Chapter 171: Etiquette Lessons

Tina looked almost disappointed that I was awake and ready in the morning. In truth, I’d finished the novel mere minutes before she’d intruded on my peace to have her and Mary run me through an overlong cleaning routine.

In truth, the only victory I had was that only my clothes would fit me—or so I’d thought. While my dress hadn’t yet been prepared, someone had also stayed up modifying a man’s suit by Countess Elstein’s measurements.

Part of me, an old part, railed at the idea. But my femininity was not so fragile, and the things my bust did to the front of the suit were as alms to my bruised ego. Yes, it is tight around the chest. Yes, I am fine to wear it. I could’ve done without the nagging, though.

By the time the sun had fully risen, I’d been escorted to a small, well-appointed room where my tutor awaited. Sunlight streamed in, not entirely defeated by heavy curtains, illuminating an intimidating stack of books and an equally intimidating man.

I’ll admit, I had preconceptions about what an etiquette tutor would look like, and act like. Slender, bookish, and severely prim. What the instructor was instead was proper, true, but also proper muscle. Short-cut dark hair and an affable, soft-featured face completed his look.

“I see they’re finally making nobility out of sterner stuff!” he chuckled, sticking out a hand. “I’m Sigmund Stern.”

I grasped it firmly, but not too firmly for a human. “Zarenna Miller.”

“Wrong!” His eyes lit up, and he smirked.

I blinked.

“Etiquette—noble etiquette—is a game of masks. A subtle inversion of the very word that defines it.” He let go of my hand and gestured to the chair, which I sat down in numbly. “I don’t mean to say I didn’t appreciate your greeting on a personal level, by the by, but you fell for my feint.” Sigmund smirked and sat down across from me. “A marchioness, an earned title. I daresay you’ll be more fun than my other students; pity we only have the week.

“What would the proper response have been?”

For a moment, I gave it thought. Had he greeted me formally, I could have used what Seyari had me practice. But he’d caught me off guard and thrown up a situation I had no idea how to respond to within a formal context. “…I don’t know,” I answered eventually.

Sigmund’s eyes sparkled. “Wrong again!”

Huh?

“To admit ignorance is unacceptable, barring extenuating circumstances that are beyond the day’s lesson. It’s noble to do so, but it isn’t noble to do so. Understood?”

“It is… showing weakness?”

“Wrong yet again!” At that my eye twitched, and Sigmund’s smile only grew. “Why was that wrong?”

“Because I didn’t have complete confidence in my answer,” I practically growled.

“So close! A little heavy on the intensity. As a noble lady, you must be a delicate flower.”

I leveled a deadpan gaze at Sigmund. “I am twice your weight, more than a head taller than you, and I’m pretty sure I could snap a man in half. I don’t do delicate.” I’d be fine with cute though…

“Masks, Marchioness Miller.”

I blinked at him. “No.”

“Marvelous!”

“Now you’re just being hypocritical.”

“Do you think this is based on logic? It’s predators sizing each other up to determine prey; all emotion and primal instinct.”

“I’ve heard it’s fops in fancy clothes speaking cutting words.”

“And in order to not be seen as an outsider, you must act as one of them.”

“Alright, but I am not doing delicate. Lately, I’ve been practicing harsh and domineering, and I rather think it’s a good look.”

“Really?” Sigmund seemed genuinely surprised. “I’d been informed your heart bled more.”

“Ran out of blood.” Just what has King Carvalon been telling people?

“I… see. Well then!” Sigmund clapped. “This changes some things, and oh what lovely things those are. I will teach you to be the scariest person in the room. But!” He held up one thick finger. “You will still be approachable; a challenge, fit for only the most stalwart of nobility; a valuable ally in matters of combat and court.”

Now Sigmund had my attention. “Can I still wear a dress?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh yes! In fact, I daresay we might leverage your physicality into a metaphorical bludgeon to all but the most robust of male egos. An impossible contradiction of their long-set worldview that women are for the arts magical and men the arts martial.

“Of course, you do not need an individual of your size to prove such an assertion. But that is a whole other manner, and one my wife would be far more suited to teach you were she not currently drilling the royal guard.”

“I would like to meet her someday then; your wife and mine might well share common interests.”

“Too forward.”

“I was really saying that.”

“Yes, and you were too forward about it. Are you just trying to meet her to gain prestige or influence? Do you need those things from her? This is what you must consider.”

“I… understood, but I would still like to request such a meeting.”

“Learn to ask in a way that could not be construed as a slight or a ploy and I will give you an answer.”

Relax, me. This is his job. “Fine. Where shall we begin?”

“With boring old texts. There are family histories and politics to cover; you must have enough background to understand traditions, and for me to construct actionable scenarios as practice.”

