Could This Be... [Part 1]
“Ah, you’ve arrived!”
Lord Jamie bellowed the greeting, though it sounded deliberate—as if he were forcing the volume out of his chest. Yet the harder he tried, the more uncomfortable it made me feel. Pitiful, perhaps? His voice had grown noticeably thin.
And if one looked closely enough...
That thick, bushy beard of his? Glued on.
“Your Grace! It has been too long. Rumors truly are never to be trusted—you look as splendid and robust as ever!”
Standing before him, the truth was unmistakable. It didn’t help that I possessed an unnervingly sharp eye for clinical details. More importantly, I knew precisely what biological transformations occurred when a man lost his testicles—which is to say, when his body was abruptly stripped of testosterone.
His shoulders have narrowed... Muscle mass is withering away, while subcutaneous fat is piling on...
A thinning voice or patchy facial hair was, in the grand scheme of things, merely a secondary cosmetic grievance. One could live a perfectly normal life without them. But when a man of his years was already fighting the natural muscular atrophy of aging, accelerating that decline was catastrophic by any measure.
Maybe I should extract something from a bull’s bollocks and inject it into him.
An absurd, modern notion flickered through my mind for an instant. It probably wouldn’t work—or could it? I’d have to run some animal trials later. Naturally, experimenting on a high-ranking aristocrat right off the bat was out of the question. Perhaps I could coax that old codger Hugh, whom I had dragged here before, into volunteering as a test subject.
“Ha-ha! A famed physician truly has an eye unlike any other!”
Delighted by my shameless flattery, which bore not a shred of sincerity, Lord Jamie burst into genuine laughter. In his merriment, he momentarily forgot to maintain his deep baritone, and a shrill, piping squeak slipped out. I nearly let my expression falter, but caught myself just in time. If Robert Liston was biting his lip so hard to keep a straight face, the least I could do was maintain my professional composure.
“Whatever is all this, my lord?”
Having exhausted our mental bandwidth merely suppressing our laughter, both Liston and I remained prudent spectators. Naturally, the man who broke the silence was Sir Damien.
He was in remarkably high spirits. Both nobles had suffered from the agony of benign prostatic hyperplasia, but while Lord Jamie had met an incompetent butcher who excised his family jewels, Sir Damien had gotten off with nothing more than a neat surgical puncture courtesy of yours truly. Small wonder he was in such a buoyant mood.
“Ah, this?”
Lord Jamie puffed out his chest with an unmistakable air of bravado, fighting tooth and nail to mask his inner melancholia.
“They tell me it is all the rage in France.”
“Must have cost an absolute fortune, then?”
There was a common saying back in my time: if you suddenly find yourself on an unprompted shopping spree, examine your emotional state first. In this era, the very word ‘depression’ had yet to be coined, so what would Lord Jamie know of psychological distress? Being a man of immense wealth, he had simply chosen to vent his despair through profligate spending. And truly, anything bearing a French label commanded an extortionate price.
To someone like me, who had returned from an age where English was the unchallenged global lingua franca, it remained a curious novelty that French still reigned supreme as the continent's diplomatic tongue. The world’s cultural epicenter was undeniably Paris.
“A fortune indeed... but look upon it. Behold this exquisite, mesmerizing hue.”
“Now that I gaze upon it, it is quite extraordinary. Those French bastards... say what you will about them, but they certainly know how to craft luxury.”
Calling France the cultural capital felt almost like an understatement; when it came to soft power, Britain couldn’t hold a candle to its cross-Channel rival. Perhaps that was why the British aristocracy, despite harboring a hatred for the French that went far beyond mere rivalry into ancestral blood feuds, went mad the moment something was stamped Made in France. The exchange between these two peers was living proof. In fact, it wasn’t just them—every guest in the vicinity had pricked up their ears the moment French fashion was mentioned.
Well... it is striking, I’ll grant them that...
