Chapter 36

Asla wasn’t confident she could truly love a child.  

The thought that the child might grow up to be as petty, timid, and gloomy as herself made her stomach churn and her head spin.

“Madam, are you alright?”

It was thanks to May’s worried eyes gazing up at her that Asla snapped out of it.  

Wiping the cold sweat beading on her brow, Asla managed a strained smile.

“I’m just a little tired. I didn’t know spending money could be this exhausting.”

“Your complexion doesn’t look good. Should we head back?”

As May made to signal the man waiting in the distance, Asla shook her head to stop her.

“It’s alright. I don’t want to shop anymore… I’d just like to rest somewhere. Somewhere outdoors where I can sit and breathe some fresh air.”

“The Central Plaza is nearby. There are lots of benches there.”

“Let’s go, then.”

May supported her as they walked to the central plaza.  

The men’s tailor was located at the far end of Rosshill Street, which conveniently connected directly to the plaza.  

Before long, they arrived.

A massive oval-shaped fountain at the center of the circular plaza sprayed cool water into the air.

“So this is the Central Plaza…”

“Please, have a seat here, Madam.”

Seated on a bench, Asla nodded as May offered to fetch a drink, and leaned her body back against the seat.

Staring at the fountain, Asla wore a complex expression.  

At the top of the structure was a statue of an emperor on horseback being blessed by a god.

‘The emperor and a god…’

She let out a quiet laugh at the odd pairing.

Even after spending two years in the Tulia High Temple, she had never once laid eyes on this central public space.  

‘I was kept in a cage…’

The fountain’s crashing water helped cool the suffocating heat inside her chest.  

Just then, through the cascading spray of water, she caught a glimpse of gleaming blonde hair and froze.

‘…Margo?’

Startled, Asla sat up quickly and scanned the area again, but the woman who had seemed like Margo was nowhere to be seen.

‘I must be really tired…’

Placing a hand over her rapidly beating heart, she repeated to herself that it couldn’t be.  

In a city this large, surely there were plenty of blondes with similar builds.  

She had only just begun to rid herself of Margo’s specter—especially in women like Isabel—yet now she was letting herself get spooked by the mere sight of a similar hair color.

Tired of herself, Asla sighed and held her forehead.

‘When will I be okay?’

Then again, she had lived this way for so long.  

How could such a narrow-minded, gloomy, timid personality possibly change?

Asla fell into her usual spiral of self-deprecation—until she spotted a familiar figure at the entrance of a narrow street leading off the plaza.

“…That person… Pastel? Amelia?”

Asla had sharp eyesight.  

Even from afar, she instantly recognized the woman.

It was Amelia—her long, thick black curls falling to her waist, her sharp cat-like blue eyes.  

The same woman who had spoken to her about pastels in the hotel restaurant.

Asla quietly watched Amelia walk away with light steps into the narrow alley and disappear.  

Then she called over to the waiting hotel attendant and asked, “What’s down that street?”

“Ah, yes. It’s mostly shops selling odds and ends, but also many art supply stores. That road connects to the artist quarter.”

“I see…”

Now it made sense that Amelia would have passed through there.  

The drawing she had made in the Ventus Hotel restaurant.  

The artist village.

Asla was convinced now—Amelia was an artist who lived nearby.

And suddenly, curiosity welled up in her.

‘I wonder if I could buy those pastel tools if I went down that street…’

In an instant, all her earlier self-loathing was forgotten.  

Her gaze remained fixed on the alley where Amelia had just vanished.

“Madam?”

“Ah, May.”

Asla perked up after drinking the lemonade May brought her.  

Then, naturally, she and May stepped into the narrow street lined with art supply shops.

It was a stark contrast to the glamorous and tidy Rosshill Street.  

The road was narrow and grimy, and instead of gleaming glass windows, the grayish-white buildings had only small, scattered openings.  

But the traces left on the walls by artists were nothing short of mesmerizing.

“They’ve done paintings on the walls…”

The skill was far beyond the level of mere doodling—it was beautiful.  

Walking slowly, Asla found herself drawn, almost as if hypnotized, toward the entrance of the largest art supply shop on the street.

“Madam, are you sure you’re alright? Perhaps we should come back tomorrow—you need rest.”

“I’m fine, really. Thank you, May.”

As Asla gave her a reassuring smile, May nodded with relief.  

Not long ago, she’d been like a fragile rowboat on the verge of sinking into the sea—but now her mind was calm again.

It felt just as peaceful as when she was with Enoch.  

But more importantly, Asla realized she could feel this way even without Enoch.  

She was elated by the discovery that there was something else that genuinely captured her interest.

“The smell of paper…”

“Yes, and of oil, too.”

As they whispered to each other inside the hushed art supply shop, Asla and May looked around in awe.  

On the tall shelves were neatly arranged stacks of colored drawing paper, paints sorted by hue, brushes, pencils, and more.

Passing an aisle with carving knives laid out in rows, May stammered, “This is my first time in an art store, Madam.”

“It’s mine too.”

Asla replied in a dazed voice.

It felt like another world—truly a new universe for her.  

