064 The Suitor

Saint Alberta Academy was renowned throughout the Empire as a finishing school for young ladies. Women who graduated from this institution—or even those who had not quite earned their diploma—inevitably carried a certain unique charm. In a place teeming with beauty, whether of face or of spirit, it was only natural that all manner of romantic pursuits unfolded. Although propriety forbade open declarations of affection on campus, each day saw a cavalcade of shopkeepers arriving by carriage, bearing gifts for the academy’s young women. From the simplest bouquets to the most extravagant magical ornaments, nothing was wanting.

On this particular day, a middle-aged woman clad in professional attire walked along the cobblestone path, cradling an enormous armful of blush-pink Lyra roses. Her progress drew countless gazes—startled, yearning, and envious in equal measure. Exclamations of awe rippled through the crowd; anyone who saw the colossal bouquet, so large it nearly concealed the woman’s entire upper body, could not help but feel a pang of envy.

Which spendthrift had gone to such lengths this time? And which student—or perhaps instructor—had inspired such extravagant devotion?

As the woman made her way forward, a throng of girls trailed behind—some for love of flowers, others for love of gossip, and many for both. She left the cobblestone path, entered the Music Hall, ascended to the second floor, and pushed open a classroom door.

“Wow, Lyra roses!” Benita, whose seat faced the classroom entrance, was the first to spot the visitor and her bouquet. She gasped in delight. “And they’re pink! Good heavens, they’re beautiful!”

Teresa started and turned to look, catching sight of the extravagant, blush-hued Lyra roses that had just appeared at the doorway. The bouquet was so immense that it completely hid the person carrying it, save for two legs peeking out from beneath—a sight that, at a glance, might trick one into thinking the flowers themselves had sprouted limbs and come walking in.

Lyra roses, also known as Sacred Roses, were rare magical blooms of exquisite delicacy. They could grow only in regions thick with light magic; before they flowered, they required constant magical care, making their cultivation a costly endeavor. However, once cut, Lyra roses would not wilt for an entire year. The essential oil extracted from these roses was a legendary elixir for the skin—even bathing in water infused with their petals was said to bestow remarkable beauty.

Of all Lyra roses, the pink variety was the most precious. Symbolizing purity, grace, and nobility, it was every girl’s dream flower. One needed only to glance around the classroom to see the longing and fervor in the girls’ eyes as they gazed upon those blooms.

The massive bouquet glided forward, and whenever it drew near a girl, she would flush with excitement, scarcely restraining herself from snatching at the flowers. But as the bouquet drifted past and away from her, disappointment and envy inevitably followed, some gazes growing so fierce they seemed to bore holes into the departing petals—each girl desperate to see who would be the lucky recipient.

“Honestly, which wastrel is willing to spend so much?” Benita marveled, then sidled up to Teresa, her voice lowered in excitement. “Such a bouquet must cost at least several dozen Rose Gold coins—maybe not quite a hundred, but not far off. Whoever receives these must be over the moon…”

She fell silent, for the bouquet was gliding straight toward them.

Teresa and Benita had chosen their seats carefully—a perfect spot, shielded on one side by a wall and on the other by a column, which afforded a clear view of the music platform yet left them hidden from the teacher’s sight. Few students sat so far from the action, preferring seats closer to the teacher’s demonstrations, but here, the music was clearest.

Now, the pink Lyra roses came to a gentle halt—right before Teresa.

“Three hundred sixty-five roses—because I think of you every day. Miss Bolger, please sign for your bouquet.” The middle-aged woman, with a gracious smile, passed the magically floating flowers to Teresa.

Teresa stared, dumbfounded, at the roses, feeling as though she were lost in a dream.

“Who sent these? For me? There must be some mistake,” she stammered, her words sending a ripple of disbelief through the class.

The delivery woman replied with perfect composure, “If you are Miss Teresa Bronto Bolger, then there is no mistake. As for the sender, he left no name, so I’m afraid we cannot say.”

Teresa signed the receipt and, amid a storm of envious, admiring, and resentful glances, accepted the Lyra roses, her face growing more woeful by the moment.

“Hey now, if you pull a face like that after receiving such a magnificent bouquet, you’ll have the whole class after you,” Benita teased, poking Teresa in the side. “When did you attract such a generous admirer? You’re becoming more mysterious by the day.”

Teresa frowned deeply. “What admirer? I spend all my time at school, the teacher’s, or with Master Twilight. If I’m not there, I’m usually with you—or off on some adventure mission with Achille. When would I have time for any admirers?”

“Hm, that’s true,” Benita mused, pinching her chin. “You’re almost like a novice priestess, never bothering to dress up. How could you land such a wealthy suitor? Unless… could it be that special performance? You don’t realize how enchanting you were that day!”

“I doubt it,” Teresa replied, her brow furrowing at the memory. “Didn’t you say I looked completely different under those lights and fireworks? No one should have recognized me. And even if they did, how would they discover who I am?”

“You never know,” Benita said, her expression thoughtful. “Some people, once smitten, will stop at nothing. To send such expensive flowers… either your admirer is utterly besotted—believe me, you were goddess material that night—or he has some ulterior motive.”

Teresa and Benita exchanged troubled glances, each seeing her own worry reflected in the other’s eyes. It was clear which explanation they found more likely… (To be continued)