Chapter 174: The Weight of Courtesy

Chapter 174: The Weight of Courtesy

The light in the villa had shifted by morning — brighter, drier, more clinical. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, diffusing against pale stone floors and bouncing off mirrored surfaces. Eva stood motionless before a full - length mirror in the dressing room, her arms resting by her sides, her jaw set.

A woman she didn't know adjusted the collar of her ivory linen blouse for the third time, then smoothed a nearly invisible wrinkle from the pleat of her skirt.

"Chin slightly higher," the woman instructed, placing two cool fingers beneath Eva's jaw with the precision of a sculptor. "Not too much. You are a young lady of presence, not arrogance."

"Yes, madame," Eva replied, her voice neutral, obedient, and perfectly pitched.

Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed like polished chestnut under the lights. Her posture had been corrected — shoulders drawn back, hands relaxed but deliberate, feet positioned just so on the geometric tile. Her small frame felt less like her own and more like a vessel — wrapped in layers of pressed fabric, studied mannerisms, and silent pressure.

This instructor wasn't warm like her Seraphina. She had none of Briony's teasing or Aunt Vivienne's subtle smirks. She was distant, deliberate, and cold as the marble floor beneath her heels.

Madame Thérèse Fournier. A name Eva had recognized from footnotes in diplomatic memoirs. A retired etiquette master with a F••••• - A••••••• diplomatic lineage, summoned personally by Reginald. She spoke with the practiced neutrality of someone trained to assess royalty, and corrected with the confidence of someone who expected no resistance.

"Again," Madame Fournier said, stepping back with her clipboard in hand. "Introduce yourself to me as if I were an unfamiliar countess from N••••••• G•••••. Posture and eye contact first."

Eva inhaled.

Then, calmly, "Good morning, Countess. My name is Evangeline Claire Ainsley. It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope your journey here was restful."

Madame Fournier said nothing for a moment. She simply stared at Eva, expression unreadable. Then —

"Again. Your smile was a second too late. The syllables in 'pleasure' softened too much. Do not offer comfort where it hasn't been earned."

Eva's stomach clenched, but she nodded. "Yes, madame."

"Once more."

Eva repeated it, voice slightly firmer, gaze steady but warm.

Madame Fournier moved like a blade through the room, circling her. "Your posture falters by half an inch when you say your own name. Why? Is it shame? Doubt?"

"No, madame."

"Then why hesitate?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Intent is irrelevant," she replied, sharply. "Impression is everything. Again."

Eva repeated it, flawlessly this time.

Madame Fournier gave a slow blink. "Better."

Eva waited. The silence was deliberate.

"But still lacking polish." The clipboard snapped shut. "You're raw. Controlled, but untested. We'll need three more hours this afternoon to work on curtsies, glassware, and conversational pivots. You fidget when you're listening. I'll break that by dinner."

Eva blinked once, calmly. "Yes, madame."

For a flicker of a second, Madame Fournier observed her more closely, as if trying to read beneath the surface. But Eva gave nothing away. Not her thoughts, not her nerves, not the ache in her feet or the hollow pull of hunger she hadn't mentioned.

"Monsieur Reginald has high expectations," the instructor said at last. "He says you're intelligent. Clever. A prodigy, even. But none of that matters unless they see what he sees."

"They'll see it," Eva said, with quiet conviction.

Madame Fournier paused — just long enough to register that this wasn't arrogance. It was a promise.

Still, her tone didn't soften. "We'll see."

Then, coolly: "Break for fifteen minutes. Water only. I'll be back to test your G••••."

And with the sharp click of heels, she was gone.

Eva stayed where she was, watching her reflection. Her face looked calm. Perfect. Too perfect. Like something placed behind glass. She missed the messy affection of home — Seraphina's soft sweaters, Maman's warm fingers fixing a stray curl, Vivienne's camera angle always slightly tilted as she laughed through a recording.

But here, there was no room for softness.

Not yet.

Eva straightened her spine. "Good evening, madame. My name is Evangeline Claire Ainsley. It is an honor to meet you."

The woman tilted her head. "Polite. But not yet poised. You are representing more than your name now. Let's begin again — this time with awareness of who you are meant to be."

Eva drew a breath. She could feel the pressure of her father's voice in her memory. Maxwell - Lioré. Understand, child? Not everyone will know, only the ones I say. You are Ainsley to most. But you carry more than that. Behave accordingly.

She tried again, this time letting a small, confident smile bloom at the edges of her lips. "Bonsoir, madame. Je suis Evangeline Claire Ainsley. J'espère que la soirée vous apportera douceur et plaisir." (Good evening, madam. I am Evangeline Claire Ainsley. I hope the evening brings you sweetness and pleasure.)

A flicker of approval crossed Madame Fournier's face. "Much better."

The lessons lasted for hours — posture, eye contact, correct angles of bowing for each title and rank, how to hold a glass without looking thirsty, and how to converse in both F••••, M•••••••, G••••, and R•••••• with flattering subtlety. Eva absorbed every instruction, every correction, every glance, with the determination of a girl who knew failure was not permitted.

By late afternoon, she was seated in the shaded study of the villa with her notes neatly laid out on the table before her. Madame Fournier returned, this time accompanied by a tall, elegant man in a dove - gray suit. His eyes were narrow and unreadable.

"This is Monsieur Vassilis," the woman announced. "He is overseeing guest strategy and introductions. He will now brief you on key figures. Listen carefully."

Eva nodded and folded her hands politely in her lap. Her heart began to beat faster.

"First," Vassilis said, his accent softly M••••••••••••, "remember that for the majority of the guests, you are Evangeline Claire Ainsley — bright, talented, and beloved daughter of Reginald Ainsley, here for a bonding trip and a glimpse into international society. Only a select few will be aware of your true lineage."