Even having lived through the twenty-first century, I had never laid eyes on a green carpet of such luminous, saturated brilliance. Green was ubiquitous in nature, yet curiously underrepresented in human tailoring and interior decor. It also carried a slightly sinister undertone. Goblins and orcs were green, weren’t they? And in popular imagination, poison was almost invariably depicted as emerald green.
Poison...? Why is poison always green?
The idle curiosity brushed against my mind, only to fade just as quickly. After all, I was not immune to the allure of magnificent, expensive things. But my wandering train of thought was derailed by a sudden murmur beside me.
“Be quiet and stand still for a moment.”
“Liston?”
“I am a wealthy man now,” Liston whispered, his eyes gleaming. “High time I took a wife. If I were to present a green carpet like that to a lady I fancy, what woman could possibly refuse? A proposal from Robert Liston himself, accompanied by such splendor!”
“Ah... well, I suppose you’re right.”
Liston was thoroughly entranced. To be fair, turning down a proposal from Robert Liston was a terrifying prospect in its own right. Refuse him, and a lady might find her entire lineage in jeopardy. Death would be the merciful outcome—one might have their limbs amputated at lightning speed while still breathing, only to wake up as a dissection specimen in the London Hospital Anatomy Dissection Hall.
Well... he’s not really that wicked of a man. Probably.
Shaking off the gruesome reverie, I quietly turned my attention back to the two noblemen.
“Observe it closely. This pigment is known as Scheele’s green.”
“Scheele’s green, you say...?”
“It possesses a character entirely distinct from any green of antiquity, does it not? An enchanting, mysterious beauty... Ah, come, admire my wife’s gown.”
“A pleasure to see you, Your Grace.”
“Ha-ha! You look radiant, my lady. The gown flatters you immensely.”
The conversation seamlessly transitioned from the floor coverings to the garments. Lady Jamie’s gown was bathed in another shade of vibrant, mesmerizing green, possessing a lavish sheen distinct from the carpet. Though Lady Jamie could not, even by the most charitable standards, be deemed a conventional beauty, the dress lent her an undeniable aura of aristocratic elegance.
“This shade is emerald green.”
“Emerald? Good heavens, did they grind up actual gemstones?”
“Hahaha! Even the wealthiest magnates couldn't afford such extravagance! I know not the precise chemistry, but they concocted it by blending extraordinary rare substances.”
“Aha... I see. Yet it captures the mystical luster of a true emerald. The tonal depth is marvelous...”
One thing became glaringly obvious: Sir Damien would be purchasing a set before the week was out. Furthermore, starting tonight, every self-respecting socialite in high-society London would clamor to drape their parlors and persons in green carpet and silk. Back in Korea, I used to think my homeland was peculiarly obsessive about following trends, but human nature was identical everywhere. The upper crust here was worse, if anything. The moment someone flaunted a novelty, everyone else felt compelled to acquire it, lest they suffer the excruciating indignity of falling behind.
“I must procure a gown as well,” Liston muttered to himself.
And it wasn’t solely the aristocracy. The nobility had always been objects of bitter jealousy, but they were equally objects of fervent aspiration. Whatever they indulged in automatically acquired an air of supreme refinement. Liston’s sudden desire to mimic them was no coincidence.
“The crowning jewel, however, is this wallpaper.”
“I was just about to inquire! Did this also cross the Channel from France?”
“I am genuinely envious. Could you introduce me to the artisan responsible?”
Whoever the artist was, the delicate floral motifs painted against the vivid green background were breathtakingly rendered.
Even I’m tempted by that...
Green was the color of nature. Modern science had proven that surrounding oneself with natural hues benefited one’s mental equilibrium. With the grueling stress of late wearing me thin, the thought of retiring to a room lined with such lush, soothing walls seemed remarkably appealing.
“How much was it?”
“Exorbitant.”
“Precisely how much?”
“About... this much.”
“Good lord, man...!”
“Ha-ha! I bled a fair sum of coin. Still, being among the first to commission it incurs a premium; the cost will surely decline in time.”
