At seven in the morning, Solvaredo Emilia's footsteps echoed through the great dining hall, Saal Lumière. Click. Click. Click. Ceiling height: six meters. Twelve chandeliers. Eight portraits of successive dukes lining the walls. Every face stern, deep vertical creases etched between the brows. As if asking: are you doing this properly today, too? Emilia didn't mind. For eighteen years, she'd taken breakfast under those gazes every morning. Forty chairs. All empty. She sat alone at the far end, closest to the window. Deep crimson curls spread across the back of her dress, white and gold embroidery catching the morning light with a faint shimmer. Golden eyes fixed straight ahead, only a small mole on her right cheek offering the barest hint of humanity to her otherwise perfect expressionlessness. Sixteen servants arranged the dishes in silence. No one looked at Emilia's face. This was the Aristocratic Emotional Restraint Ordinance. Displaying emotion in public was the behavior of beasts. Laughter, tears, anger—all forbidden. Since Emperor Friedrich III declared two centuries ago that "true nobility lies in mastering one's emotions," this unwritten law had bound the upper society of the Weltheim Empire. So servants never met their master's gaze directly. They kept anything that might provoke emotion at a distance. That was the custom. Emilia picked up a silver fork. (Poached eggs again.) She thought it only in her mind. Never aloud. She didn't know how. Or rather, precisely: her body had absorbed the prohibition so completely that speaking was impossible. Outside the window, cargo ships moved back and forth along the Grao River. Morning mist clung to the water's surface, and the riverside lighthouse still cast a faint glow. In the distance, a whistle. The groan of a steam engine. From somewhere in the western district of the imperial capital, Solvaredo, voices carried on the wind—lively, animated. The city was alive. Yet this great hall alone remained frozen. Emilia brought the fork to her mouth. Delicious. Truly delicious. The scrambled eggs prepared by head chef Grimm Otto were soft-boiled, the butter's aroma drifting through her nose. The accompanying herbs came from the estate's garden. Every morning, such care. For thirty years, always. (It's delicious.) She wanted to say it. The words rose from her throat. But they wouldn't go further. The Aristocratic Emotional Restraint Ordinance. In public. Emotions. The fork rose to her mouth again. That was all. Near the end of breakfast, head servant Margarethe came to clear the dishes. Twelve years of service, in her fifties, her gray-streaked hair arranged differently today than usual. An elaborate new style—a thick braid wound carefully behind her ear. Emilia noticed. (How lovely.) The words formed in her chest. Rose to her lips. Froze completely in her throat. Margarethe, expressionless, removed the empty plate in silence. Emilia, equally expressionless, tracked the movement from the corner of her eye. Between them flowed a perfect, ceremonial silence. "[cold]Take it away." "[serious]Very good, ma'am." That was all. That was the end of it. Margarethe left. The door closed quietly. The chandelier light continued illuminating forty empty seats. Emilia didn't move for a while. (…It was delicious.) No one was there. No one could hear. She knew that. Said it anyway. Wanted to speak it aloud. Felt sorry for the words dying in her throat. Thank you. How lovely. All of it swallowed by this hall that was far too large. This was eighteen-year-old Solvaredo Emilia's breakfast. ────────────── The library on the second floor of the main building was quiet as always. Eight thousand volumes. Most were books on etiquette or history. Emilia sat in a chair by the window, the same book she read every morning open on her lap. *The Emotional Management Techniques of Upper-Class Young Ladies: Third Edition*. The words wouldn't stick. Her eyes slid across the text, but nothing remained. She was thinking about Margarethe's hair. The way that braid was wound behind her ear. Why she'd styled it differently from yesterday. Whether anyone had complimented her for it. (Did anyone compliment her?) Outside the window, a steam-powered streetcar ran along the far bank of the Grao River. Laughter drifted from the commercial district to the west. Shouts too. Someone calling out to someone else. The smell of soot and coal seeped thinly through the open window. Those people were laughing. Naturally. Crying. Angry. Shouting. Emotions dissolved into the air. Emilia snapped the etiquette book shut. The sound echoed alone through the quiet library. (Oh.) She surprised herself. She hadn't meant to close it. But her hand had moved. She remembered her mother. The woman who'd died when Emilia was five. Rare among the nobility, she'd shown her child smiles within the home. When little Emilia fell in the hallway and cried, her mother had cupped her cheeks in both hands and said aloud, "You're all right." Since age five, she'd forgotten how to smile. Her father was consumed by work in the Krone Privy Council, rarely home. The Solvaredo Duchy had an obligation to remain at the forefront of the empire's highest advisory