The genius designer, Mason Skye, did not challenge Madame Gisselle in blind pursuit of fame and wealth. 

No. This young man overflowing with youth and kindness had, in a different time, sought revenge.

Mason worked for Madame Gisselle from when he was a mere adolescent, and she had newly entered the Capital.

From an errand boy, to a shoe-fitter, and then a bookkeeper. He served her well.

However, when word spread of Mason’s father being a marauder, Gisselle didn’t hesitate to dismiss him.

Intentionally or not, her actions put Mason’s family in financial straits, and his ill younger sister died in front of him as a result.

The story of Mason’s sister dying while reaching out to him, begging to be saved, moved the public’s heart in his favor. 

That traumatic event not only sparked his despise of the Madame, but inspired the first article of clothing that would launch him into stardom with Princess Astoria as his model.

Darlin blinked. I see... This is a result of his muse changing. “However did you come up with such a thing…?” The gloves he presented to her are a stark contrast to the ones he made for his supposed-to-be late sister. 

Mason nervously picks at his face. “I wanted to make something that suits Milady. …D-Do you like it?”

“It is magnificent.” While not what she expected, it manages to be more. Darlin never imagined how much the gloves would appeal to tastes in fashion she did not know she had.

Dare she say she is moved Mason would think up something this gorgeous with her in mind?

In this lifetime, Mason felt comfortable enough to approach Darlin for help after being dismissed from Gisselle’s employment. 

His desperate heart so quickly fastened to Darlin when she handed him all the jewelry on her person. 

In his wide, disbelieving eyes, Darlin’s generous visage outshined the sun itself as she encouraged him to find her should he need any more help.

Darlin knew she gave him more than necessary, but she had excess accessories— The greater Heinrich’s disrespect, the more expensive the consolatory gifts from Felicity and Vincent. 

Tapping a nail on one of the rubies, Darlin was surprised to find the gems are of above average quality. It was too poor to be from anything she’d given him, but also too expensive for one of his standing to afford. Her smile turns cold. “Mason~,”

The young designer is quick to throw his hands up in surrender. “Sir Ray gave them to me, I swear!”

Darlin nods, satisfied. “And your sister?”

Mason’s grin stretches from ear to ear, “Better and louder than ever.“ his exasperation aglow with joy and relief. “She’s actually working in an inn these days!”

“That is wonderful news.” Gloves for a life is more than a good deal, I’d say. “You know, I always knew you were talented.”

It was Mason’s first time seeing Darlin so flushed with happiness. Her expression leaves him at a loss for words, unconsciously dedicating his mind to memorizing Darlin as she is now— young, vibrant, and more elated than he ever thought she could be. Pride burns in his chest, knowing he is responsible for bringing such a look to her face.

Unexpectedly, she begins to sadden before his eyes. Her lips turn down, eyes narrowing pitifully. “I am sorry, but I am unable to accept this.” 

Surprised and disappointed, Mason searches the gloves for their shortcomings. “But why?! Is something not to your liking? I can—“

“No, it is more than perfect.” Darlin assured. “…The thing is,” She turns away in shame. “my parents adore my sister quite a bit, you see. If she were to want for these, I…“

Mason grit his teeth. I’m so stupid! He’s heard the gossip— once in a while seen Darlin’s noble posture shudder under ridicule, her expression glacially withdrawn when she thinks no one is looking.

And she’s still remained so kind. Mason’s admiration for her deepened.

With it, he grew to abhor how useless he is to the woman who has done so much for him. As he takes back the box, he promises, “I’ll hold it for as long as you want. You can send for it whenever.”

Darlin’s eyes prick, but before they can fall she bats the tears away, “Dear me. I am sorry, I… I just…” In spite of her determination to remain strong, she crumbles and sobs into her hand in an effort to stifle the sound. 

Twice now she’s made Mason speechless. He scrambles, and fumbles, stuttering and blabbering. 

Darlin almost ruins the act by laughing.

Mason leads her to a chair while gently encouraging her to air her grievances. 

If you insist… Darlin retells her earlier experience with Lobelia, and how she’s angrily cut ties with Madame Gisselle. “I… I am such an idiot.” She laughs wryly, “I knew things would turn out this way after the engagement was cancelled, yet I lost my temper anyway.”

“How can you blame yourself?! That’s just the sort of person Madame Gisselle is…” No matter the favors done, or the devotion shown, She won’t think twice about ditching you. 

Mason once mistook Gisselle’s heartlessness for her being a shrewd businesswoman. Now, he knows better. The only person close to Madame Gisselle’s heart is Madame Gisselle…

In contrast, Darlin shows infinite goodness. She places her hand over Mason’s. “I apologize for bringing up such a displeasing memory.”

