“Make me a Salve.”

The moment Aiden stepped into Ivan’s laboratory, he gave the order.

Wearing a long leather apron and round protective goggles, Ivan blinked like a startled fish.

“As strong as possible. Immediately.”

“Did something happen?”

Ivan carefully set the test tube in his hand onto its stand and removed his goggles. Soon after, he strode toward Aiden, concern brimming in his gentle eyes.

That anxious look recalled to Aiden the pale-blue gaze he had seen only minutes ago. He raked his hair back with a violent sweep.

“So the Matwood father and daughter came by…”

At once, Ivan nodded knowingly.

“That young lady must have gotten under your skin again. She certainly is persistent.”

“….”

“And this time, where did she put her hands?”

When Aiden pointed curtly to three spots, Ivan gave a quiet chuckle.

“At least she didn’t grab your backside this time.”

“….”

“Why, remember when she touched your backside as a child and ran off? That sharp little backside of yours—”

“Enough nonsense.”

“All right, all right.”

“….”

Ivan glanced sideways at Aiden, who stood with his arms folded.

“The chair’s clean. You can sit.”

“Standing is more comfortable.”

“Suit yourself.”

Humming lightly under his breath, Ivan began to mix the salve.

“I thought your condition had improved while you were spending time with Lady Luce. I saw you during the last May Festival. Even when you brushed against others, you seemed fine.”

“….”

Aiden recalled that day. There had been plenty of women pretending to be dizzy and trying to fall into his arms. There had even been a man bold enough to offer him a handshake.

Had he avoided them? He could not remember clearly. The only thing he was certain of was that he had been holding Sveta Luce’s hand.

Compared to the political discussions with the nobles and the Queen’s heavy-handed command that day, this seemed trivial. This was all the more reason why it slipped from his memory.

“Your ailment is psychological. Everyone instinctively dislikes strangers. It’s a natural caution — an awareness that they might not be trustworthy.”

“….”

“But you, well… let’s say your mental barriers are higher than most.”

Ivan spooned a lump of white cream from a broad mixing dish into a small jar.

“It seems Lady Luce somehow eases that rejection in you.”

“And why would that be?”

Ivan rubbed his plump, smooth chin, paused deliberately, and answered,

“Perhaps… love?”

“I told you to keep your nonsense to yourself.”

“It’s a serious theory, actually. When you’re with her, you feel safe.”

“….”

Aiden bit down on his red lips. At once sensing the shift in mood, Ivan quickly brightened his tone.

“I’d swear it on Count Bartley’s name.”

“Does your father know you go around swearing on his name like that?”

“Of course not. He has seven sons. Why would he spare a glance for the youngest? That’s why I make free with oaths.”

Ivan grinned broadly and held out the jar of ointment.

“All done. Want to try it now?”

Careful not to brush against his friend, Aiden accepted the jar. He hesitated. Had he not already endured enough for one day? Changing shirts again would be a nuisance.

“In three days’ time.”

“The aftereffects of Miss Matwood’s touch will last at least that long, won’t they?”

Aiden gave a crooked smile at his old friend’s familiarity, then turned away.

“It’s been a pleasant talk, Strilland. Go on, then.”

With a gesture of gratitude, Aiden waved his arm and strode out.

The door had not yet closed when his voice pulled Ivan back from his workbench.

“What, need something else?”

“Can you make something to erase scars?”

◯◯◯

“This is an oil for removing scars.”

Sveta looked from the small jar before her to the physician’s earnest face.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

His visit had been sudden, and the gift more sudden still. Her wide eyes and tilted head made him start, and he rushed to explain.

“There’s no other meaning. It’s simply that I make it well. Every lady desires flawless skin, don’t they? Just recently, Lady Noma of Count Fitell’s house commissioned it. I had some left over.”

“….”

‘This man really does talk well…’

Sveta’s quiet blinking, her attentive manner, seemed to please him. Puffing up proudly, he lifted his chin, his round cheeks twitching with satisfaction.

“This ointment is in such high demand you can’t even get it. Every lady on the continent wants it.”

Sveta’s lips parted slightly as she lifted the small jar and gave it a shake. The heavy, lilac-colored liquid that sloshed inside suddenly seemed precious.

“Why would you give me something so valuable…?”

Ivan, catching her expression, added warmly,

“Don’t feel burdened. I enjoy giving gifts.”

It would be rude to refuse again. Sveta erased her flustered look and answered with a gentle smile.

“Then… I’ll accept it with thanks.”

“Ivan Bartley, at your service.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartley.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

The physician’s round cheeks flushed pink as he waved his plump hand quickly, bashfully.

‘Is that smooth skin of his thanks to this ointment, too?’

Watching his retreating figure, Sveta carefully opened the lid of the jar. A pleasant blend of lavender and bitter herbs filled the air.

