A Butterfly Through the Mist - Chapter 87

“Ahem. Anyway, Clerk Ambrose, from now on, make sure to be punctual…”

The lengthy reprimand continued until the half-empty office had filled with people.

“Is today’s scolding finally over?”

As Tilia trudged back to her seat, utterly drained, Norbert Karel, sitting beside her, smirked.

“Well, at least you got it over with quickly.”

“Clerk Ambrose! Come here!”

“Ah, guess not.”

Just as she was about to reach her seat, Alma called her again. Raising his eyebrows playfully, Norbert Karel leaned back slightly, amused.

Suppressing the urge to overturn everything, Tilia walked toward the section chief’s desk, where a report was immediately thrown at her.

“What kind of work is this? Can’t you even follow the proper format?!”

The irritation in Alma’s voice was palpable. With a practiced, apologetic expression, Tilia merely nodded while her gaze drifted to the plant behind Alma.

The prized, expensive plant, which the Foreign Affairs Director had gifted and which Alma had nurtured with such devotion, was now speckled with white patches as if suffering from some disease. Its sharp tips were already turning brown, on the verge of wilting.

It seems the excessive watering has had an effect.

Half-listening to the middle-aged woman’s hysteria, Tilia thought absently.

I should pour another kettleful before I leave today. That way, when the Foreign Affairs Director visits, they’ll see how close to death it is.

“…Clerk! Clerk Ambrose! Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry.”

Alma, who had been shouting at the top of her lungs, finally ended her long tirade only when the discomfort of the other clerks became too evident.

Receiving sympathetic glances as she returned to her desk, Tilia opened the report she had been handed.

Red lines slashed across the page irritably. Though she had written it exactly as her predecessor had, every section was marked with corrections.

Tilia let out a deep sigh.

What’s the point of taking it out on a plant? A dead flower won’t work overtime in my place.

Back at the academy, ability and effort had been enough to earn recognition. But this was the cold, ruthless Foreign Affairs Consulate in Ontaroa. Even with the prestigious title of Royal Academy valedictorian, she had merely been lucky to secure a position here. As a poor foreigner from a distant land, there was no room for her to advance.

Just look at this scene. Everyone resented Alma for venting her frustrations over her denied promotion on the lowest-ranking employee, yet no one dared approach the pitiful clerk to show support.

At the Ontaroa Consulate, administrative skill wasn’t what mattered—political maneuvering was. No one wasted their time on a lowly clerk who lacked both connections and wealth.

‘Whatever. Just get back to work.’

Swallowing another sigh, Tilia picked up her pen to revise the report.

“Have you seen this?”

Predictably, another irritation made itself known.

“The late Duke of Davenport has finally passed away.”

Norbert Karel, lounging against the back of his chair, casually flipped through a newspaper.

“Poor Duke Davenport. As if losing his brother in that carriage accident last year wasn’t enough, now his father has succumbed to the aftermath of it.”

Clicking his tongue like he was talking about an unfortunate neighbor, he glanced at Tilia, who remained expressionless as she pulled out her ruler.

Boring.

Muttering under his breath, he leaned slightly closer to her.

“Still, it looks like Duke Davenport will soon marry his beautiful fiancée. What do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

Lining up the ruler on the white paper, Tilia indifferently drew a straight line. One after another, perfectly measured lines appeared on the page.

“If they marry, they marry.”

“But Clerk Ambrose, you know both Ilex Davenport and Cecilia Clayton, don’t you? The three of you attended the Arkansis Royal Academy together.”

“As did many others.”

“Still, you must know something. They say Duke Davenport was notoriously debauched during his academy days.”

At the probing remark, the hand that had been mechanically drawing lines came to a halt. Tilia’s cool green eyes met the gaze of the man beside her, who was grinning slyly.

“Clerk.”

“Yes. Why? Were you actually close?”

“No. More importantly, did you finish the report the chief asked for yesterday?”

“Ah, right.”

Mumbling absentmindedly, he yawned lazily, as if his interest had already waned. Watching his indifferent posture as he leaned back in his chair, Tilia frowned slightly.

“Please finish it. Instead of wasting time chatting over a newspaper.”

“Geez, stop nagging. What’s the big deal if it’s a little late?”

Stretching with exaggerated ease, he muttered nonchalantly while tossing the newspaper aside.

“No matter how late I am, I won’t get scolded as much as you, Clerk Ambrose.”

***

Annoying bastard.

Tilia walked down the long corridor, suppressing the urge to hurl the files and documents she was carrying.

Back in her academy days, she would’ve kicked his shin. But now, bound by social expectations and a paycheck, she could do nothing but seethe.

As she walked across the elaborately patterned floor, she let out a deep sigh.

But he wasn’t wrong. No matter how late he was, he wouldn’t be scolded as much as she would.

Norbert Karel was the grandson of the Foreign Affairs Director. Tilia Ambrose was the daughter of a baronial family that had crumbled to dust.

Her steps grew heavier, as if she longed to find a stone to kick on the pristine marble floor.

No matter how perfectly she performed her duties, she would never be promoted ahead of Norbert Karel.

This was not the academy, where skills alone determined one’s fate. In this world, personal connections mattered more than talent.

That was why the tedious task of delivering documents to the royal administrative office—a duty far removed from the Foreign Affairs Bureau—fell to her.

Tilia was a lowly clerk with no powerful backing, no political skills to curry favor or manipulate others.

Whoever said Ontaroa was more free and equal was a liar. People were the same everywhere.

Scoffing at her younger self, who had once longed for a foreign paradise, she strode forward indifferently.

She had mountains of work to complete, and now she was stuck doing field duty. It was certain that she would be working overtime again today.

Letting out another unrestrained sigh, she turned her head with a sullen expression.

Ah.

But the moment she turned, a faint glimmer of life returned to her pale face.

After all, life didn’t always have to be completely miserable. Sometimes, it offered an unexpected, luxurious spectacle.

To reach the royal administration office from the Foreign Affairs Bureau, one had to pass through the entrance checkpoint at the square, then go through the north wing.

The north wing led directly to the main courtyard of the palace, known as the “King’s Garden.” It was a grand structure with an arched colonnade that bordered the central gardens.

Beyond the white pillars of the colonnade, the vibrant greenery of late spring stretched out in full bloom.

The meticulously arranged flowerbeds released a fresh fragrance into the air.

Bright red tulips and golden marigolds. Deep violet anemones and clusters of fiery orange ranunculus.

Though she only recognized a handful of the countless flowers, she could still appreciate the rich scent of spring they exuded.

A crisp breeze, seemingly from the vast rear gardens, lifted the hem of her skirt and the ends of her long hair.

Unknowingly, Tilia smiled at the familiar fragrance it carried.

Truly, this garden was too beautiful to be ignored with a frown while staring at the ground.

Fixing her gaze to the side, she let the breathtaking scenery accompany her slow steps.

Perhaps because the place she had walked the most in her life was the academy grounds, whenever she saw a beautiful garden, her mind always drifted to the Royal Academy’s landscaping.

Even though they had never walked together under the bright daylight. Even though the vivid colors of the flowers had remained hidden beneath the shadows of night.

Whenever she saw a dazzling array of plants, she instinctively recalled the academy at night.

More precisely, the man who had walked through that darkness with her.

Ilex Davenport.

As his name rolled through her mind, accompanied by a faint ache, the memories she had buried surfaced vividly once more.