By the time we arrived at the room, Duchess Bourdelle was already seated at a round table set with an array of delicate tea snacks. She looked up as we entered and offered a warm, composed smile, gracefully gesturing for us to join her.
This time, we moved with extra care. The lesson had already begun the moment we stepped through the door. Every gesture mattered—our posture, the pace of our steps, the angle of our bows—all needed to reflect the elegance expected of our social standing. We took our seats just as we had been taught: fluid, silent, and poised.
"How was your lesson today?" the Duchess asked, her tone light yet refined.
"It was, as always, pleasant, Your Grace," Cece replied smoothly. In this setting, she addressed her mother not as a daughter, but as a student to an esteemed instructor, adhering strictly to formal protocol.
The Duchess gave an approving nod. "That’s lovely to hear." She then gave a subtle signal to one of the attendants. "Please observe how Karina pours the tea," she said. "Although this task is typically performed for you, it’s important that you understand the proper method. One day, you may be in a situation where you must do it yourself—and do it fwlessly."
We watched closely as Karina demonstrated, her movements graceful and controlled, pouring with a steady wrist and the perfect tilt of the pot. We knew we'd be expected to replicate the gesture in mere moments.
Honestly? It felt like refined torture.
Another round of mental gymnastics just to pour tea and nibble on a sandwich with socially acceptable fir. I was starving, already worn out from the morning’s lessons, and now I had to focus on where to pce my fingers on a porcein handle.
Still, I resigned myself to it—like the saying goes, When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Even so, I couldn’t help but linger on the memory of my past life. Back then, school lunches came with a full hour of freedom, not a battlefield of etiquette disguised as teatime.
Duchess Bourdelle then had us take turns pouring tea ourselves, gently correcting our posture and grip. Once she was satisfied, we moved on to the etiquette of dining during social visits—how to properly hold and eat a sandwich, how to subtly dab one’s lips, and, most importantly, how to initiate polite yet purposeful conversation.
"Always remember," she said, her voice smooth but firm, "conversation is more than talk. It's a dance of information, of observation. You must learn how to extract insight without seeming to pry."
As she guided us through the lesson, I couldn’t help but admire her. Her long, chocote-brown hair was styled into a fwless twist, adorned with glimmering gems that sparkled subtly under the afternoon light. Her golden eyes—calm, intelligent, and slightly sly—were the very ones Cece had inherited. Everything about her radiated grace, power, and precision. It was no wonder she commanded such effortless respect in high society.
After nearly an hour, the lesson concluded. We were instructed to practice at home, as our progress would be observed in the next session. As the attendants quietly cleared the tea set and snacks, Cece leaned toward her mother.
"May I request permission to visit Montecarlo Street, Mother? Sweet Anomaly has just restocked its pastries, and Melody mentioned a new bookstore as well."
Duchess Bourdelle considered for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Very well. But stay within the district and be mindful of the time."
Montecarlo Street, nestled within the noble quarter, was a favored destination among young aristocrats. Its safety and tranquility made it a popur post-lesson retreat.
We wasted no time. As we exited the room, Cece turned to Melody with a small wave of excitement. “Please summon Sir Preston and Sir Cane,” she said. “We’ll need an escort.”
With Cece’s escort knights soon to join us, our brief outing was officially underway.
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