Mason shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “Milady should worry about herself.” His fingers drum on his lap, though a part of him already knows this long awaited decision is made. “I… I might not be as good as Madame Gisselle, but— if you’re fine with it, that is! I could… make your clothes…?”

“Mason…!” Darlin‘s eyes widen, then curve with her infectious smile. Finally, she may begin collecting the return from her investment. “I would be honored to have you as my designer!”

Mason saw the noblewoman off with a smile, pretending the lump in his throat isn’t about to do him in before Raymond can. 

As soon as her carriage is out of sight, he falls to a squat, groaning, “Damn idiot!” If only his older sister were here to smack him over the head— Gods know I’ve earned it.

He picks himself up and skulks to Raymond’s office. Mason knocks, then counts to ten to give the couple time to make themselves decent. 

“Come in~!”Raymond sounded too cheery to not have been up to no good. His unevenly done buttons and Henrietta facing the wall like a child being punished did not help their case.

Used to Raymond’s obscene procrastination methods, Mason did not bat an eye. “There’s something I think you should know.”

By the end of his narration, Raymond and Henrietta are glowering. “She’s getting arrogant.” The latter hisses.

“It would’ve been too out of character if Gisselle didn’t pull something like this.” Raymond regards Mason with a grave look. “And you, are you aware of what you’ve done?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mason nods.

“No, you’re not.” Raymond said, “When it comes to my muse, I won’t have you merely make her clothes. You’ll have to design for her.”

The thought of  interjecting came to Henrietta, but she thought better of it.

Raymond’s whimsy is mostly to make Darlin comfortable, driven by a desire to understand the abnormally mature child.

She is his first muse. And Henrietta knows how this has frustrated Raymond. 

Darlin does not have specific tastes in clothes. She merely wishes to suit the occasion without clinging too closely to trends, nor openly opposing them. 

A safe line to tread, but also too boring for Ray. Her husband’s style is often too explosive for most nobles, containing layers of patterns on layers of colors. To this day, Henrietta does not know what in Raymond clings to Darlin.

Regardless of their differences, Raymond insists there is something in Darlin he can’t quite grasp, a missing part needed to create a masterpiece worthy of Darlin’s mysterious quality. 

Mason sees that “missing part”, even if he doesn’t know it. 

Henrietta only understood Raymond’s cryptic description upon seeing the gloves Mason made. Truly, it was a piece embodying her. It was made for Darlin in more than just a practical sense. 

Gulping, Mason insists, “I want to help her.” 

“You barely know her.”

Mason took offense to that. “I know Lady Darlin— not as long as you, but well enough.”

Raymond let out a loud, sarcastic laugh. “You’re naive, boy! Go on then,” He motions lazily at Mason with a swivel of his hand. 

“Lady Darlin is kinder than anyone else, and,” That’s not it. Something in Mason opposes. 

He sings Darlin’s praises, each one weighing heavy on his tongue. And the more unimpressed Raymond is, the more Mason doubts himself. 

Unable to watch the poor boy squirm under Raymond’s silent judgement, Henrietta pipes in, “Who is that kind? Aren’t they just the person who showed a good side when you so happened to need it?”

“But- But the Lady—“

“Is human. If “kind” or “gentle” is all you see when you look at her, then you don’t know her at all.”

Mason could not refute.

As he shoos Mason, Raymond offers some advice, “Look at what you made and ask yourself why you thought it suited her.” 

Late into the night Mason is still turning the words over in his head.

The gloves’ rubies glow under the candlelight, and Mason asks them, “Why you?”

Without a doubt they are designed with Darlin in mind. He was satisfied with the result, so taken with the beauty he created he did not notice the gloves completely betray the saintly image he ascribes to Darlin.

Scrunching up his brow, Mason struggled through memories of Darlin;

A beautiful woman who is polite and dignified. Regardless of the the derision she receives, she stands tall. To Mason, Darlin is the noblest of nobles.

“…Is that actually… a good thing?” 

The nobles he observed whilst working with Madam Gisselle were a a variety of finicky, two-faced, manipulative, expert fabulists, and traitorous.

They were quick to smile and flatter when they wanted of you— quicker to snob and sneer when you have naught to offer them.

Darlin isn’t like them. Why, Mason nary recalled a time he’s seen her raise her voice. 

In shock, Mason put a hand over his mouth. “They were afraid of her…”

The same nobles who mock Darlin so quickly shut their mouths when she walks in, shrinking under her attention, or racing off with pale faces after only a few words from Darlin. 

Had she really born canards with a lonely appearance and slumped shoulders?

He looked down at the gloves, inspiration bursting in those green eyes as he wonders what side of Darlin he’d meant to materialize.

Do these square cut gems speak of strength? 

Are the splash of feathers an arrogant stance against norms? A dare to deny this rebellious design could suit no one as well as it does her? 

