Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 31

31. The Magic of Violets

“Women tend to like men with delicate, dandy-like appearances. Like the Devonshire illegitimate son or Theresius Wilford.”

“Theresius Wilford?”

“He’s tall and has a good-looking face. Though he can’t compare to that illegitimate son, his appearance is approachable and easy on the eyes.”

“…You call that plain face handsome?”

“Well, it’s not that you’re not handsome, Young Master. But ladies generally prefer a more refined, gentle, and delicate look. Not that your appearance isn’t excellent. After all, a man should look dignified and sturdy. In that regard, your looks are…”

Sebastian began rambling. Richard listened intently to his words as if carving them into his bones and finally spoke decisively.

“Prepare.”

“For what?”

“I’ve decided to attend the play tonight.”

“What? You, Young Master? Attending a comedy, not a tragedy?”

“Earlier, you asked why I wasn’t going, and now you’re pretending to discourage me?”

But didn’t you just say you weren’t interested…?

Sebastian retraced the erratic flow of the conversation. Starting with the opinion that Theresius Wilford was handsome and ending with a decision to watch A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Richard Spencer’s whims were always unpredictable, but this was a novel shift.

***

The night was bright with a luminous moon, its surface’s craters visible with exceptional clarity. The audience who had given a standing ovation after the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream spilled out of the theater, gathering in the garden to enjoy drinks under the enchanting midsummer sky. Among them were the Spencer twins, two ladies, and Richard’s unwelcome guest, Theresius Wilford.

“Tonight, the man carrying the thorn bush is clearer than ever.”

Lancelot Spencer exclaimed, unable to hide his excitement. He gazed at the moon in the dark sky, lost in the lingering emotions of the play.

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked, tilting her head slightly and covering her pale face with a teal fan made from a peacock’s tail feathers.

“The spots on the moon,” Theresius Wilford offered a kind explanation. “Don’t they resemble a man carrying a bundle of thorns?”

Eleanor asked again, “Was that mentioned in the play?”

“Indeed. Your grasp of Ingrintian is excellent,” Theresius said with flattery.

Richard, holding a glass to his lips, wore a sour smile. That bland dandy bastard.

“In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, there’s a line: ‘If there is no moon, just carry in the thorns instead.’”[1]

“What does that line signify?”

“It’s based on an Ingrintian myth. It tells of a man who violated divine law and was cursed to carry thorns for eternity, becoming a symbol of the moon.”

Richard’s explanation left Eleanor looking puzzled.

“What law did he violate?”

“He loved a woman he wasn’t supposed to, Eleanor. Like Pyramus in the play we just watched,” Lancelot murmured, his gaze fixed on the moon.

“Then what’s the connection between the thorns and the moon?”

“The deity gave him a choice of exile. He had to choose between the sun and the moon as his prison. He chose the moon.”

“Oh, the moon must be so cold. How pitiful.”

At that moment, Richard chuckled and remarked, “Better than being scorched to death by the sun.”

“……”

Eleanor pretended not to hear him. She didn’t want such nonsense to ruin the symphonic atmosphere of this moonlit midsummer night.

It had been barely a week since she crossed over to Ingrint and spent time near Richard Spencer. During that time, Richard Spencer had seemed as flavorless as water and as dry as powder—as though the mere touch of his tongue or fingers would confirm this impression.

However, tonight, Richard Spencer was slightly different from his usual self. Though his appearance seemed the same, there was an odd crookedness to his demeanor. While he had often abruptly ended conversations before, he had never sabotaged them so lazily and carelessly as he did now.

Could it be the magic of St. John’s Eve? Eleanor was curious about the seemingly irritable Richard, but she decided against further conversation. He wasn’t the type to reveal his thoughts, and even if he did, there was nothing she could do. It would only sour her mood.

“What did you think of the play?”

Theresius Wilford asked Grace, offering her a glass of pale pink punch.

“I-it was enjoyable,” Grace replied, stifling a yawn.

She was utterly exhausted. Dressing up as Eleanor d’Estrée had suggested had been so uncomfortable that it became unbearable. So the drink Theresius offered felt like holy water or healing spring water to her.

