4. The Maid
The overseer's mansion was utterly silent with its master away. As soon as Baron Belpharos departed early that morning amid farewells from his household staff and family, the usual comings and goings of those connected to the mine ceased entirely. In truth, aside from the servants, only the baroness and Olivier remained in the house, leaving the place as quiet as a tomb.
Olivier's day unfolded as usual. Until afternoon, she lounged in her room wearing a light summer dress with thin sleeves and a deep neckline, playing the piano, then reading a book. When boredom set in, she rolled around freely on her bed. Beside her, Emily brought lukewarm drinks, ferried simple snacks and refreshments diligently, picked up the books tossed haphazardly and neatly arranged them on the shelves, and in between tended to Olivier's hair, smoothed out wrinkles in her dress, or dusted the furniture in the room.
After tumbling about on the bed for a good while, Olivier suddenly lifted her head and called for Emily. Emily paused her task and approached the young lady's side, standing at the foot of the bed.
"Could you fetch the embroidery hoop? It should be in the corner of the dressing room. Bring the basket too."
Emily headed to the dressing room connected to the young lady's bedroom and bathroom. Sure enough, in the corner stood an embroidery hoop with fine fabric stretched over a round wooden frame, and beside it, a basket filled with threads in every color, needles, neatly folded silks of various hues, scissors, and wooden pattern templates in assorted designs.
"Miss, where shall I put them?"
When Emily returned carrying the basket and hoop, Olivier pointed to the shaded spot just beyond the sunlit edge by the window. Emily dragged over a chair and side table, placed them there, and set the basket and hoop on the table.
Olivier sat down, brushing back the sweat-dampened strands from her forehead—whether from the heat or exertion.
"Do my hair up neatly in the back. Make sure it won't get in the way while I embroider."
She placed the hoop on her lap as she spoke. Soon, Emily stood behind the chair, comb in hand—a bronze one studded with jewels—and began styling her hair. Olivier removed the silk fabric from the hoop.
"What was I planning to make with this?"
She tilted her head at the white silk, half-embroidered with a pretty pattern. She seemed to ponder deeply, but apparently drew a blank; she folded it and tucked it into the basket, then pulled out another piece of fabric. She fitted pale pink silk into the hoop and overlaid several wooden templates from the basket, lifting and lowering them as she mulled over the design.
"Miss, do you know how to embroider too?"
"Of course. It's basic ladylike accomplishment: sewing, embroidery, lace-making, playing instruments, and a touch of artistic talent. I can paint decently, and you know I play the piano. Before coming here, I embroidered often, but once I let it lapse, I lost the urge. Even so, my needlework is precise—everyone coveted the pieces I made and wanted them for themselves."
Olivier chattered on as she considered two different patterns overlaid on the hoop. Emily combed her hair smoothly upward into a neat bun, securing the long tresses with a silver pin. Then she gazed at Olivier's seated silhouette from behind. Beneath the elegantly pinned-up hair, her graceful neckline extended straight down to softly rounded shoulders that sloped gently—the contours glowed vividly in the bright sunlight, exuding feminine allure and beauty. Satisfied with her handiwork, Emily peered over Olivier's shoulder and saw her finally decide on a pattern, tracing it onto the silk with tailor's chalk from the basket.
"But why..."
At Emily's question, Olivier frowned as if recalling an unpleasant memory.
"You saw it yesterday, right? When I mentioned applying to Medeo, Lady Loren dismissed me outright. Bragging about being in Eximia and all. She'll surely snub me at the next party too, so I need something to hold my own. I'm thinking of embroidering pretty handkerchiefs. I'll carry them and flash them at the first opportunity."
Emily recalled the scene in the garden with the guests from the Loren count family. At first, Evril had approached kindly, but she'd clammed up awkwardly at Olivier's response.
"...What does 'class' mean?"
Emily was curious about the Academia's classes. Olivier finished tracing the pattern and tautened the fabric in the hoop before explaining.
"Well, the Academia divides into general and special admissions. General is called Medeo. Special has Seruma and Eximia. The difference is whether you study ancient languages—special admissions take an ancient language exam. Within special, top scorers enter Eximia, the highest class. That's where the future empire-runners gather. An elite track full of high nobles."
Emily asked in a puzzled tone at Olivier's explanation.
"But you study ancient languages every evening, Miss?"
Olivier waved it off casually.
"Nah, that's not enough. Ancient grammar's complex, vocabulary vast—even non-Elkslon natives struggle to fluency. Elkslon's the mages' land; their official tongue is ancient."
She pursed her lips sullenly, her expression dissatisfied.
"...With a tutor, maybe. Special ancient exams are oral and essay: oral demands fluent, seamless answers; essay, two or three pages on a given topic. You need mastery of conversation and grammar. What I scribble evenings is just what I picked up peeking over my brother's shoulder during his tutor lessons before Academia. I'm just trying not to forget it."
"The young master..."
At Emily's curiosity, Olivier sighed shortly.
"Brother passed the ancient exam and got into Seruma—Mom was thrilled. Our family's pillar, so despite our means, we splurged on an ancient-language tutor for him from childhood. Impossible for me."
Finishing, Olivier's face grew faintly melancholic. With deft, wistful motions, she selected a needle threaded with pretty yarn from the basket and began stitching along the faint chalk lines on the hoop—one stitch at a time. The needle extended straight from the hoop at a steady pace, soon forming loops and overlaying a central stitch into a small, lovely flower shape. Emily watched her embroider with a downcast expression, then spoke up.
"Miss, it's so pretty. I've never seen stitching like that."
Olivier nodded, hands still moving.
"Ah, this? Lazy Daisy Stitch—common for flowers. Complicate it a bit for Double Lazy Daisy, a layered bloom. Done right, it's gorgeously ornate."
A single small flower bloomed on the taut pink silk. Emily admired it.
"It's exquisite."
Flattered, Olivier beamed.
"Naturally—perfection from these hands. I'll decorate the handkerchief corners with flowers and butterflies. But it's been ages; my rhythm's off, stitches veering. Gotta redo it. Need focus, so no talking for a bit. Why not read a book?"
Emily stepped away. As Olivier removed the silk from the hoop, she spoke again as if struck by a sudden thought.
"If you want to learn embroidery, ask Lotte to teach you. I learned from her. Heard she studied with Mom, but her skill surpasses Mother's."
"Yes, Miss."
Emily replied politely and headed to the bookshelf by the desk. Thinking she'd read while the young lady embroidered, she scanned the shelves and picked a dark-covered book. She took the navy-blue volume—its blurb reading Spectacular Plot Twists, Dazzling Magic Battles, Heartwarming Romance—fetched a chair to Olivier's side, sat, opened it, and read quietly.