Daring, shrouded, defiant. “It’s you.”

*****

A lot happened in the time Darlin left for her meeting with Ingrid.

A carriage arrives at the gates of the Rayne estate. At the guards’ insistence to check with Countess Rayne, a heated exchange between the coachman and guard attracts the presence of the Head Butler, Mister Marin.

“Quickly,” He says to a maid, “go get the Countess.”

She’s off, whilst Marin heads outside. One of the guards notices him and pleads for help with his expression alone.

Adjusting his monocle, the butler notes the crest on the carriage. “Dalton?” The Countess of that house is one of Isabelle’s friends, so why would she behave this rudely? Perchance an emergency? On that premise, Marin signals the guard to let the carriage through.

To the staff’s surprise, the carriage is laden with luggage. They share brief whispers, finding none had been informed of a guest, nor were any lodgings prepared in anticipation of one.

A buxom woman alights at the bottom of the stoop, narrow eyes sharpening into a scowl. “Finally,” She huffs then points her fan up at the Head Butler, “You, I believe you’re Marin, correct?”

“Quite. It is an honor to be remembered by you, Countess Dalton.” The servant bowed. “You were unfortunately delayed as we were not expecting your arrival.”

“Oh~?” The subtle chastisement does not escape Gretchen. “An apology is due then. The Earl and Countess have been aware of my arrival for days!”

Marin was stomped. He would have been told if that were true, but to express this will be to call Countess Dalton a liar.

“Countess Gretchen?” Thankfully, Isabelle arrives to take over the situation, Flora by her side. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Countess Rayne.” Gretchen nods in greeting. She eyes Flora, then draws her disappointed gaze back to Isabelle. “What a poor welcome. I almost had to force my way in.”

Gretchen had never faced Isabelle with such an attitude. Annoyed, Isabelle shot back, “Isn’t that because you came without notice?”

“”Without notice”, she says.” Gretchen chuckled, “I believe Duke Vincent sent word already. I would wonder if you think so little of him, but recently, Countess Rayne, I have come to learn you are simply not as smart as I thought.”

Isabelle somehow paled and burned red at the same time. She opened her mouth to respond, but Gretchen didn’t care to listen. She pointed her fan at Flora, “You there, where are your manners?”

Flora looks left and right, then points at herself. Surely it can’t be she Gretchen refers to like that.

Gretchen rolls her eyes. Marching up the stairs, she pauses in front of Marin and slaps him hard enough to make him stumble three steps back. “It is not a servant’s place to criticize me. I hope I won’t catch you looking down on me again.”

“What in the four realms has gotten into you?!” Isabelle gasps.

Ignoring her, Gretchen nears Flora, who trembles after witnessing such violence. 

Isabelle does not fail to raise a protective arm in front of Flora, and the sight has Gretchen throwing her head back in a fit of laughter. “My oh my, Countess Rayne, it is clear I have greatly overestimated you.”

“What’s the meaning of this disrespect? I hope you don’t intend to lay hands on my daughter.”

“I merely wish to correct the wretched behavior you have fostered.” Sighing, Gretchen laments, “That girl has not greeted me once. It seems I have my work cut out for me.”

“What are you on about?” Isabelle demands.

A ravenous smirk tugs on Gretchen’s lips. “I am talking about educating young Flora on the request of the Duke and Duchess of Fritz!”

*****

“She barged in unannounced!”

“She struck Mister Marin, my Lady!”

“Oh, how will Lady Flora fare under such a violent woman?”

“She called the Countess stupid in front of gods and all!”

“She clearly doesn’t have the best of intentions for Lady Flora.”

“You must do something, Lady Darlin!” 

While the Head Maid and Marin air their woes, all Darlin cares for is the glowing palm print on the latter’s cheek.

She’s magnificent! “Countess Dalton, you say?” I could kiss the old cow! “Yes, well, she is a close confidant of the Duchess…” They studied together under Dame Jules, and the Countess also has a wide social circle.

Those words were enough to delight the two older servants. “Then, my Lady can speak on Lady Flora’s behalf, yes?” Cara, the Head Maid, nods furiously as if the matter is decided.

Darlin cocks her head, a sarcastic smile playing across her beautiful face. “How about chasing her off with a stick, hmm~?”

It takes a moment for the hope to fall as they realized Darlin is mocking.

“Oh, that will not do, will it? How about I march right to the Fritz manor and tell the Duchess we think her long time friend is not suited for the task assigned to her? Does that not sound grand~?”

“That is… Well… We did not mean that exactly…” Marin twiddles his fingers.

Cara gives the excuse, “We were just worrying for Lady Flora.”