body. She understood that. She did. But. What remained instead was etiquette books, servants' blank faces, and forty empty chairs. (I want to change.) The words rang in her chest, voiceless. Wait, she thought to herself. Change how, specifically? Become honest—how? She didn't know how to compliment. A young lady who couldn't say a single "it was delicious"—how was she supposed to become honest? What even was "honesty"? Emilia stared at the closed book's cover for a while. The title in gold letters seemed suddenly ridiculous. Emotional Management Techniques. The technology of managing emotions. She'd never had enough emotions to manage. She had them, but they all stayed locked inside. (Maybe I should start by greeting them tomorrow.) Pathetic. She knew it herself. Eighteen years of debt couldn't be repaid with one greeting. But no better strategy came to mind. From the gap in the library door, she could hear servants talking softly near the storage room downstairs. She knew that was their unofficial break room. She'd always pretended not to notice. Always felt a little envious of that laughter. Emilia returned the etiquette book to the shelf. She didn't feel like reading about emotional management today. ────────────── In the afternoon, she went to the rose garden. One hundred twenty-seven varieties of roses her grandmother had spent thirty years collecting bloomed across four thousand square meters on the estate's eastern side. White, red, pale pink, yellow, and rare deep crimson nearly black. Each had a name. Her grandmother had remembered them all, but Emilia knew only about thirty. She'd always meant to learn them all. Never had. The octagonal pavilion sat at the garden's far end, closest to the Grao River. White pillars entwined with climbing roses, a view of the river from the railing. This alone was Emilia's only private sanctuary. No one came here. There was no reason to. Emilia rested her elbows on the railing and gazed at the river. Dusk was approaching. The Grao River was turning orange, a single cargo ship passing with a whistle. The riverside lighthouse was beginning to glow orange. The empire's great artery of water transport, one hundred twenty meters wide. Sixty cargo ships passed through daily. This river was the empire's lifeblood. From here, nothing was demanded of her. No portraits watched. No servants came. No etiquette books. Only the river's sound, the scent of roses, and distant whistles. Emilia relaxed the tension in her cheeks slightly. (Will I manage to greet them properly tomorrow?) Such trivial thoughts flickered through her mind. The debutante preparation documents lay stacked on her desk. In six months, she would be presented to His Majesty at the grand ballroom of Hofburg Palace. A thousand people would gather. Clothing, dancing, conversation, etiquette—all would be judged. She understood it functioned as a marriage market. But for her now, it felt distant. Whether she could greet the new steward properly tomorrow. That alone, for some reason, felt desperately urgent. Footsteps sounded. Regular, measured steps through the roses. "[serious]Young lady." Emilia didn't turn from the Grao River. Gustav Helder. Captain of the Weissring Guard. Mid-forties, a sun-darkened face lined with countless fine wrinkles, a silver armband—the Weissring—gleaming on his left arm. He stood at rigid attention, visible only at the edge of her vision. "[serious]Tomorrow morning, the new steward arrives." "[cold]I see." A brief reply. Gustav continued. "[serious]Top graduate of the Dienst Academy. A man named Fernbach Alto." The name felt like it was falling into the river's surface. Top graduate of Dienst Academy. The highest institution for steward training, in the hills southeast of the capital. Eighty students entered each year; about fifty graduated. Only the top graduate received the recommendation right to the five great ducal houses. Approximately twelve hundred stewards held credentials in the entire empire. The pinnacle of that hierarchy was entering this estate tomorrow. (A capable person, then.) Something stirred in her chest. Fear, perhaps. But not just fear. Something else mixed in. Anticipation? No—too restless for that. "[cold]I understand." Gustav bowed and departed. Silence returned to the pavilion. Emilia leaned her back against a pillar and looked up at the sky. The evening sky was red. Clouds dyed orange and purple. Like the name of some rose her grandmother would have known. (I decided I wanted to be honest, and now I'm already anxious before they even arrive.) She couldn't laugh. Couldn't—didn't know how. Forty empty chairs. "It was delicious" no one heard. A closed etiquette book. Eighteen years of accumulation lodged in her throat. The lighthouse began casting its orange glow. Emilia watched that light for a while. Unwavering, steady light. Present even on stormy nights, in thick fog. Always here. (Tomorrow, I'll greet them properly.) A small resolve. She still didn't know how to laugh or compliment. But a greeting—surely she could manage that. Probably. Hopefully. …She hoped so. Evening wind swept through the rose garden. All one hundred twenty-seven varieties trembled faintly at once.