Chapter 66
Chapter 66
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 66
Chapter Title: The Advertisement Hits the Presses
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It's common knowledge, even to a three-year-old, that printing pictures is harder than text, so I rushed to the newspaper office on Sunday just in case.
"Hmm... Photos would be too tight on time..."
"I'll pay whatever extra it takes. We need to run multiple ads through early October, so it has to be this time."
"We can do text, but even so, photos..."
"What if the model is an elf?"
"We can do it."
"Time-wise..."
"We'll cut back on sleep."
"Thank you."
Thanks to that, we secured the ad spot without much hassle.
With the ad in the newspaper, there were about four days left until it spread across the nation.
If I let my optimism run a bit, inquiries from countless interested ladies would pour in starting next week after seeing the ad. Before that, it was time to methodically prepare in advance.
I left material prep and directly related tasks to the staff and first sought out Mother.
"The fact that you brought up tea time first means you have something to discuss."
"Yes, that's right. I have a few questions."
"Go ahead, ask away. What's troubling you?"
"I want to prevent copies of the clothes I make. I want to know if my idea is feasible."
"Preventing copies? That's nearly impossible for clothing."
"It would be for ordinary cases."
Preventing copies of clothing designs is practically impossible.
Because proving plagiarism in fashion design is incredibly difficult.
Unless they replicate the patterns, materials, and even button placements 100%, it's hard to claim they stole it.
Why?
Unless you're making something wildly unique, there's bound to be overlap in many areas.
Is it plagiarism if the dress silhouette is the same?
Or embroidering roses—is that plagiarism?
Or having the same number of buttons?
These stack up, making it extremely hard to define what counts as plagiarism and what doesn't.
Even if you regulate it, clothing is something meant to spread widely among people, so hasty rules or bans would cause massive confusion.
So, to prevent plagiarism, you need a different approach.
One is introducing authenticity marks or trademarks to brand copies as fakes.
"Can you patent the fabric too? It's made from new materials and combinations that didn't exist before."
Another is blocking the copying method at the source.
Designs can be copied with minor tweaks, but not fabric.
A fabric with new properties from new materials and combinations isn't just design—
it's a new material, a new product. Patent the fabric itself or the production process, and no one can copy it.
They'd have to pay us royalties if they did.
That way, we could monopolize for at least a few years.
"Hmm..."
Mother, hearing my question, moistened her lips with tea and fell deep into thought.
She tapped the table with her finger, organizing her thoughts, then furrowed her brow and spoke.
"The Ministry of Magic could handle it if possible, but magic patents are only for magic-related materials. It has to be rigorously proven in production methods, processes, conditions, and magic must account for at least 50%."
"What about the witches' spells?"
"That's tricky. It fails the first requirement, and those girls don't follow standard specs, so the patent office would hate it."
"But patents aren't just for magic."
"Right. The Ministry of Commerce might be different. For completely new materials and combinations making a new fabric, there's a chance. Do you have that fabric on hand?"
"Yes."
I handed Mother a pre-cut swatch about the size of a handkerchief.
"Ah!"
Mother took the fabric, examined and felt it from all angles, then let out a sigh and smiled.
"It's completely different from existing cloth. If we emphasize it's an improvement on prior fabrics, it should be possible."
"I see."
A smile spread across my face at Mother's positive opinion.
Of course, we'd know after review, but a good start felt great.
"William, what's this fabric made of?"
"Silk mixed with threads from two new substances the witches found."
"Two new substances? Were there more besides these?"
"Yes, just from what I checked, there were at least twenty kinds."
Mother gripped the fabric tightly and fixed me with a hawk-like sharp gaze.
"William, I'll handle the patent for this fabric personally, so step back and tell me everyone involved with this."
"Pardon? Mother, what do you mean all of a sudden?"
"I'm no expert like your father, but I dabbled in magic, so I know how grueling and nightmarish developing new substances or machines is."
"Yes."
"Yet the witches found dozens of these strange, wondrous substances?"
"That's right."
"Ha..."
Mother placed a hand on her forehead with a frustrated sigh.
She took several deep breaths to cool down, then opened her eyes wide and continued calmly.
"William, this isn't something to settle with just one fabric. The witches—who don't care about patents—have struck a goldmine of new materials. Whoever secures them first will go down in history and the bank ledgers."
"Ah!"
Magicians always patent, so I'd overlooked it.
If patents for world-changing new materials were up for grabs, Mother was right—it wasn't just about one fabric or something I should touch.
"So, if you want an inheritance to live off for your grandchildren, hand it over to your mother and father pronto."
"Yes, I'll compile it right away."
"Good."
Mother nodded with a satisfied smile.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ In place of Lady Jim's husband, who couldn't leave his room for unavoidable reasons, I visited the state secretary's office.
Unlike the boring, formal audience chamber, this office—rarely visited by pesky nobles—was incredibly comfortable.
Did Lady Jim's husband handle work so leisurely here...?
It was infuriating enough to make me want to extend those "unavoidable reasons" maliciously.
"Your Highness, urgent news you must hear..."
In my foul mood, slouched crookedly in the chair, the state secretary's secretary burst in without even a notepad.
Normally worthy of a scolding, but the elderly secretary's urgency told me now wasn't the time.
"There is no 'Your Highness' here right now."
"Y-Your Majesty?!"
The secretary met my eyes, scattered the papers clutched to his chest, and bowed as if to smash the floor.
"Rise."
"Your grace is boundless. But Your Majesty, why are you in the state secretary's office? How can I know?"
"My father-in-law is occupied with some matter, so for a while, I'll handle his duties alongside my own. What urgent news must the state secretary know?"
"Ah! Yes."
The secretary gathered the scattered papers, neatened them, and placed them on the desk.
"Please review this while I explain."
"Mm."
"First, Countess Hume, who came to the capital, returned home abruptly last evening."
"Four days early. Was there an incident?"
"No, nothing unusual at Count Hume's territory or their townhouse."
"Then where is Count Hume now?"
"Still at his estate. But a large volume of letters went to the Magic Tower."
"Hmm..."
Suspicious movements, indeed.
But with two sons in the capital and as Count Hume, nothing too alarming.
If he were the type to scheme, he'd have done it dozens of times by now.
"Just watch. We'll discuss when new developments arise."
"Yes."
"Next?"
"Next is about the second son of Count Hume."
"The younger one?"
"Yes."
"Now this gets interesting."
Lately too quiet—I was pondering a little stir-fry, and here he moves right on cue. A young man who knows my mind well.
"Sir William contacted the newspaper and placed an ad."
"Hmm... That's all?"
"He said the model is an elf, and they'll run a series of ads."
"A series? Not repeats of the same one?"
"Yes."
"Hoo..."
An elf model for photo ads in a series?
This lad plays the money game in fascinating ways...
But throwing money like this means he's confident.
If that confident, it's only polite for me to take interest.
"When the paper's out, bring it straight to me and my father-in-law."
"Yes."
I hope he doesn't disappoint me.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ "Young Master, the newspaper's here."
"Hand it over quick!"
Just before boarding the carriage to head to the shop, Francis came running with the tardy paper.
I snatched the newspaper from Francis and flipped through pages frantically, heart pounding, searching for the ad.
"Young Master, not there—here, here it is."
Panicking as no photo appeared no matter how I turned pages, Emily beside me grabbed the paper and flipped it.
"Oh, there!"
The image wasn't mid-page but on the very last—the spot for short commentaries or ads—taking up half the page with my ad.
>
[Naturally
> Comfortably
> Beautifully] Atelier Liberatio "Kya..."
Our Thomas service was so explosively awesome it was driving me mad.