“Apply it morning and night without fail,” he called, poking his head back in. “And if you need more, come straight to my workshop!”

With that final insistence, he departed.

Alone, Sveta stepped before the mirror and slowly undressed. She avoided the red mark at her nape where lips had seared her, letting her eyes fall lower.

She studied the scars across her stomach, the knife marks etched around her sides like growth rings on a tree.

“…Will they really disappear?”

She recalled the look in Aiden’s eyes when he saw her body: the tremor of cold shock; the sudden turn of burning desire to ice; the shiver in his large fingers as they brushed her skin.

She took a bit of the ointment onto her palm and gently smoothed it over the ruined flesh, whispering as she did so.

“I hope they vanish. The scars… and all the memories.”

◯◯◯

Three days later.

Sveta noticed the scar on her shoulder had lightened, if only slightly. A rare brightness welled in her heart.

“Sir Failin.”

As she stepped into the corridor, her soft call drew the imposing knight from behind a pillar almost instantly.

The way he had managed to remain unseen was a mystery, but that wasn’t something she needed to know right now.

“Do you know where Mr. Ivan Bartley’s workshop is?”

“…Yes. I do.”

“Please, show me.”

Wordlessly, he pointed toward the far end of the east wing, visible past a window.

“Thank you.”

“Yes, my lady.”

With that, he disappeared behind the pillar.

Sveta smiled faintly in his direction, then turned and set off.

The ducal manor was vast, a great square with one side open. It was so large that carriages were needed to cross its grounds. She hurried on foot, the warm spring breeze brushing against her in waves.

By the time she reached the steps of the workshop, she was sweating — and there was Aiden, striding out and shutting the door behind him.

“It’s been a while, my lord.”

In truth, it had only been three days.

The last time she had seen him, his shirt had been damp and clinging to his body, making him look slightly dishevelled. Now, however, he stood immaculate. He might have been sweating, but not a wrinkle marred his appearance: the crisp cravat around his strong neck, the spotless white shirt, the black waistcoat and his polished nails were all immaculate.

He was still wearing one of the gloves he always kept tucked between his arm and side, using it to wipe his hands.

“Have you been well, my lord?”

“…….”

Aiden passed her, his expression blank. As he moved past, the air carried the warm scent of musk. Sveta turned, dazed, to follow it.

Behind him, a handkerchief slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the ground.

“My lord—your handkerchief. You dropped it.”

Aiden froze, then slowly turned around.

As he slid a black leather glove onto his hand and tilted his head slightly to one side, the sharp tension in the air pressed against her lungs. Her mouth went dry. Finally, his brilliant green eyes fixed on her.

“I discarded it. It was dirty.”

“…….”

The words rang out as though he thought the hand holding it was dirty.

Frowning, Aiden walked on without another glance.

The brightness that had lifted her heart plummeted into ruin. The purpose that had driven her steps here no longer mattered. Sveta stared down at the handkerchief in her hand, then turned back, feeling powerless.

How pitiful to be shaken so deeply by a single word.

And yet another thought stirred, unwelcome but insistent: Back in Zloytan, she had endured far worse treatment than this.

‘If anything… he is kind. He must simply be in poor spirits today.’

Foolishly, she found herself excusing him.

As she made her way back to the bedchamber, she was still turning those thoughts over in her mind, until a low murmur reached her ears. She recognised the name being whispered. Instinctively, Sveta pressed herself behind a pillar.

Three maids passed, balancing baskets of laundry.

“They say the master dragged his mistress into the bedchamber in disheveled dress.”

“I heard that too. Wasn’t that the very night the Matwood girl wept and made a scene?”

“They say the gardener had to work all morning because she tore up the hydrangeas.”

“Lady Alyona may not be perfect, but I can’t stand that harlot. She’s standing in the master’s way.”

Sveta remembered the searing gray eyes that had glared at her so viciously.

‘Alyona Matwood.’

She shaped the name silently with her lips.

A beautiful, noble name. A name that would not shame itself beside his.

Unbidden, the memory of Aiden strolling the garden with the marquess’s daughter stabbed through her chest, sharp as a needle.

“Did you hear? They say the master told her she didn’t know her place.”

No.

She wanted to cry out in denial.

But she only gripped her skirts tighter, unable to speak.

“Are you sure it wasn’t Lady Alyona who said that?”

“It’s the same thing. The mistress was humiliated in front of everyone.”

“Then she’s fallen from favor, hasn’t she?”

“I’d say it’s all over now.”

Their chatter, light and quick as sparrows, faded into silence.

Sveta forced one heavy step after another. Her ankle throbbed; the ground beneath her felt like mire.

‘A harlot standing in the master’s way.’

The merciless judgment revealed one truth.

“Ah… so that’s why the laundress treated me like that…”