Chapter 4: Noble Lessons

"A lady does not stomp, Lady Elysia. Feather-light steps, if you please." Madame Hartwell's thin lips pressed together in disapproval as Elysia crossed the sunlit drawing room for the sixth time that morning.

Elysia bit back the urge to point out that her five-year-old legs made silent movement nearly impossible. Instead, she nodded demurely and tried again, concentrating on placing each foot in a deliberate glide rather than a natural step.

"Better," Madame Hartwell conceded, though her expression suggested "better" remained leagues from "acceptable." The etiquette tutor adjusted her spectacles and consulted her notebook. "Now, the proper curtsy for greeting a foreign dignitary of lesser rank than your father."

Suppressing a sigh, Elysia gathered her skirts—heavy, impractical things that seemed designed to restrict movement—and attempted the precise depth of bow that would convey respect without suggesting equality. Her right foot slid backward, left knee bent, head lowered just enough to acknowledge status without surrendering dignity.

"Too deep," Madame Hartwell corrected sharply. "The Duchess of Blackwood's daughter does not bow so low to a mere count or foreign minister. You honor your house first, child."

Two years of these lessons had taught Elysia that arguing was pointless. The hierarchy of bows, curtsies, and nods formed an elaborate social code as rigid as mathematics but far less logical. Who received which greeting depended on a byzantine calculation of birth, title, relation, occasion, location, and a dozen other factors that native nobles absorbed from infancy.

"Again," the tutor commanded.

By the time the morning lesson ended, Elysia's legs trembled with fatigue. The moment Madame Hartwell departed, she collapsed into an armchair, abandoning poise for comfort.

"Exhausting your ladyship with the art of walking again?" Agnes asked as she entered with a tray of light refreshments.

"How do people live like this?" Elysia muttered before she could stop herself.

Agnes smiled fondly, mistaking the question for childish frustration rather than the genuine cultural bewilderment it was. "The burdens of nobility, my lady. Your sister endured the same, though I must say she found physical lessons rather more to her taste than these refinements."

Elysia accepted a small glass of watered wine—standard for children in this world, she'd discovered—and nibbled at a sweet biscuit. "When do I start learning something useful?"

"Useful?" Agnes raised an eyebrow, amused. "Most would consider proper manners quite useful for a duke's daughter. What would you prefer to study, little one?"

*Advanced mathematics. Modern literature. Scientific method. Democracy.* None of these would make sense coming from a five-year-old in what appeared to be a medieval or early Renaissance society.

"Reading," Elysia said instead. "I want to read more books."

Agnes nodded approvingly. "A fine ambition. Your literature tutor arrives tomorrow."

After Agnes departed, Elysia slipped from the drawing room and made her way to her chambers. Two years in this new existence had transformed her shock into methodical adaptation. The impossible had become routine: she was Elysia Blackwood, youngest child of Duke Dominus, living in a world of nobility, swords, and—most intriguingly—magic.

The magic had been her first clue that this wasn't simply some historical period on Earth. Small manifestations of it appeared throughout daily life: kitchen servants who brought water to boil with a touch, gardeners who encouraged plants to bloom with whispered words, guards whose blades glowed faintly during night patrols.

No one seemed to find these things remarkable. When she'd cautiously asked Agnes about the cook's ability to freeze desserts with a gesture, the nursemaid had simply explained that some families had minor talents—not true magic like noble houses or the Church possessed, just practical skills passed through bloodlines.

In her chambers, Elysia locked the door and retrieved a small wooden box from beneath a loose floorboard under her bed. Inside lay her most precious possessions: a journal where she recorded observations and memories in a cipher of her own creation, a quill she'd stolen from her father's study, and a small bottle of ink hidden from servants who would question why a five-year-old needed writing implements outside of supervised lessons.

Settling at the small table by her window, Elysia opened the journal and dipped the quill. Her handwriting remained frustratingly childish—her five-year-old hands lacked the fine motor control of her previous seventeen-year-old self—but she practiced relentlessly at night when the household slept.

