"Why, Lady Abel. I hear you suffered a great deal back in your homeland."
The opening move, peeking out from behind the fan, was a pedigree flex.
Lady Beatrice Heinrich, daughter of a count. Chestnut ringlets swaying, crimson gown swirling, she planted herself directly in front of Rosalind. Flanking her, like reflections in a pair of mirrors, stood two more young ladies.
—A formation of three. Practically the same layout as the welcome party after I forgot to pay my respects to the office queen bee's clique.
Rosalind closed her fan and arranged her face into an expression that didn't quite amount to a smile.
"I'm humbled by your greeting, Lady Heinrich."
"How bold of someone driven from her homeland to come into the Grand Duchy's society. You must be terribly lonely."
The temperature in the hall dropped half a degree.
The ladies around them were watching from behind their fans.
Rosalind looked into the depths of Beatrice's eyes for exactly one second, then smoothly glanced away.
Her gaze did not land on the gown, or the jewels, or the ring finger of the left hand.
—I've done my reading.
"Last month's market price for wheat in the Heinrich county."
Rosalind's voice was as mild as if she were simply continuing the small talk.
"Down twenty-three percent year over year, I believe."
The smile faded, just slightly, from Beatrice's lips.
"Cheap wheat has been flowing in from the south by way of Leman. At this rate, the wheat farmers in your domain will fall into the red this term. —By my estimate, one household in three."
Beatrice's fan stopped.
"That said, Heinrich wheat has such a fine, firm grain that you would turn a better profit sending it to the distilleries than selling it as is. In the Duchy of Valda to the east, there has been demand for your domain's wheat liquor these past three years. And there are still open slots on the preferential-tariff route. —For your reference."
Rosalind set down that final phrase with no nuance beyond exactly that: for your reference.
No insults. No threats.
Just the facts, set down. And an escape route, set down while she was at it.
Behind Beatrice, one of the young ladies caught her breath—at the fact that this woman had a grasp on the livelihoods of House Heinrich's people before the head of the house's own daughter did.
The second contender stepped up at once.
Lady Clarissa Morgan, a viscount's daughter. A pale sky-blue gown. A modest smile.
"Do take care not to presume too much on His Grace's kindness, Lady Abel."
The romance one-upmanship type. —The nagging sister-in-law, her past life translated.
Rosalind took a smooth half step toward her.
"I'm grateful for your concern. But it isn't His Grace's goodwill. It's a contract."
She drew a slim notebook from her bodice, opened it once, and closed it again right away.
"By the way, Lady Clarissa."
"Y-yes?"
"The double-booking in last term's ledgers at the Morgan family's textile company. Has the internal audit been completed?"
"—What?"
"The April shipping ledger and the May receipts didn't reconcile. They were company records I happened to see back in my homeland, so the matter isn't under this jurisdiction. But for your house's sake, I'd suggest putting them in order early. —Merely a word of concern."
The color drained from Clarissa's face.
Rosalind pressed no further. It was not blackmail. She had simply said it would be best to sort it out early, purely out of concern.
To the other party, though, it must have landed like a hammer.
The third contender, undeterred, stepped up.
Lady Ophelia Bernini, a marquis's daughter. Golden hair, green eyes, and not a single opening in the way she handled her fan.
"Gentlemen, you know, prefer girls who are young and docile. Not so terribly—how shall I put it—logical."
Rosalind paused for exactly two seconds, then bowed her head with a perfectly straight face.
"Thank you very much. I shall take it under advisement."
The hall froze.
More precisely, everything within a three-meter radius of Rosalind went silent.
Ophelia's mouth stopped, still open.
Rosalind raised her head and continued in her usual flat voice.
"Such candid advice is valuable indeed. At my previous job, my superior told me the very same: 'You're too logical.' However, the organizations I've seen tip over because a matter wasn't pinned down with logic are beyond counting. An organization that tipped over because things were pinned down with logic—I have never once seen one. I shall store your advice carefully in a drawer of my heart. —Though I shan't implement it."
Though I shan't implement it.
Ophelia's fan hand had stopped in midair.
By the wall a short distance away, Sir Dieter, Lucas's aide, covered his mouth with one hand and let out a single cough.
Lucas himself leaned a shoulder against a pillar, champagne glass in hand, not even blinking.
Only, the fingers holding the glass curled tighter for a single beat.
—He was holding back a laugh.
In all likelihood, Sir Dieter was the only one in the hall who noticed the change.
The trio arranged a polite bow for form's sake and glided off in their separate directions.
Rosalind opened her fan again and let out a soft breath.
(—Aggro management, complete. Time required: approximately four minutes.)
The corporate slave in her head logged it, mercilessly.
Attack with numbers, and numbers will shut them up. Practically the same structure as handling complaints in her past life. Even in a fantasy world, people didn't change much.
Rosalind touched her glass to her lips and let her gaze drift to a corner of the hall.
Beatrice of House Heinrich was standing frozen in front of an older woman who appeared to be her mother. The mother's lips moved. Why didn't you know about the wheat?—Rosalind could read it from the shape of the words.
—Ah. Today's lecture comes not from me, but from her own family.
Rosalind quietly turned her gaze back.
She hadn't laid a finger on anyone. She had only set down the facts, one line at a time.
And those facts were now, each in their own household, beginning to walk on their own.
"Your Grace."
Sir Dieter spoke low, from just behind Lucas's shoulder.
"The marriage-related petitions from House Heinrich, House Morgan, and House Bernini submitted today have all come up to us."
Lucas swallowed his champagne.
"Put them on hold."
"Sir."
"As for the deadline—"
After a moment's thought, Lucas added, briefly:
"For the time being."
"Understood."
Sir Dieter bowed deeply and withdrew.
Beneath the light of the chandeliers, Rosalind was quietly confirming something with another clerk. Arrangements for the next agenda item, most likely.
Lucas's gaze traced the outline of her back for half a second.
Then he set down his champagne glass and, on his own two feet, began walking toward that back.
Rosalind had yet to turn around.