Chapter -17
“Emilia…”
A small whisper slipped from her lips.
Emilia’s pale cheeks were flushed, her breath faintly uneven.
Had she chased after her, drawn by curiosity when she suddenly burst into tears?
Two guards followed close behind her, scolding Emilia for her reckless behavior.
“My Lady, you mustn’t slip away from the ballroom on your own.”
“Oh? And why not?”
The guard’s tone was stern, yet Emilia looked perfectly unbothered.
Her cool expression said she truly didn’t understand what she was being scolded for.
The two guards exchanged troubled glances, and one knelt slightly to meet Emilia’s eyes.
“Your father warned you, didn’t he? During the soirée, you mustn’t wander off alone. You’re to stay close to us or your maids at all times.”
“But you came with me, didn’t you? That means I’m not alone.”
For a twelve-year-old, she was precocious—already skilled at talking back to adults.
Turning away with a defiant little huff, Emilia faced Juliet once more.
The bored, distant expression she’d worn before the guests was gone.
Now, her wintry gray-blue eyes gleamed with curiosity—bright and feline, fixed intently on Juliet.
“What were you doing here? Were you crying all by yourself? Are you hurt? Or did something sad happen?”
“My Lady, that’s rude to ask someone you’ve just met! Please, we should return at once!”
One of the guards spoke sharply, touching Emilia’s shoulder. Though he pretended to be scolding her manners, his true motive was caution—he was protecting his mistress.
That was his job, after all. Even if the girl before them looked frail and harmless, he had to be wary of anyone near Emilia.
But, as usual, Emilia ignored him completely. She darted forward and clasped Juliet’s hands tightly.
“If you’re not feeling well, I can take you to the doctor! He’s a little strict and the injections hurt, but he’s a very famous physician!”
“Ah—um—”
“Or, if you’re scared of doctors, I can bring you somewhere to rest! Your makeup’s smudged, so maybe you should wash your face first. Yes, let’s do that!”
Emilia beamed proudly, as though she’d just proposed a brilliant idea.
When she smiled like that, all her precocious maturity melted away, leaving behind the simple charm of a twelve-year-old girl.
She was adorable. So much so that Juliet felt her throat tighten, words failing her.
She should have responded calmly—as a polite guest would. She should have refused the offer with courtesy and excused herself.
Already, her disappearance from the ballroom had drawn attention. Drawing more of it by entertaining Emilia’s curiosity was a terrible idea.
But she had thought: Just one glimpse of her. Just one word of congratulations. That will be enough.
That thought, perhaps, was her mistake.
Juliet had not prepared herself for a real conversation with Emilia.
Caught off guard, her mind went blank—and she stood there, mute and frozen.
“Come on, this way!”
Impatient with Juliet’s silence, Emilia tugged her firmly by the hand, pulling her along.
It was the guards, not Juliet, who panicked first.
“My Lady! You mustn’t place your trust so easily in strangers!”
“If anything happens to you, we’ll be the ones the Lord scolds!”
Their formal restraint had vanished completely.
They knew better than to openly call a guest suspicious—but Emilia’s impulsive behavior left them no choice.
Emilia, however, frowned in clear displeasure.
“Oh, you’re so noisy!”
“M-My Lady!”
“—By the way, what’s your name? Who did you come to the party with?”
Juliet realized belatedly that the question was directed at her.
Her sluggish thoughts and tongue stumbled into motion.
“I—I’m Juliet Hendridge. I was invited as the partner of Sir Adam, the junior knight.”
“A pleasure, Juliet! I’m Emilia. Nice to meet you.”
Lifting her skirt’s hem, Emilia gave a graceful little curtsey—then turned to her guards with a triumphant smile.
“See? Now we’re not strangers. We’re friends. And you wouldn’t dare be rude to one of my friends, would you?”
Her small chest puffed out with pride at her own logic.
The guards sighed in defeat, exchanging weary looks that said plainly she’s done it again.
“…Very well. But for safety’s sake, we’ll accompany you. Is that acceptable?”
His words were directed to both Emilia and Juliet.
Though they’d relented, their wariness toward Juliet hadn’t disappeared.