“May I speak candidly then?”

“Good you didn’t ask if you could, Marchioness Miller. And the answer is no. Here in this room, we wear our masks.” He slid a large, thick tome over to me, tipping the cover up with a thumb.

I obliged and opened the book; the title read Noble Lineages of Ordia, and it was by a collection of authors. The next page, mercifully printed on a press, started alphabetically. “Surely you don’t mean for me to read this entire thing?”

“Surely you do not fear such a task?”

“Of course not! But there are hardly enough hours in the day!”

“Then you would do well to hope you can pick out the relevant parts.”

I held in a growl, and bit back a retort. Already, however, a plan had emerged in my mind, hinging on one important fact: I do not need sleep.

“At the very least,” Sigmund continued, “I can help you identify those parts, and teach you terminology you need to know.”

“If I’m Marchioness Miller, what would my wife’s title be?” The question slipped out almost without warning. Like it was something of vital importance rather than pedantic curiosity.

“Marchioness Miller,” Sigmund replied easily. “If you need specificity, Marchioness Zarenna Miller would be your title.”

“That’s it?”

Ignoring my obvious breach of etiquette, Sigmund put a hand to his chin. “Well, ‘Marchioness-Second’ could work, though the term is an outdated loan-concept from Raavia.”

“Outdated?”

“Best not get into those specificities. All I’ll say to avoid a tangent is that the term originates from tiered systems of spouses, later adopted more for polyamorous groupings.”

“Oh. I’ll ask Sey what she thinks then.”

Sigmund shrugged. “May I begin the lesson, then? We’ll start with greetings and respect, and move on from there.”

Sheepishly, I nodded, and Sigmund returned a disturbingly gleeful smile.

***

The sun had set by the time I was released from my lessons. Granted, that wasn’t all too late given the season, but I still felt mentally drained. Even during the meal break, I’d been tasked with starting in on that incredibly dry lineage book.

Sigmund, however, had stoked a competitive urge within me. I had more hours to a day than any human, and my body didn’t tire in the same ways. So I skipped my evening bath, disrobed, and got to work reading about dead people while sitting cozily in a bed far too nice for one person, my tail swishing lazily between smooth sheets.

Nobility had once held an aura of prestige to me. An idea of larger-than-life figures, proud histories, and a reverence for the past. While I was far from advocating ignorance of the past, I was starting to acknowledge the idea that perhaps doing more than remembering and learning from it was unnecessary.

Perhaps not in all cases, but certainly some. Knowing the name of a duke from three centuries ago whose only accomplishment was dying from a horse kick to the head while berating the animal for being “too slow” was one of them. Though perhaps that could be turned into a point that nobles were not of a different breed than anyone else. Even then, knowing his name and other details about his life just wasn’t needed.

And so, I’d skimmed and taken notes and cross-referenced related family lines, reading at a sustained speed that would’ve impressed human me. By the time I was walking toward the next day’s lesson, once again in human form, I’d finished the apparently-relevant parts of the entire book.

As much as I wanted to throw that fact in Sigmund’s face, I also sincerely did want to learn what he was teaching me. What I’d learned from the book was unexpected, unanticipated; an un-played card.

Unfortunately, he read me like I was the book. “How much did you manage to read of Noble Lineages, Marchioness?”

My card pulled, I tried my best to play it well. “All but the driest of extended ducal lines.”

In response, Sigmund asked me for the third brother of a long-dead, but highly influential count. One from Ordia, not Edath.

I smiled, showing teeth. “The count didn’t have a third brother; he had a sister, but she died as a child.”

A similar grin crept onto Sigmund’s features, widening into laughter. He barraged me with names and questions, and I answered nearly all of them correctly. “Marvelous! I wonder how much was already known versus freshly read. I’d expected you to give in, or to beg for compromise. No matter. Since you’re such an avid reader, I’ve a few more tomes for you.

“In the meantime, we’ll move on to scenarios, patching up etiquette as topics come up. And to finish, I’ll help you lose that aura of gormless affability that plagues you. It’s a matter of body language, mostly—going back to that predators analogy. You won’t have to try hard to look down on people, after all!”

Swallowing, I nodded with as much conviction as I could muster.

“Oh come now! I’m not that bad. You should also be taking a deep, steadying breath!”

Against a backdrop of Sigmund’s well-practiced chuckling, I steeled myself. By week’s end, I would craft a noble mask for myself. One that would be mightily tested as my tenuous allies throw me into the depths.

Funny how I’d cast aside my old masks just to make a new one. Now, though, it was a conscious decision, and I knew my limits. I’d never try to become this mask, nor would I wear it against my ideals.