The broken door of the Frostwolf Mansion creaked once more in Rowling’s hand, a sound so strained it seemed to be nearing the end of its life.
He navigated the garden with practiced ease, avoiding the piles of wild weeds that grew taller than a man.
The deposit from Sylvia, combined with the gold coins he had “amicably negotiated” from the merchants, had all been transformed into the heavy Potion Box currently in his hands.
‘Earning money isn’t shameful.’
In truth, it wasn’t that he absolutely had to buy medicine for Cosette; he was no saint.
However, Rowling was now a high-ranking Duke. If others found out he had left his own sister to die, there was no telling what kind of rumors they would concoct. Not only would it damage his reputation, but it might even jeopardize the mission on Sylvia’s end.
‘Exactly, that’s why. I definitely don’t mean to spoil this little girl like she’s my own flesh and blood!’
Cosette’s door was slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of warm candlelight to spill out. Rowling lightened his footsteps as he approached, but he paused at the threshold.
Inside the room, the little girl wasn’t reading. She was curled up in her wheelchair with a thin blanket draped over her shoulders. By the faint light of the candle, she sat with her head bowed, meticulously sewing an old, faded man’s shirt.
It was his shirt. The cuffs were frayed, and she was using fine, dense stitches to carefully mend the damage.
Rowling’s throat felt a bit dry, but he pushed the door open anyway.
“Brother.”
Hearing the movement, Cosette looked up in pleasant surprise, her small eyes instantly lighting up. She belatedly tried to hide the needle and thread in her hands. If her brother saw her sewing, he would surely nag her again about not taking care of her health.
This little girl was so sensible it made his chest feel tight.
Rowling didn’t say a word. He simply walked over and placed the heavy Potion Box on the small table beside her with a dull *thud*.
Upon seeing the box, the light in Cosette’s eyes dimmed rapidly, like a candle flickering out in the wind. But this time, it wasn’t for herself — it was for him.
She set down her sewing and didn’t ask how much the medicine had cost. Instead, she reached out with her cold, tiny hands and gently tugged at the corner of Rowling’s trench coat.
“Brother,” she said, looking up at the dark circles under Rowling’s eyes, her voice soft and light. “You stayed up late again.”
“I’m fine.” Rowling’s voice was as devoid of warmth as ever. “This is a full course of treatment. Take it on schedule; not a single drop is to be left behind.”
He flipped the box open. Rows of small vials filled with a pale blue liquid sparkled under the candlelight.
Cosette didn’t say anything more. She silently picked up a vial and drank it down without even a flinch. Then, just as Rowling was preparing to turn and leave, she suddenly opened her arms wide.
Rowling’s footsteps halted.
‘What does this mean? Asking for a hug? What a pain.’
He was about to find an excuse to refuse when he met her eyes. Those clear eyes held no demand for attention like a normal child’s, nor did they show dependence. There was only a stubborn, clumsy, and gentle desire to give something back.
A buzz suddenly rang through his head as he remembered what she had said before.
‘Mother said when she was still alive that when a family member returns, you should give them a hug immediately so they know they aren’t alone…’
Rowling’s heart felt as though it had been struck by something, neither too hard nor too soft. This little girl, whose own flame of life was nearly extinguished — this “burden” he thought needed his protection — was actually… comforting him?
***
The next day, the Queen’s royal tailoring team flooded into the dilapidated Frostwolf Mansion. Sylvia sat regally on the only decent sofa left, personally supervising the proceedings.
The carpet at her feet was covered in a riot of high-end fabrics and design sketches, glowing with a brilliance that was utterly at odds with the room.
“That black one.” Rowling pointed to the most inconspicuous set of formal wear in the corner. Its design was simple, its color dull, and its only merit was likely that it wouldn’t show dirt easily.
“No,” Sylvia rejected him instantly. “You represent the face of the royal family, not a funeral attendee. This set — the Deep Sea Blue Suit with gold thread embroidery — best complements your skin tone.”
Rowling glanced at the suit, which was as ornate as a work of art, and his lip twitched.
“Your Majesty… is this on my own dime?”
Having spent all his money on his sister’s medicine, Rowling’s pockets were now cleaner than his face.
“Shut up and put it on.” Sylvia shot him a sharp look, too lazy to argue with him further.
A series of rustling sounds came from behind the screen. When Rowling finally stepped out, the entire room fell silent.
The tailors, who had been chatting incessantly just a moment ago, all seemed to have been choked into silence. They stood with their mouths agape, forgetting to breathe. A young apprentice let out a *clatter* as his scissors hit the floor, yet no one moved to pick them up.
The Deep Sea Blue Suit looked as if it had been made specifically for him. The fabric followed the lines of his body, tracing his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, and those… unreasonably long legs. Silver threads were embroidered into the fabric in subtle patterns; they weren’t gaudy, but the sense of high-class refinement was palpable.
The most lethal part, however, was his face. His hair had been meticulously groomed, and without that “I just woke up, don’t bother me” look in his eyes, the aggressive handsomeness of his features surged to the forefront.
Sylvia’s hand, which was holding a teacup, froze in mid-air. Her brain had stalled.
Three seconds. A full three seconds.
Where was that lazy, mercenary, and money-grubbing man who always wanted to skip work? What… was this person in front of her?
Was this a joke? She knew he wasn’t ugly, but she truly hadn’t expected that the partner she had chosen based solely on the labels of “bloodline” and “destitute” was hiding such a stunning appearance — one enough to drive all the noble ladies in the Royal Capital insane.
‘This might be a bit of a disaster.’
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, attempting to hide the unnatural heat on her cheeks with a cough. “It’s… acceptable,” the Queen said, standing up and forcing herself to remain calm. “To ensure nothing goes wrong, let’s practice the Waltz one last time.”
The excuse was so poor that she felt her face burning.
One couldn’t really blame Sylvia. Though she was now the Queen, she was a complete novice when it came to matters between men and women. Having been single her whole life, she had never seen such a display. To be suddenly confronted by a creature with as much raw presence as Rowling and still be expected to remain calm was asking a bit much of her.
Rowling didn’t say anything, treating it as part of his pre-job training. He resignedly walked up to her and performed an Invitation Dance Etiquette that was so perfect it could have been in a textbook.
Sylvia placed her hand in his palm while her other hand rested on his shoulder. Her hand was cold, and his was hot. Across the thin fabric of his suit, that slight temperature difference sent a shiver through her heart.
Rowling pulled his arm back, and her overly slender waist collided with his chest.
‘Hm? Why is she like a block of wood, stiff as a board?’
He looked down and saw the woman in his arms. Her cheeks were so red they looked ready to drip blood, and her long eyelashes were fluttering frantically like the wings of a startled butterfly. Her gaze darted everywhere, unable to settle on him.
He didn’t even need to listen closely to feel the heart inside her chest. *Thump-thump-thump*. It was beating so fast it seemed ready to leap out in rebellion. Each beat was faster than the last, until even his own rhythm began to falter.
‘What on earth is this woman doing?’
In this state, did she even look like someone who knew how to dance?
Rowling silently raised the difficulty rating of this mission by another level in his mind.
‘Tsk, what a pain. If I had known being a pretty face was this difficult, I should have doubled the price earlier!’