The whole matter with Gretchen has Darlin’s malice raring. She feels it in with a quiet inhale, her smile taking on a more hapless form. “Flora’s position is tentative as is. A good impression on the guest will help her better than my interference.”

“But the Lady is so delicate, and Countess Dalton was not the least friendly.” Cara said worriedly.

Darlin is saved from wrestling with patience when Marin groans. “Lady Darlin is right. No matter what, we will just have to support Lady Flora more than ever!”

Determination takes the place of Cara’s anxiety. “Naturally!”

Darlin waves the two off. “I wish you luck.” Gods know you dumbasses will need it.

Countess Gretchen Dalton really isn’t one of Darlin’s favorite people. Primarily, Darlin hated her son, Narcisse Dalton— Heinrich’s best friend, and Flora’s avid admirer. 

There is no accounting how often he’s pried his mouth open to offend Darlin;

“Aren’t you ashamed to cling to a man who doesn’t want you?”

“Flora and Heinrich suit each other so well.”

“Just how desperate are you for the seat of Duchess?”

“Why must noblewomen be so disgustingly superficial?”

Gretchen eyes the newcomer, gauging her reaction. “You must be…” 

With a pinch of her skirt and a bend of her knees, Darlin dips into a curtsy as comely as a flower in bloom. “Countess Dalton, we have met before, but I do not dare assume her Ladyship remembers me. I am Darlin Rayne, please forgive me for not being here to welcome your Ladyship.”

Gretchen had a sandwich in one hand, and a teacup in the other, forgoing manners merely because she knows no one in this house has the gull or standing to reprimand her.

Darlin clearly sees the resemblance between mother and son; Arrogance. 

Narcisse calls himself “free spirited” while looking down on noble idles and manners. He labels them “pretentious”. 

However, the ability to speak against the upper class is a privilege of his noble birth.

Fuck you and your shit spawn, lady. The longer Darlin looks, the more she sees Narcisse.

On the other had, Gretchen is in awe. Even her voice is… Without tremor or stutter, Darlin’s greeting is akin to poetry. How such elegance exists, Gretchen could not say. 

Slowly putting down the refreshments, she blinks a few times. “…Yes, you are definitely Dame Jules’ masterpiece.” She unconsciously lapses into formal speech when addressing Darlin.

Now she understands why her former tutor retired after Darlin. The demand to recreate such a noble will be incredibly high, and the possibility dismal. She’s flawless.

From her blinks, to the sway of her white tresses, and the rustle of her clothes, every one of Darlin’s physical progressions are a well executed dance revealing the peak of noble etiquette.

Collecting herself, Gretchen rises and nods in the younger’s direction. “Lady Darlin, you have my greetings. It is a shame we never got to relate more in the past.”

Utter shit. Darlin would have obviously wanted to be acquainted with Felicity’s confidant, and Fritz’s vassal, but Gretchen is the sort to hide and wait until there is a definite winner to suck up to.

While everyone had their opinions, it was still anyone’s guess as to who would hold power in Fritz— the girl chosen by Felicity, or the girl loved by Heinrich.

In a bid to not take sides until she knew who is worth allying with, Gretchen made efforts to draw a thick line between herself and Darlin up until now. 

She won’t rub that in Gretchen’s face though. Not yet. “Your thoughts are more than enough, Countess. I understand we will be seeing a lot of each other these coming days?”

“Darlin…!” Flora can’t believe Darlin would just thoughtlessly welcome that mad woman without anyone else’s input.

She makes to stand and argue, but with a glare from Gretchen she bites her bottom lip and settles for wringing her skirt.

Darlin trails her mirthful eyes back to Gretchen. Impressive. The noblewoman already has Flora on a short lease.

“What a graceless thing!” Gretchen’s disparage has Flora lost as to what she’s now done to offend the temperamental noblewoman. “Interrupting a conversation is extremely rude, Flora. Is it to say your time is more valuable than others’?”

Flora guffaws. Where did she pull such an accusation from? “When did I say that? What’s wrong with talking to my own sister?”

“You spoke up without being invited into the conversation! Goodness, I have seen peasants with more decorum than you.”

Gretchen only allows Flora a hiccup before rending an extendable riding crop from her sleeve and striking it against the table. “Don’t you dare!” She snarls, pointing the cane at Flora in a threat. “Wipe that insipid look off your face this instance! If you think tears will help, then you are nowhere near suited to be Duchess Apparent!”

Darlin is almost wrecked quivers of glee.

Flora looks between her mother and Darlin. The first is downcast, just as helpless as Flora, and the latter is like a stone statue observing the situation with a detached presence. 

“…Oh…” Flora clutches the place over her heart, a familiar emotion capturing the organ in a smother. She’s certainly felt something along these lines when hearing her wedding would be nothing like her dreams. …No one… I’m all alone again…