Schemes on the Wedding Eve
Of course, he wasn't using any magic.
It just took two seconds to pull the hook from his belt, latch it onto the window frame, and climb up. Three seconds to pick the lock and slip inside without a sound.
His body simply moved in ways that defied reason.
'So yeah, getting sold to the circus wasn't all bad.'
All of Gaspar's agile movements came from his circus days.
He'd joined the intelligence bureau only because the chief at the time had spotted his physical talents.
Whistling a carefree tune as he strolled along without even bothering to disguise himself, he caught sight of an approaching woman and his eyes lit up.
"Hey, miss. Got a minute?"
"What the hell is this creep?"
To any onlooker, it looked like a sleazy man hitting on a disgusted woman. But in that fleeting moment of collision, something had been passed between them.
The woman, who had received the directive, slipped into the restroom of a nearby tavern, read it quickly, then flipped her dress inside out and put it back on.
Both the inner and outer layers were designed to be worn externally—a signature outfit for Franche's fashion-savvy female agents.
Acquire a discard pawn.
Her hands moved swiftly, unbinding her hair.
It took a mere three minutes to transform her neat appearance into something seductively alluring.
Soon, the woman smiled and made her way to the tavern's most secluded corner.
The kind of person who desperately wanted to fit in with high society but never would.
The sort who yearned for just one moment in the spotlight.
The Franche intelligence bureau had been exploiting people like her for ages, and they still did.
After all, such types existed everywhere in the world.
So convenient to use and discard.
Whispers slithered from scheming lips, the night deepening bit by bit.
The moon tilted low, and so did the wine glasses.
Genevieve, half out of her mind with drink and tears, finally drifted off to exhausted sleep. A thick hand gently tucked in Ibel, who had fallen asleep while reading.
In the corner of the estate's garden, Anselm slipped out of the bedroom in secret, his eyes gleaming as he captured something in a jar.
And then.
The morning of the wedding dawned.
Every bedroom in the Bayern estate was filled with guests. The most important ones occupied the main building, the rest the annexes.
Even then, there weren't enough rooms, so some had to stay at the Eberstein residence.
"Careful there!"
"The ribbons? All done?"
"Yes! Just need to scatter the flowers now!"
The maids buzzed about with mouths full of pins, while the footmen moved until their muscles ached.
Hauling, decorating. Hauling some more, decorating again.
Before they knew it, the garden had been transformed into a wedding venue.
"All set. Take a look in the mirror."
"Thank you."
The two who had helped Ibel prepare were Mrs. Eberstein and Mrs. Hermine.
They stepped back with joyful faces, gazing at her.
The finest gown was adorned with orange jasmine everywhere, and a ribbon with fresh flowers graced her neck.
Mrs. Eberstein's eyes welled with tears, nearly causing her to drop the veil she held.
"You must live happily, my dear. Always… always happy."
"…I will."
A fake wedding. A foster mother.
There was no place for 'Ibel Klarren's' life here.
Yet strangely, Ibel felt happy.
Fake, but somehow this felt real, and 'Ibel Klarren' the lie.
She knew it wasn't entirely normal to feel this way, but so what?
Victor had said it was fine.
Back in the army, he'd always told her that.
If you can't trust yourself, trust me—the one who believes in you.
Those words had been such a sturdy pillar.
"Now just the bouquet."
It too was orange jasmine.
Ibel took the fragrant bundle in hand and stepped lightly forward.
But no one noticed the eight furry legs wriggling inside it.
"You're throwing this later. Got it?"
While the adults were all busy, the children were fulfilling their own duties.
Anselm, perfectly dressed, approached Damian—who was yanking at his shirt buttons—and whispered.
"We're ruining the wedding. You think we'll let her stick around here forever?"
"Mm…"
"What? Don't like it?"
Damian eyed his twin with reluctance, lips pursed stubbornly. His gaze slid to the glass jar in Anselm's hand.
Eight eyes. Eight legs.
Normally, he'd have gleefully agreed and taken it, but not this time.
Causing chaos was fun, but it would disappoint Ibel.
Fidgeting with his fingers, Damian drew a deep breath and shook his head firmly.
Ibel, who wiped his mouth so gently. Ibel, who read books in that kind voice. Who never hit, pinched, or looked at him with pity.
And even Ibel, who stayed with him when he hid in the tree.
Damian kept picturing her face.
Every scene was wonderful.
"…She's more important than me? We promised it'd just be us…"
Anselm blinked in disbelief.
Deep in his pupils, etched into the edges of his irises, were wounds.
As twins, he already sensed it without needing to measure.
But Damian squeezed his eyes shut. He even snatched the jar from Anselm's hand.
"What, has she cast a spell on you or something?"
Anger clouded Anselm's angelic face.
This was a separation he'd never felt before.
The first moment the inseparable twins declared independence.
"Snap out of it, Damian. This is Mom's house—ours. She's not Mom."
"Ugh… ah."
"Mom went to heaven. She's never coming back. We have to protect our home."
Anselm's words were as much a vow to himself.
Mom's gone now.
So no one will love us.
They'll take Mom's things, throw them out, erase them…!
Emotions surging, Anselm suddenly recalled Ibel returning Mom's clothes.
He shook his head fiercely, but now the image of her giving back Mom's bedroom flickered.
'No, I don't believe it. Who knows when she'll change.'
Young as he was, Anselm thought like an adult.
True to his habit of solitary reflection, his mind delved deep.
"Once she marries, she won't need to be nice to us anymore, idiot. It's all an act to become duchess."
"Wha…?"
"After the wedding, we'll be useless to her."
Anselm repeated it like a mantra to himself.
I won't believe it. The kindness is all fake.
Of course, her hands are warm…
Of course, he didn't hate the occasional head pats during checkups.
Of course, she kept her promise to read to Damian every day.
'I'm not falling for it. She'll change the second she becomes duchess.'
And so, Anselm's ultimate weapon was the spider.
He wanted to sabotage this wedding, delay it.
That way, her kindness might last a little longer.
'I won't believe her. But Damian… Damian does.'
If she stopped smiling, stopped reading, started hitting.
His innocent twin would be devastated.
He barely spoke as it was.
'I have to protect him.'
The boy bit his pink lips.
He'd already tampered with the bouquet.
If his twin wouldn't join, he'd do it alone.
Coral ribbons fluttered throughout the garden.
Chairs draped in white bore orange jasmine decorations, and the carpet laid on the grass was plush, woven with golden threads—an enchanting sight.
Awnings shaded guests whether seated or standing, and champagne chilled in ice stood within arm's reach.
Gifts awaited the attendees too: for women, perfume and lace handkerchiefs commissioned directly from the ducal house; for men, premium cigars and cravat pins.
No wedding offered such lavish favors, so excitement buzzed among them all.
"Ah, the music's changed."
"It must be starting soon."
The guests hushed, eyes fixed on the estate entrance.