Chapter 6

Chapter 6

This was humiliating: she’d bumped into someone coming out of the alley.

“Ah…”

Mortified, Rose bowed her head immediately; even without looking directly at him, she could tell from his clothes and shoes that the man was someone of high standing.

He wore a pitch-black morning suit with a perfectly restrained sheen. His gloves were leather—so finely crafted that she could almost feel how thin they were even without touching them. In one hand, he held an ebony cane engraved with the figure of an eagle on the top.

And then there was the scent: a rich musk gently underpinned by the sharp note of cedar wood. It had to be a custom blend, crafted by a perfumer specifically for him.

Maybe it was the scent, or maybe it was the shock—but her heart pounded uncontrollably. The man’s large hand around her waist felt abnormally warm.

“Thank you, sir. And I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

“I wasn’t looking either. Though it was an accident, I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness in touching a lady without her permission.”

He gently removed his hand and even apologized for the contact.

Good heavens. If one opened a textbook on gentlemen, his photo would surely be featured as the definition of the word.

He even offered her a handkerchief after seeing her tear-streaked face.

The moment Rose looked up to thank him, she caught sight of his face—and involuntarily muttered,

“Oh? Mister Jack Dillon?”

“…Do you know me?”

His gaze sharpened with suspicion.

Ah. She was doomed.

First, her fiancé cheated on her. Then she bumped into a stranger in a crowded intersection. And now she’d said something she shouldn’t have. Disaster upon disaster.

“Ah, no! It’s my first time seeing you! You must have misheard me! Thank you! Really! Have a great day!”

Without giving him a chance to say anything more, Rose rattled off her thanks like a machine gun and bolted.

Why on earth is Jack Dillon here?!

Well… it wasn’t entirely strange.

Most of her clients were upper-class figures. They held endless parties and often invited the “Huckerd & Blavatsky Spiritual Research Institute” to provide necromancy and psychic shows for entertainment. Some of her regulars even invited her and Arthur to attend as guests.

And Jack Dillon… he had been attending Countess Chester’s parties—one of Rose’s regulars—almost religiously for the past year. He was hard not to recognize.

The problem was, Rose used color-shifting magic when performing under the alias “Olga Blavatsky”—platinum blonde hair and emerald green eyes.

In the end, show business was all about selling a character.

Crafting a persona and performing convincingly was the key to gaining loyal clients. If anyone found out that the aloof and mysterious Olga Blavatsky was actually a messy-haired woman crying in the street… it would be a massive blow.

He didn’t recognize me, thank goodness…

But it had been only a few hours since she returned to the past, and already so much had happened. Exhausted in both body and mind, Rose hurried toward her destination.

A short walk later, she reached the public fountain near the city’s school plaza.

Looking at what she held in her hand, Rose sighed deeply.

“Seriously, when did you manage to take this too, Rose?”

Somehow, in her panicked escape, she’d snatched the handkerchief Jack Dillon offered—like an eagle snatching prey.

He might not have known her, but she knew him. And now she felt guilty and mortified.

The gold-embroidered initials “J.D.” were stitched into the handkerchief; just touching it told her it was a luxury item.

“Even the scent is lovely…”

If someone told her to wipe her tears with something like this, the sheer reverence might stop her crying on the spot.

Rose washed her tear-streaked face with water from the fountain, trying not to think about it.

She almost wiped her face with his handkerchief but caught herself just in time, gently placing it back in her pocket like a sacred object.

Instead, she pulled out her own shabby, wrinkled one to dry off.

The cold water cleared her head just a little.

Was her cheating fiancé really the problem here?

Almost getting recognized by a client’s guest while out of character—was that really the issue?

No. The real problem was that she no longer had a suitable man to flout the conditions of the offering.

She had trusted Arthur Granfield implicitly!

“Now what am I going to do?”

With Arthur—the betrayer—out of the picture, there was no one else around her suitable for the task.

Sure, she had to save the world… but she couldn’t just sleep with anyone.

Saving the world isn’t exactly simple…

With her plans falling apart, her thoughts returned to square one. She didn’t want to wander the streets forever, so she ducked into a quiet café.

Even after mulling over it until Catherine’s workday was nearly done, no clear answer emerged. From morning till now, everything had been chaos. Rose finally headed to the public school, her steps weary.

Thankfully, the rest of the day went perfectly.

Catherine was safe. Caroline and Mrs. Brown were fine too.

Mrs. Brown, upon hearing of Arthur’s affair, was kind enough to let it slide—so the three boarders were able to drink together even on a weekday.

Caroline fumed, “I knew that pretty boy was going to cause trouble!” Catherine wrinkled her nose, saying, “If that’s the state of Mr. Granfield’s lower half, I don’t even want to know about other men’s.” Then she suddenly declared, “I’ll just never get married.”

Caroline poured another drink, saying carts were out and carriages were in. Catherine responded by pouring a third, saying these days it was all about Kelson-type automobiles.

The next day, all three suffered hangovers—but their friendship was stronger for it.

Meanwhile, Rose gradually began to dismantle her now-closing business.

She scheduled the office move-out date, canceled all upcoming bookings, and shut off the business phone line.

Then she started packing the things she’d collected over the past two years.

Arthur, clearly aware he shouldn’t dare show his face, came like a mouse in the night to pack his belongings—so thankfully, she didn’t have to see him.

He did leave behind a few things: letters of apology, excuses disguised as reflection, a card begging for one last conversation.

“So pathetic…”

They had reached the point of no return. Arthur knew it, yet he groveled on.

Rose stared at the twelfth letter as it burned, then shook her head.

If she hadn’t seen what she saw that day, she would’ve chosen Arthur Granfield as her first. She might’ve even pushed up the wedding date to fulfill her goal before the world ended.

“Ugh, Arthur Granfield. Makes my skin crawl.”

She thought of the office sofa, that red-haired woman she hadn’t even seen clearly, and her stomach turned.

After cleaning up the ashes from the burnt letters, she could see the end of the office clean-out in sight.

Now all that remained was to find a new man to spend her first night with.

Friday evening, late April.

James Dautryche stood watching the necromancy show from afar, barely masking his irritation.

It had been over a year since he started attending Countess Chester’s parties to make connections for business, but there’d been no progress.

The dead had no souls. Death was the end.

Candles lighting on their own, shaking tables, typewriters tapping as if by ghost—just tricks, nothing more.

He had no interest in the Countess’s hobbies; how could he build rapport with her?

“Maybe it’s time to give up on the exclusivity deal and focus on expanding the rail lines.”

Even attending her parties was starting to feel like a waste.

“Jerome. What are you thinking about?”

A young woman in a red evening gown looped her arm through his and smiled.

“I’m not Jerome.”

“Then, sir who was Jerome—what’s your real name?”

“…I hear the Viscount Cavendish has been making a stir lately.”

“Tell me your name and I’ll tell you today’s name.”

“We’ll see.”

He smiled and kissed her temple lightly.

The woman giggled delightedly and led him out to a quiet terrace.

A handsome man with a mysterious air and a new name each time.

Some said he was the secret son of a nouveau riche tycoon, others claimed he was the black sheep of a minor noble house, or the illegitimate child of a famous actor.

Rumors about his identity abounded—but no one had ever guessed it correctly.

Very few people in Romberton society knew who James really was.

Rather than inheriting it, he had all but seized his father’s company—and he was obsessive about staying out of the public eye.

It was already well-known that he didn’t attend his own parties. At public events, he always sent a proxy. Unless you did business with him directly, you weren’t likely to know who he was.

Some whispered that it was because he had been kidnapped as a child and now hid himself out of lingering trauma.