The Tailor's Ordeal

After the engagement ceremony, the two of them grew suddenly busy.

A marriage arranged by the Emperor himself — an unprecedented event under his reign, and so the news of the couple sent great ripples through aristocratic society.

The Grand Duke's residence was flooded with nobles lining up to offer congratulations, a veritable sea of visitors. Ervan's situation was no different; invitations began pouring into the viscount's estate as well.

Most of the guests at the Grand Duke's residence were there for the Grand Duke and Duchess, so Laila merely made appearances or sat quietly at her mother's side, but Ervan, who had to handle every matter concerning his new house himself, was busier than he could bear. As a result, the wedding preparations naturally became Laila's responsibility. Just like today.

"The Viscount's formal attire, you say?"

Laila spoke as she poured jasmine tea from a small teapot into the cup set before the Grand Duchess.

The Duchess only mimed drinking, then set the cup down. Between the tea parties and receiving the noblewomen who had come to call at the residence, she had already drunk far too many cups for one day.

"Yes. The Imperial Wardrobe has asked us to set a date and inform them."

The Duchess replied softly, pressing wearily at her temples. Reserved by nature and rarely seen in high society, even she had no choice with her daughter's wedding looming.

"There's no rush, is there?"

Laila looked at her mother with a puzzled expression.

House Esdelheim was preparing to break off the engagement. The Grand Duke was searching for a way to render the marriage void without defying the Emperor's will. The most realistic option among them was another political marriage — but that would take considerable time.

"I know. There's no reason to rush, and we mustn't."

The Duchess smiled bitterly.

"……"

To present an alternative to the Emperor, the marriage would have to benefit him enough that he would grant permission without protest. And yet the match would also have to bring more practical gain to House Esdelheim than to Ervan — and finding a marriage that satisfied both conditions was anything but easy.

Aristocratic political marriages were often the product of years of careful effort, begun when the parties were very young. Trying to find someone to marry on short notice at this stage simply wasn't feasible. The heirs of respectable houses were either already betrothed or, for the most part, poorly regarded in society.

"The palace has sent word ordering them to hasten preparations for your wedding to Viscount Ervan."

For some reason, she didn't mind it. Even though, from the family's perspective — one that needed to buy as much time as possible — it was a thoroughly awkward situation.

Laila, unwilling to reveal her feelings to her mother, who still wore a bitter expression, simply nodded in place of an answer.

The boutique Fleur was the Imperial Wardrobe, responsible for every garment worn by the imperial family. From Princess Ariel's swaddling clothes to the Emperor's coronation robes, everything they wore was born from the hands of the artisans of Fleur.

For someone outside the imperial family to be fitted for formal attire at the Imperial Wardrobe was a symbol of the Emperor's trust. It was a tremendous honor — yet no trace of that overwhelming feeling could be found on Laila's face. She looked merely uncomfortable, like someone facing a banquet prepared entirely of foods she disliked.

And the man before her, who had no idea how great an honor this was, looked every bit as uncomfortable. His face, a little thinner than before as if to prove how busy his days had been, laid his irritation completely bare.

"My lord, please, just relax a little more. All you need to do is stand comfortably."

The tailor pleaded with Ervan, wiping cold sweat from his brow. Ervan, standing before the mirror in a thin silk shirt, answered curtly.

"I am standing comfortably."

He was not. Ervan's shoulders, bristling with anger, were hunched and rigid, and his stiffened posture was so tense he looked ready to charge at an enemy at any moment.

Having spent long years on the battlefield, Ervan could hardly tolerate even the smallest touch from another person. The act of holding a tape measure like a cord to take his measurements felt like an assault on his vital points. Every time the tailor's hand brushed his body, Ervan reflexively tensed his muscles hard.

"I'm only measuring your neck circumference! I'm not trying to strangle you, my lord!"

"Before you strangle my neck, my hand will reach yours first."

"You know full well this old man lacks the ability to do that — so won't you please relax now!"

"I am relaxed."

At the end of his rope, the tailor beat his chest and turned to Laila as if begging to be rescued. Laila was leaning elegantly against a sofa set in one corner of the fitting room. Seeing the tailor's woeful, wrinkled face, she straightened up slightly.

As if even I could do anything about it…

Even the great Laila had no power to turn a creaking wooden puppet into a plush doll.

"Why don't you take a break?"

"Gladly. Your Highness the Grand Duchess! Aigoo, my arms."

At her words, the tailor lowered his outstretched arms as if he'd been waiting for the chance and kneaded both forearms. He had held them up the entire time to measure the neck of the towering Ervan.

"My lord, is this your first time being fitted for clothes? You seem terribly nervous."

Ervan answered her over the mirror, still standing at rigid attention.

"It is."

"What about the clothes you own now? You have formal attire, don't you?"

Curiosity colored Laila's question. Ervan answered with a faint smile.

"When I came up to the capital, I was given a Knights' uniform cut to the same measurements as the armor I'd worn on the battlefield."

"Ah…"

"I was due for an audience with His Majesty the Emperor at once. There was no time to leisurely take measurements on the battlefield — and I couldn't very well go in full armor, either."

"So ever since then, you've had all your clothes made to your armor measurements."

"That's right."

The moment Ervan nodded in affirmation, the tailor — who had noticed his tension ease for a fleeting instant — seized the chance and swiftly thrust out the tape measure.

"Aigoo! I'm going to die!"

Ervan reflexively reached out and knocked the tailor's hand away, but at last the tailor succeeded in looping the tape around Ervan's neck.

"…Have you ever considered joining the Knights? Your agility is remarkable."

"I'm afraid that will be difficult. I injured my hand just now."

The tailor, rubbing the back of his hand, which had flushed red from the blow, refused flatly.

"My lord, please bear it just this once. All that's left is the circumference."

"Couldn't we just eyeball the neck measurement?"

Ervan said in a weary voice.

"We cannot! The life of a formal garment is its neck circumference! It is the crucial point that determines the overall balance of my work!"

"Then do it if you can."

"Your Highness the Grand Duchess…"

The tailor's face crumpled again.

"You know this as well, Your Highness. If the neck is too loose, the collar gapes open and the frame looks small; if it's too tight, the neck looks short and the whole proportion suffers."

While the tailor rattled on about why the neck measurement was necessary, Laila stole a glance at Ervan.

The upper body glimpsed through his thin silk shirt was like sculpted porcelain. Unlike the typical nobles, refined only to look aesthetically pleasing, his muscles — forged for survival — asserted their presence regardless of whatever clothes he draped over them.

"What if the groom looks terrible at the wedding of all things? This is a matter of every bride's pride!"

The tailor cried out, turning his whole body toward Laila. Since words failed with Ervan, he clearly intended to win her over instead.

But Laila wasn't really listening to the tailor's persuasion either. Ervan had a frame that could never look small no matter how loose the garment, and proportions that could never look bad no matter how short his neck appeared.

"His pride, of all things…"

Realizing anew just how magnificent his body was, Laila turned her head, afraid her face might flush red.

"…"

The tailor was staring at her with an expression of utter disgust.