Mentioning Adam’s name had softened them a little, but not enough to make them careless.
Feeling their watchful gaze on her back, Juliet allowed Emilia to lead her back inside.
Emilia was heading in the opposite direction from the ballroom.
They passed through quiet corridors, away from the distant hum of conversation, until they reached the entrance hall before the grand staircase.
“We’re going upstairs.”
Her voice was bright, almost giddy—escaping a dull party clearly thrilled her.
Juliet knew that staircase well: the violet-carpeted steps led to the private quarters of the household.
Emilia likely meant to bring her to an empty room where she could rest.
“Let’s go.”
Still holding hands, Emilia began to climb, Juliet following, with the guards trailing three paces behind.
But soon after they began ascending, Juliet froze.
A chill raced down her spine—a sense of being watched. Not by Emilia or the guards, but by something else. Multiple cold, piercing stares.
Again… This wasn’t the first time.
When she’d lived here as Liddell, she’d felt the same dread every time she climbed this staircase.
She knew why.
Her eyes darted toward the wall beside her.
Just above, framed in gilt, hung a large portrait.
Not just one—many.
Each painting, rendered with lifelike precision, depicted past heads of the Arling family and their kin.
Their eyes were heavy with melancholy, their faces almost spectral—ghosts painted in life.
These portraits didn’t only line the staircase; they adorned parlors and halls throughout the manor.
Even more were stored away in the attic, unseen.
Their sheer number spoke volumes of the Arling family’s long lineage.
When Oscar had once dismissed the Aschen earldom as “a house of little history or wealth,” he was wrong.
The first Arling earl had been ennobled around the mid-400s of the Spius Calendar—
about eleven hundred years ago, when the first king united eight warring kingdoms into one realm: Efilante.
In recognition of their valor in those unification wars, the new king had rewarded his fiercest allies with land and titles.
One of them was House Arling.
Originally a warrior tribe, the Arlings had distinguished themselves in countless battles.
For that, they were granted the earldom and the land of Aschen, which they have ruled ever since.
They developed the region—its fields, its waterways—and became renowned for their red tea production, unique in all the kingdom.
Through the ages, the Arlings swore unwavering loyalty to the crown, defending Aschen—the kingdom’s northern shield.
Within the royal court, they were a family to be respected, even feared.
The title of “Earl” varied widely in power—but “the Earl of Aschen” was in a class of its own.
In wealth, influence, and command, they rivaled even the marquesses.
Perhaps, compared to ancient noble houses that had served the royal line for centuries before unification, their history seemed young.
Some courtiers, obsessed with bloodlines, still called them upstarts.
Maybe that was why Oscar had spoken so dismissively of his own house.
But in truth, none of the families ennobled after unification had risen to a marquessate.
In that sense, the Arlings were far from insignificant.
“—Juliet? What’s wrong?”
Emilia’s gentle tug brought her back to the present.
She’d stopped walking without realizing it.
“Ah, I was just… surprised to see so many portraits.”
Trying to sound casual, she smiled weakly.
Emilia brightened and pointed at the paintings, eager to explain.
“These are my ancestors! That’s my grandfather, and that’s my great-great-grandfather, and those are my great-grandmother and her cousins. And—look, this one!”
Releasing Juliet’s hand, Emilia scampered up the stairs and pointed to the topmost portrait.
Black hair. Winter-gray eyes.
Her father’s younger face—eerily similar to her own.
“That’s my father when he was young! He looks a little stern, but isn’t he handsome?”
“Y-Yes…”
That portrait had hung there even in Liddell’s time.
Oscar must have been around eighteen when it was painted—arms crossed, seated regally, his sharp gaze fixed forward.
His expression was so severe that Juliet almost looked away.
Yet Emilia gazed up at it with a radiant smile, pure admiration shining in her eyes.
It was clear how dearly she loved her father—and how deeply he must love her in return.
After all, he’d held an entire soirée in her honor.
Juliet felt a small, quiet relief.
But then Emilia spoke again—from the top of the stairs, her voice bright and innocent:
“And this one—this is my mother!”