“In time? A gentleman of standing cannot wait for prices to drop!”
In time. Yes, I’ll wait for later.
I could afford it if I stretched my purse, but I wasn’t foolish enough to bankrupt myself over wallpaper. There were a thousand better uses for capital than pasting gold onto a brick wall.
“Did you enjoy the evening?” Liston asked as we prepared to depart.
“It was pleasant enough. Though... aside from the green decor, nothing particularly memorable caught my eye.”
“A marvelous sight, wasn't it? First thing tomorrow morning, I shall head into town to see if any merchant carries it.”
“May I come along just to look?”
“What sort of question is that? You are my younger brother in all but blood. Of course you may!”
“Splendid.”
As our exchange made painfully clear, the sole lasting impression from that hours-long, opulent ball was the color green. Other gentlemen might have cherished recollections of dancing with lovely debutantes or sharing whispered pleasantries, but neither Liston nor I possessed the social charms to enchant high-born ladies. Liston enjoyed immense popularity in general, but aristocratic gentlewomen were the exception. Outwardly, they fancied courteous, refined dandies. To their delicate sensibilities, Robert Liston resembled a ferocious barbarian berserker fresh from the highlands.
“How was it?”
Having agreed to meet Liston on the morrow, I returned to our lodgings, where Alfred and Joseph greeted me at the door.
“A high-society banquet... the atmosphere was so suffocating I could barely swallow a bite. Find me something to eat.”
“Oh, so you can’t swallow high-society food, but you’ll gladly scavenge free meals from anyone else?” Alfred grumbled.
“I’ll pay you back with interest later, senior.”
“Keep your interest! Just promise you’ll never shove another urinary catheter into my cock again...!”
Since he was voicing such a pathetic grievance, I offered a perfunctory apology while shoveling bread into my mouth. Come to think of it, Alfred really was the ultimate pushover.
“Wait, what’s that?”
Chewing thoughtfully, my gaze snagged on a square scrap of paper resting on the table. It was roughly the size of origami paper, dyed in an arresting shade of green.
“What about it?” Alfred asked.
“I saw something remarkably like this at the banquet tonight.”
“Ah... my father brought that home. He’s assessing whether it has commercial viability in the British market. Apparently, it’s causing a massive sensation across France.”
“Incredible... your father’s business acumen is terrifying. Does he have a stockpile? Because I guarantee people won’t be able to buy enough of it.”
“Truly?”
“It was the talk of the entire ballroom. Half of London’s nobility will be storming the markets at dawn to wallpaper their estates.”
“Oh! I must run and inform my father immediately!”
Thrilled by the prospect of a windfall, Alfred bolted out the door. Joseph, who had shown zero interest until he heard the nobility was obsessed with it, belatedly stepped forward and picked up the paper sample. But as he examined it, his brow furrowed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“The smell...”
“Smell?”
I hadn’t noticed any peculiar scent at the duke's estate. The air there had been thick with the aromas of roasted meats and puddings. And what kind of cuisine was it? British food. Unpleasant to look at, foul to smell, and, upon tasting, utterly devoid of flavor.
“Hand it here.”
“Here... ugh, it smells wretched.”
“Hmph... wait.”
I took the scrap and held it beneath my nose. A damp, musty stench rose from the fibers—reminiscent of festering mildew or stale dampness, yet laced with a bizarre, pungent sharpness.
“Hey, this paper is rotting. Go wash your hands at once.”
“Wait... can decomposing wallpaper harbor miasma?” Joseph gasped, his eyes widening in terror.
“Of course, you idiot! A foul stench like this is the very definition of miasma!”
“Bloody hell!”
The moment the dread specter of miasma entered his mind, Joseph sprinted toward the washbasin like a man possessed, desperate to douse himself in disinfectant.
Left entirely alone, I stared down at the vibrant green square in my hand. The stale, unnatural odor continued to drift into the air.
Something about this...
Felt deeply, terribly wrong.