Even the most luxurious clothing boutiques of Rosshill Street hadn’t thrilled her like this.  

This was far more captivating.

“I saw you sketch a few times, Madam. You must really like drawing—you’re quite good at it.”

May’s eyes sparkled, but Asla only responded with a bashful smile as she continued browsing.  

As a princess of the Holy Kingdom, she had never had a hobby.  

She’d never even had a chance to use proper paint.  

She only repeated the act of sketching on blank paper with whatever pen or pencil was given to her.

But here—this shop was filled with art tools and supplies she had only ever dreamed of.  

Even things she’d never seen before.

Curiosity burned brightly in her.

She wanted to ask the other customers, but most of them were quietly focused on picking their own supplies.  

Asla glanced around hesitantly, and May, quick on the uptake, dashed over to the counter and brought the owner to her.

The shopkeeper—a slender middle-aged man with a black mustache and a red cap—gave a polite bow.

“It’s an honor to meet the Duchess.”

“I have many questions. I hope you don’t mind answering them.”

The shopkeeper opened his eyes wide in surprise but nodded eagerly and followed Asla through the shop.

May, watching from behind, couldn’t hide her amazement.

‘Madam… she’s glowing…’

Rosshill Street had been filled with dazzling items, yet Asla had shown only mild interest there.  

But now—her eyes sparkled like starlight, her cheeks were flushed, and her whole face was alive with energy.

May beamed fondly as she watched Asla bombard the shopkeeper with questions, her excitement uncontainable.

Who knows how much time passed?

May gawked at the sheer volume of supplies Asla had just ordered:  

an easel, multiple canvases, oil paints, watercolor sets, brushes, water containers, palettes, painting knives, colored pencils, graphite pencils, and other tools.

It was enough to fill an entire cart—so much that May and the hotel staff who had been waiting nearby agreed to call for a separate wagon to carry it all.

“Does Her Grace the Duchess have an art tutor?”

The art shop owner, beaming after the sizable sale thanks to Asla, asked cheerfully. Caught off guard by the unexpected question, she gave a lukewarm reply.

“…I haven’t hired one yet.”

“Ah, I see. Well, it would be difficult for an art teacher from the Empire to match the talent and eye of someone like Your Grace.”

Asla couldn’t help but laugh at the owner’s remark.

“How could you possibly know if I have any talent?”

“What greater talent is there than passion? Passion is patience—and patience always shines through in time.”

Asla stood quietly, listening to the shopkeeper’s earnest words.  

Patience, if nothing else, was the one virtue she had been forcibly trained in since childhood—it had become her one true skill.  

But she had never considered that patience might be transformed into passion.

The shopkeeper, gazing sincerely at her, continued.

“This shop has been passed down since my grandfather’s time. I myself have worked here for thirty years. I’ve seen many artists come and go—and I feel the same spark in you. Please, trust my eyes.”

“Oh, I…”

“It’s not flattery. Just don’t let go of that passion you feel right now. Never give up.”

‘Passion.’

Asla doubted whether such a burning flame even existed within her.  

After all, she’d only ever sketched scenery or objects with a pencil.  

She had no idea where to even begin if she wanted to pursue art more seriously.

She found herself wondering if she should hire an art teacher. So she asked: “Shopkeeper. May I ask why you speak of Imperial tutors with such low regard?”

“Hm… You can tell by the trends. The Empire has some art schools, yes, but no proper universities.”

“There are countries with art universities?”

“Well… I hope this doesn’t offend you, Your Grace, but are you familiar with the Kingdom of Astra?”

Asla understood immediately why the shopkeeper was speaking so cautiously.  

The Kingdom of Astra was a small nation clinging like a snake to the southwestern peninsula of the continent, its shores brushing the sea.  

It was known for being a godless, liberal country—and famous for adopting constitutional monarchy early on.  

Of course, Asla had long been aware of it.

“It’s a good place to live. I’m no longer tied to anything related to the gods, so speak freely.”

She rubbed her fingers together and spoke calmly.  

The shopkeeper, seeing her sincerity, nervously stroked his mustache and went on.

“The Kingdom of Astra has a royal art university. Perhaps that’s why so many excellent artists come from there. Cole Gray, Luman Dante, Sirrael—all from Astra.”

Asla nodded at the familiar names of renowned masters.

“I’ve heard that not only the people but also the upper class of Astra have a deep love for the arts. Their social welfare is impressive, too. They’re bold with experimentation and produce high-quality art supplies.”

“I see.”

At that moment, a thought struck Asla.

“Then… were pastels also developed in the Kingdom of Astra?”

“Your Grace is familiar with pastels?”

The shopkeeper looked at her in astonishment, then quickly bowed in apology, realizing how rude his reaction must have seemed.

“My apologies. It’s only that I myself only recently learned about them, so I was surprised. Please forgive me.”

“Think nothing of it. Then…do you have pastels here?”

Asla looked around, but the shopkeeper shook his head.

“We’re currently trying to import them from Astra. But the cost is high, and the supply is low—it’s proving quite difficult.”

‘Hm?’  

Asla tilted her head, thinking of Amelia, who had so readily offered to give her some of those expensive, hard-to-obtain pastels.