He turned a page in the leather-bound file. "Among the aware, you will find members of the Lioré military delegation. They are not sentimental. You will show grace, precision, and calm intelligence. If they speak to you, answer honestly but with dignity."

Eva nodded again, though her stomach tightened.

"There are diplomats as well," he continued. "Some from the Lioré embassies in E•••••, a few from the A••• - P•••••• delegation. Be courteous, engaging. Speak of your music, your studies, your admiration for culture. Never politics."

"I understand," Eva said quietly.

"There are aristocrats — one or two from old lines, mostly decorative, but still relevant in appearance. Among them," Vassilis said, tapping a name on the file, "is a guest you are to pay particular attention to. A child, like you."

Eva blinked. "A child?"

"A girl. Nine years old. Her name is Aristea Arethusa Celestine Artemis Kallistráti Rousseau – Parnassos. She likes to be called Aristea."

Eva tilted her head. "Why me?"

"She is the great - granddaughter of a noble G•••• house tied closely to the old money arms of E•••••. But more relevantly — her father is a quiet funder of certain Lioré - aligned programs. She will be difficult. But if you win her over, it will please the right people."

Eva frowned slightly but didn't speak.

"Charming a child is no lesser duty," Madame Fournier cut in. "In fact, it is the purest form of diplomacy. You will approach her with sincerity. You will not flatter. You will not perform. You will be your best self. And you will listen."

Eva looked down at her notes and nodded. "What does she like?"

"Control," Vassilis said simply. "And stories. She is curious. Possibly lonely."

Eva's heart tugged. She could imagine that kind of child easily. "I'll be kind to her," she said.

"Do more than that," Madame Fournier said, "be memorable. And above all, never forget who you are."

When the briefing concluded, Eva was dismissed for a walk in the courtyard, supervised by villa security. She drifted down the path slowly, the fine gravel crunching softly beneath her shoes. The wind brushed her cheeks, carrying the scent of jasmine and lemon trees. She looked up at the sky — brighter here, harsher, and more open than home.

She missed Seraphina. Every step away from Ainsley estate felt like losing a part of herself. But she held onto the memory of the night before — how Seraphina had held her, kissed her, whispered reassurances between every breath. The warmth of her lips, the way she'd pressed the surprise gifts into Eva's hands: ribbons embroidered with constellations, a tiny stitched pouch for luck, a sealed letter marked "for later." It had made Eva weep, overwhelmed by love.

She hadn't opened the letter yet. She kept it folded under her pillow at night.

In the courtyard, Eva paused by a low bench and sat down, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The garden was quiet, the air warm and still. She began to rehearse under her breath, whispering each line as though conjuring a spell — one language at a time, just as she'd practiced.

"Good evening, Aristea Arethusa Celestine Artemis Kallistráti Rousseau – Parnassos… or would you prefer I call you Aristea? May I sit with you?"

Then in F••••, soft and lyrical:

"Bonsoir, Aristea. J'ai entendu que vous aimiez les étoiles."

Good evening, Aristea. I heard you like the stars.

In M•••••••, gentle and warm:

"你喜欢读书吗?我们可以一起讲故事."

Do you like reading? We could tell stories together.

In R••••••, slower:

"Ты любишь музыку? Я могу сыграть для тебя."

Do you like music? I can play something for you.

In F••••, as tender as a lullaby:

"دوست داری قدم بزنیم؟ شاید ستاره‌ها رو پیدا کنیم."

Would you like to take a walk? Maybe we'll find the stars.

And finally, in her carefully practiced M••••••••••• dialect — a soft, airy blend she'd been rehearsing all week.

She exhaled quietly, correcting her posture, smoothing her skirt once more. Every word had to land gently. Not for show. For kindness.

Because this girl — Aristea — wasn't just a name.

She was the test.

She tried to imagine Aristea's face. Would she be like Seraphina when she was younger? Would she be cold? Or needy? Or sharp? Eva didn't know, but she resolved to treat her with the same gentleness Seraphina had always shown her.

The sound of shoes on stone signaled a servant approaching.

"Mademoiselle Eva, your father requests your presence in the west salon."

Eva stood at once. "Yes, I'm coming."

When she entered the salon, Reginald stood by the large windows, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the hills. His suit was pristine, his hair freshly cut. He turned at her footsteps.

"Well," he said. "How is your preparation progressing?"

"Efficiently," Eva answered. "Madame Fournier said I'm responding quickly. Monsieur Vassilis gave me the guest briefing."

Reginald raised a brow. "And?"

She hesitated. "I understand my roles. I understand that most guests will know me as Eva Ainsley. I'll behave."

"And the girl?" he asked.

"Aristea Arethusa Celestine Artemis Kallistráti Rousseau – Parnassos," Eva recited carefully. "Nine years old. I've been instructed to make her feel comfortable. I will."

Reginald studied her face for a long moment. Then he gave a single nod. "Good. You remember what I told you. They do not know you. Only a few will be introduced to who you truly are. You don't volunteer anything. Speak well. Obey every cue. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He stepped closer, adjusting the collar of her blouse. "You may think this is a party. But everything is performance, Eva. This is your trial run."

She swallowed. "I won't disappoint you."

"I know you won't," he said. "You are my daughter. Now go. Get rest. You'll need it."

As Eva left the room, her fingers drifted over the small pouch Seraphina had sewn. She wished she could call her, hear her voice, bury herself in her arms for just a moment. But this — this was what her papa required. She had to be strong.

And if there was any moment of weakness, she knew exactly whose letter she would open.

Tomorrow, she would meet Aristea Arethusa Celestine Artemis Kallistráti Rousseau – Parnassos,.

And from there, the game would begin.