal. In the end, I decided on “jodhpurs.” There are several reasons behind this choice. Firstly, they are the most widely-known trousers for horseback riding. Secondly, they are typically white, which matches with the description. One hesitation I had was that jodhpurs are from Northern India, though I’m choosing to excuse that as Dahlia may simply be describing the pants as something she knew from her previous world.

That’s it for Volume 7! I really appreciate everyone enthusing about Dahlia on the forum and Discord server. It makes me so happy to see my work so well-received. Thank you for all the great questions, and when the next question corner opens up, please feel free to ask any questions we missed—wait, there is one that we missed:

One more from Lily Garden: “Have you read the Lucia spin-off?”

[Osman/TL]

See you next time with Volume 1 of Lucia and the Loom: Weaving Her Way to Happiness!