*Day 730 in this world,* she wrote, the date a best estimate since she hadn't begun counting immediately. *Language acquisition nearly complete. Can read most basic texts now. Still struggling with court etiquette—too many arbitrary rules based on custom rather than logic.*

She hesitated, then continued: *No recurrence of the Abysmal Flame phenomenon from my imagination. Likely just fantasy as suspected. Local magic seems to follow consistent rules—innate ability enhanced by training. Some connection to bloodlines, especially in noble houses. Church controls most powerful artifacts.*

Elysia had been carefully investigating the magic of this world, hoping to understand its rules and limitations. Her previous life's chunibyo fantasies about wielding dark flames seemed childish now, though occasionally she caught herself wondering if her imagination had somehow glimpsed this reality, where magic actually existed.

A knock at her door startled her. She quickly closed the journal, returning it and the writing implements to their hiding place before answering.

Sebastian stood in the corridor, looking impatient. At twelve, her brother had already adopted their father's perpetual expression of barely concealed annoyance with the inefficiencies of others.

"Father requests your presence in the great hall," he announced. "The Royal Emissary arrives within the hour, and you're to be presented with the family."

Elysia nodded, mentally reviewing the precise curtsy required for royal representatives. "I'll change immediately."

Sebastian lingered, studying her with narrowed eyes. "Try not to embarrass us. Victoria and I have responsibilities that require royal favor. Just stand quietly, speak only when addressed, and try to look pleasant rather than vacant."

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes at his pompous tone, Elysia replied with deliberate sweetness. "I'll do my very best, dear brother. Perhaps I should practice my vacant expression now?" She widened her eyes and let her mouth hang slightly open in a parody of stupidity.

Sebastian's face darkened. "You're not as amusing as you think, Elysia. Father doesn't have time for childish antics."

"Then it's fortunate I'm actually a child, while you're merely childish," she retorted before she could stop herself.

Her brother stared at her, momentarily taken aback by the sophisticated insult from his five-year-old sister. Then his expression hardened. "Odd how you oscillate between simpleton and suddenly clever with your barbs. One might think you're playing some game."

A chill ran through Elysia. She'd grown too comfortable with Sebastian and forgotten to maintain her carefully constructed persona of ordinary noble child. His observation cut too close to the truth.

"I'm practicing for my literature lessons," she said quickly, adopting a more childlike tone. "Tutor says I have an 'aptitude for linguistics' but need to apply myself more consistently."

Sebastian's suspicion faded, replaced by his usual dismissive attitude. "Save your wordplay for your tutors. Just don't embarrass the family today." He turned and strode away, back straight with the importance of his twelve years.

Elysia closed the door, heart pounding. A mistake. She'd made a mistake, letting her true intelligence show through her careful façade. Sebastian might be arrogant, but he wasn't stupid. If he began watching her more closely, maintaining her cover would become far more difficult.

Agnes arrived shortly after to help her dress for the royal presentation. As the nursemaid fussed with ribbons and lace, Elysia reflected on her situation. Two years of observation had confirmed her initial assessment: she inhabited a socially stratified world where a duke's daughter had limited acceptable paths. She could marry advantageously, enter religious service, or perhaps, with exceptional talent, become a court adviser or artist.

None of these options appealed to her. The memories of her previous life—the freedom of modern Japan, despite its own social constraints—made the limitations of noble girlhood in this world feel particularly suffocating.

"There now," Agnes said, stepping back to admire her work. "A proper little lady of the house."

Elysia examined her reflection in the looking glass. The face staring back remained disconcertingly unfamiliar—violet eyes that no Japanese girl would possess, delicate features arranged in an approximation of childhood innocence. The elaborate dress with its uncomfortable corset-like bodice and layers of petticoats seemed designed specifically to prevent natural movement.

"Thank you, Agnes," she said politely. "It's beautiful."

After Agnes departed, Elysia practiced her royal curtsy five more times, determined to execute it flawlessly. Whatever fate or cosmic accident had placed her in this world, in this body, she would not squander the opportunity by failing to master its rules. If Mizuki Kamiya had spent too much time in fantasy, Elysia Blackwood would ground herself firmly in the practical realities of her new existence.

Even if those realities involved curtsies, corsets, and the constant performance of noble femininity.

---

That night, after the royal presentation (where her curtsy had indeed been flawless, earning a rare nod of approval from Duke Dominus), Elysia waited until the household settled into silence before slipping from her bed. The manor's night sounds had become familiar—the creak of settling wood, the distant call of night birds from the forest, the occasional footsteps of guards patrolling the grounds.

Retrieving a candle from her bedside table, she moved to the window and peered out at the moonlit gardens below. The Royal Emissary's visit had brought additional guards, their torches creating pools of light along the manor's perimeter.

Elysia returned to her hiding place beneath the floorboard, extracting her journal and writing implements. Instead of recording the day's events, however, she pulled out a blank sheet of parchment she'd pilfered from the library and began practicing her letters.

Her small hands struggled with the quill, muscles not yet developed for fine control. Frustration built as she formed wobbly characters, so different from the neat handwriting she remembered from her previous life. Still, she persisted, filling line after line with increasingly steady script.

"Agnes says I have my mother's looks but none of her wit," she wrote, recalling the conversation she'd overheard during her first days in this world. The statement had stung, though she couldn't claim any emotional attachment to a woman she'd never met. The Duchess of Blackwood had died shortly after giving birth to Elysia, leaving behind three children and a duke who rarely spoke of his wife.

After an hour of practice, her hand cramped painfully. Elysia set aside the quill and flexed her fingers, examining her work critically. Better, but still frustratingly childish. The disconnect between her mental abilities and physical limitations remained one of the most challenging aspects of her situation.

A sudden noise from the corridor outside her door caused her to freeze. Footsteps approached, then stopped. Elysia quickly blew out her candle and scrambled back into bed, shoving the writing materials under her pillow.

The door opened a crack. Moonlight illuminated Agnes's familiar silhouette as the nursemaid peered into the room. Elysia regulated her breathing, feigning sleep. After a moment, apparently satisfied, Agnes withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.

Only when the footsteps receded did Elysia release her held breath. Too close. She was taking too many risks. If caught practicing advanced writing or reading materials beyond her supposed level, questions would follow—questions she couldn't answer without revealing truths no one would believe.

She retrieved her materials from beneath the pillow and returned them to their hiding place, making a mental note to find a more secure location. As she slid the floorboard back into place, a strange thought occurred to her: in her previous life, Mizuki had created elaborate fantasies to escape an ordinary existence. Now, Elysia concealed extraordinary truth behind a façade of ordinariness.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

Back in bed, staring at the canopy above, Elysia contemplated her long-term strategy. She needed to accumulate knowledge, develop skills, and create options beyond the limited paths available to noble daughters. Intelligence gathering had always been her strength—three years of silent observation had made Mizuki an expert on high school social dynamics, useless as that knowledge had ultimately proven.

Here, such skills could be invaluable. Already she'd mapped the manor's layout, identified key servants with access to information, and begun cataloging the political relationships between noble houses from overheard conversations.

Tomorrow would bring new lessons, new observations, new pieces of the puzzle that was this world. Elysia closed her eyes, allowing sleep to claim her. Her last thought before drifting off was a question that had haunted her for two years:

Why was she here?

Not how—the metaphysics of consciousness transfer across dimensions seemed beyond current understanding in either world—but why. What purpose could be served by placing Mizuki Kamiya's mind in Elysia Blackwood's body?

Was it random cosmic accident? Divine intervention? Or something else entirely?

Perhaps she would never know. But she would make use of this second chance, regardless of its origin or purpose.

This time, she would not waste her life chasing fantasies or seeking validation from others. This time, she would build something real—something that mattered.

Whatever that might turn out to be.