The self-proclaimed pioneer of the latest trends, Eleanor d’Estrée, stormed into Grace’s room as if leading a Gallian army invasion, immediately upon returning to the villa from the Pump Room. Her heart was brimming, like a suitcase packed to the seams, with the determination to dress Grace for a romantic evening outing.

Even one of the dresses Lady Montague had purchased for Grace was nearly twice her size. The combined weight of the fabric, undergarments, and supports could very well match the weight of Grace’s upper body. Having never worn such an outfit before, she grew weary just from dragging the skirt around.

Eleanor added a few metaphorical stones to the weight of that dress. Out of sheer generosity, she instructed her maids to bring over six human-sized trunks from her room. Every single item inside was an accessory.

“Since one of your eyes is violet, today’s theme will be violets,” Eleanor declared, pulling out a purplish-blue dress from Grace’s wardrobe. It was another selection made by Lady Montague for the same reason.

“And I’ll lend you an amethyst choker. You must wear this.”

With those words, a thick purple gemstone, likely two inches in diameter and weighing around 0.4 pounds, was hung around Grace’s slender neck. The instantaneous pressure on her skin made Grace wonder fleetingly about its physics.

Noticing Grace’s distracted thoughts, Eleanor snapped her fingers. In her other hand, she held matching amethyst earrings, bracelets, and a violet-feathered fan.

“This feather was collected from a purple starling.”

“I-it’s beautiful,” Grace murmured, though her mind was in chaos.

Wrapped entirely in shades of violet and adorned with purple jewelry and a fan, she felt like she might appear as a purple silk serpent the moment she stepped outside.

Eleanor then suggested that Grace adopt makeup identical to her own. However, this was the one suggestion Grace couldn’t accept. Even to Grace’s eyes, Eleanor’s face, thickly coated in ghostly white plaster-like powder, resembled a specter under the moonlight.

Thus, Grace fabricated a pure white lie, claiming her skin was so sensitive that she couldn’t apply anything. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed in skepticism, but she didn’t press further.

When Grace Gurton, now resembling a giraffe’s tongue with her violet ensemble, descended to the Spencer villa’s entrance hall, the expressions on the three men present were beyond subtle—bordering on bewildered. Richard Spencer considered questioning whether Eleanor d’Estrée had deliberately set out to humiliate Grace Gurton but refrained. After all, Eleanor herself was dressed in a teal Gallian gown that fanned out widely on both sides, adorned with turquoise-studded headpieces, earrings, and necklaces.

Is that truly the fashion of Gallia?

Richard sighed internally. The duo garnered plenty of attention even here. The purple silk serpent and the teal mallard that had taken over the Assembly Room captivated the crowd. Once they realized the teal mallard was Eleanor d’Estrée, people chorused compliments about her bold Gallian sense of color.

“How do you achieve such daring color combinations?”

“Please invite us next time! We’d love to hear more stories from Gallia.”

Grace, having heard such remarks so frequently, began to wonder if they were veiled criticisms. Even her overly sensitive ears started to accept these comments as sincere. Perhaps her initial awkwardness stemmed from ignorance. Was it a misunderstanding on her part, as someone entirely unversed in fashion and jewelry? As she silently pondered amidst the wave of praise, doubt began creeping into her thoughts.

That’s the nature of trends. People ridicule them as incomprehensible until they hear they originated in Gallia or Italine. Then, a hallucination of beauty emerges.

And this illusion wasn’t exclusive to the fussing ladies. After gulping down the sweet punch that Theresius had offered her, Grace Gurton, with her wide-open eyes and radiant smile, exuded a violet-like elegance that tinged the corners of Richard Spencer’s gaze with a purple hue.

A refreshing summer breeze swept by. It first brushed against Grace, then turned like an echo and landed gently on Richard Spencer.

Richard blinked slowly. His light green eyes, as transparent as glass filtered through foliage, opened and closed repeatedly, with a slight delay between each movement. In rhythm with the breath of the breeze, the greenery outside the window swayed and trembled.

The man on the moon put down his thorn bundle and turned to smile at Richard. It was a fantastical, magical moment, like the midsummer night when fairies roamed, anointing lovers’ eyes with violet juice.

Author’s Footnote:

[1] Partially modified quotation from Quince’s lines in William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream