The next dawn, in Damien’s office.

Damien, sitting patiently behind stacks of official documents spread across the table, prompted, “Abel, status on the tutors.”

Abel Heinz, the butler of Duke Damien Hazel, was ordered by his master to employ tutors for etiquette and magic. This order, or rather, this decree, was supplemented with several implications.

One. The tutors must be adept, elite, and eminent.

Two. The tutors must be confidants.

Three. The cost was irrelevant.

Indeed, these prerequisites were clearly excessive, but to Abel, an adroit butler whose resourcefulness exceeded that of even his acclaimed counterparts, they should have poised manageable.

However, there was an explicit condition—to hire them within a single day. To say this endeavor was harsh would be a severe understatement.

Damien, born as a prodigious commoner and having been granted the title of Duke by the king decades later, was naturally unfamiliar with the intricacies of aristocratic matters. Of course, the king’s desire to please Damien was genuine, so every potential issue arising from his dukedom was considered—and subsequently solved.

Which meant—the butler who would tend to Damien had to, essentially, be capable of pulling off the impossible. And to Abel, the only man who had applied for the position, such impossible tasks were enjoyable.

He replied to his unrelenting master, humbly, “Principal Yanna Tarotte will be arriving at noon. Permission for her entrance?”

“Granted.”

But that was not all. Abel, this time with a grin so mite as to appear invisible, then continued, “Two hours after noon, Dame Lydia Corsli will arrive. Permission for her entrance?”

“Granted.”

A Principal and a Dame, both titles bearing major prestige. The result was nothing short of miraculous. Just how did Abel materialize such a fantasy? To him, it was simple—he understood the circumstances, and he exploited their intentions.

✦✧

Two hours before noon, a little girl with silver hair and amber eyes was rolling around on her opulent bed—Camay. Draped in a long black camisole with a white lace skirt belted by a woven golden ribbon, Camay blithely performed somersaults on the velvet sheets with no worry of plummeting to the floor.

The sunlight was piercing through her three tall windows, enveloping her scarlet embroidered room with tender warmth.

At noon, she would be eating lunch with Damien while an etiquette tutor scrutinized her every action. Apparently, her decorum last night strayed far from acceptable levels of noble propriety, to which the baffled Camay could only vent by punching her pillows mercilessly.

Back in her father’s castle, Camay was a princess. Her decorum should have matched those of royalty, that is, a primness beyond that of nobility.

Just what had she done to elicit the need for an etiquette tutor? She had behaved no worse than how she did as a princess, so clearly, any improvement was chimerical. At these thoughts, Camay decided to humor Damien by raising no protest toward his wishes.

A quarter to noon, a preened Camay was sitting at the grand dining room in front of Damien, who as usual, had the visage of a stone.

✦✧

Hmph! Don’t think I forgot your snickering, Dummy Damien! Your mask is merely paper to me…!

“Master, Principal Yanna Tarotte has arrived.” The nimble-looking middle-aged butler with grey hair and red eyes spoke—Abel. I wondered if he enjoyed serving such a dummy.

“Enter.”

My eyes glimmered to the woman clad in prestigious attire. With long golden hair, violet eyes, and youthful porcelain skin, she seemed to be in her thirties.

“Greetings Duke Hazel, Hero Camay. ‘Tis verily my honor to be amidst thy presences.”

‘Tis… wha-wha? I turned and glared at Damien as if cueing him for a translation.

“Enough jesting.” Unamused, he replied coldly to the curtsying Yanna. The way they interacted implied familiarity.

“Sorry, sorry! Please! Forgive mee-hee-hee-hee.” Yanna’s melodramatic apology ended with a mischievous titter. Why was she looking at me like that…?

“Hi Yanna.”

Throwing aside her ogling, I greeted her too. It had already been hours past the time I usually ate, so I was getting impatient. As in, I was starrrving.

“It appears our lesson will have to start at the very beginning.” The previous mirthful Yanna had disappeared and was replaced with a stern one.

“Hero Camay, following courtesy, please address me by my last name: Miss Tarotte.”

Last name, huh? I recalled a conversation with my father after I had learned of this from his tomes.

“Papa, why do humans use last names?”

“I think it’s to, uh, show respect for their bloodlines or something.”

“So, um, why don’t we have last names?”

“My cute Mari…” He summoned three wolves and pointed to the first one, “This one is called A.”

Then, he pointed to the second one, “This one is called B.”

Finally, he pointed to the first one again, “And this one is called C.”

Wait… what?

“Papa, you said that one is called A.”

“My lovely Mari. Names don’t matter—only titles do. Have you ever felt the need for names?”

“No… but what if I want to talk about someone else?”

“Talking about someone else should only be done in their presence.”

“Okay… what about my ‘name’?”

“Your ‘name’ is a title that I have proclaimed.”

“…And what about yours?”

“Someone special gave it to me.”

He never told me who that special someone was, but he had decreed all demons to call him ‘Lord Reki’ rather than ‘Demon Lord’.

Father had a point, though—not once have I called a name. But then again, the only people I ever saw were him and the maids. On top of that, demons could easily communicate telepathically, and their abilities enabled fast travelling. They could talk to or meet anyone they wanted with minimal effort, so names weren’t necessary.

But—! It’s not normal for humans to have these abilities! Really… demons were such an insular race. As for me, names brought many advantages, and last names in particular were useful for indicating kin. However, in conversation, why did Yanna want to be called by her last name? In other words—

“Why not your first name?” I asked.

Yanna, as if expecting this question, without ridicule, replied, “People who are close use first names. Otherwise, last names are used.”

So, basically, it was a custom that implied familiarity. But since I didn’t like being called ‘Hero Camay’, what if I gave her permission to just call me ‘Camay’?

“I see. Then, hi Miss Tarotte! Please call me Camay.”

Maybe I should’ve said ‘hello’ instead of ‘hi’, too?

After nodding, she ambled behind me with a smile and said, “Now, let’s begin the course.”

To me, course meant food, but to her, it meant a lesson…

The meal was potage with milk bread rolls and butter on the side. Feeling Miss Tarotte behind me but not saying anything, and Damien being a stone as usual, the atmosphere told me to start eating. Fine, watch me—I ate this stuff all the time back in the castle!

Because I was given three slices of milk bread rolls, I picked up the knife and cut the butter into three even parts.

Grabbing a slice of milk bread and ripping an opening, I stuffed a piece of butter inside. Then, I crammed it into my mouth and started devouring it.

So smooth, so tasty!

“Oh my!” Miss Tarotte squealed.

“Hfow waf tah?”

Hearing her squeal intrigued me, so I asked, ‘How was that?’ as best as I could while I was still chewing. When I tilted my head up to look at her, she was covering her mouth with fingers.

“Camay, it would be best to consume in morsels. Also, speak only with an empty mouth.”

Okay, so basically, I should eat slowly and speak clearly. She seemed like she had more to say but resisted her urge to do so.

For the second roll, I acted accordingly and received no censure. Great, I’ll eat the third one in my other way then.

Grabbing the last roll and dunking it into the potage, I scrunched it with my fork. Lifting the piece of bread up and remembering to eat in morsels, I took a small bite.

“Camay. Don’t do that.”

Huh? “Don’t do what?”

“That.” She gestured at the soggy bread I was holding with my fork that was leaking out soup.

Okay look, I admit, it looked rather unsavory in that state—but. It tasted good! That’s what matters most, right?

She told me to place the bread onto a spare plate and ordered a maid to take it away immediately.

“Miss Tarotte. Maintain a professional mien,” Damien said.

“Oh my! Ahem. Excuse me.”

I tilted my head up again to look at her and she fleetingly turned away. Feeling skeptical, my eyes instinctively narrowed. This felt familiar…

Whatever. The bread was getting boring anyway, so I wanted the potage.

I lifted the bowl of soup with both hands and gulped it down. In an instant, my stomach was warmed to pleasant degrees. Such a wonderful feeling! After that, I was full.

“Camay. Next time, please use this.”

Miss Tarotte gestured toward a silver doodad with an oval head attached to a handle.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It is but a spoon.”

Oh. I have never seen nor used such a thing in my entire life. Back in the castle, there were only forks and knives…

“I see…” I slumped my head and body, visibly dejected by my lack of refinement.

“Duke Hazel. It seems little miss Camay is rather behind on etiquette. May I suggest having her reside at my estat—”

“No. You may leave.”

Damien brashly cut off Miss Tarotte before she could finish. But then she whispered to my ear in an alluring tone, “What do you think? Want to come with me? I’ll be sure to shape you well.”

“Abel.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Escort this out.”

“Understood.”

“Okay, okay! Jeez. I’ll take my leave.”

She curtsied and left.

Damien rested his cheek on a fist and spoke aloofly, “Perhaps I should teach you myself.”

Somehow, in some way, that sounded like a terrible idea.