Margarita was beautiful. Vibrant, rosy-cheeked, with long, voluminous hair the color of warm coffee. Her pink eyes, half-veiled by lashes, glittered like two morganite gemstones as she recounted how she'd devoured a raspberry sorbet dessert that morning.
Over the past twenty-seven scenarios, I'd grown so accustomed to her that I now considered her family. I knew what time she woke up, that she loved sneaking into my study to steal candied dates from the glass bowl, and that she constantly chirped about me in women's circles, hunting for a bride who'd embrace my reclusiveness with open arms.
We'd shared a warm bond since the first scenario. The kind of familial closeness I'd lacked in real life. Back there, I was alone — though at least I had university friends.
Here, however… making even a single "friend" felt like an impossible, even dangerous burden. Scenario after scenario, I navigated the plotlines alone. To some, I was the reckless entrepreneur who overspent on his younger sister. To others, the fool who feared society like a rat dreads flooding in a ship's hold.
Not that I truly feared it — I was just lazy.
"Lord Wyston's son challenged three men to a duel on the embankment! Because of me, can you imagine?" Margarita babbled, flopping into an armchair and swinging her legs in the air like a child. "He declared I outshone the sunrise itself. Isn't that absurd?"
I leaned my hip against the edge of the desk and crossed my arms.
"Duels have been illegal since the royal decree of '23."
"Which makes it all the more thrilling! You should've seen their faces when Julian drew his sword! The magistrate's son practically pissed his —"
"Margarita," I cut her off. Her eyes met mine, and she fell silent. "I told you not to involve yourself in dubious strolls with dubious characters."
«This could get me killed», I thought but didn't say.
My sister smoothed the folds of her skirt and nodded with a sigh, offering a faint smile.
"Yes, I understand."
I settled at the desk, dipped my quill in ink, and began methodically filling out an order form for silk fabrics for the drawing room. The silence was broken only by the soft scratch of parchment and the faint ticking of the clock. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Margarita rise and rest her hands on my shoulders.
"Why do you never ask about my suitors?"
"Because you'll tell me anyway," I replied dryly. My sleeve smudged slightly as her weight shifted my hand.
Her gloved fingers closed over mine, halting the quill. Cold seeped through the kid leather.
"You're different today," she said. I froze. I'd never heard such tension in her voice. Not once before.
Turning, I squeezed her hand and forced a smile.
"Just tired. Work has piled up." At the sound of my voice, the furrow in her brow softened, her face regaining its gentle contours. "Shall I call for tea?"
Her pursed bow-shaped lips thinned into a line before she suddenly brightened:
"I forgot to mention something! Today, during our walk, Captain Oberon von Havisham approached us. He introduced himself as the new district overseer and said you'll need to visit the department to file paperwork for properties acquired before the 26th of this month. There's been some incident — all their records vanished. You'll also need to provide a receipt."
I arched an eyebrow. In past scenarios, I'd never had issues with rented or purchased buildings, as I paid in full upfront.
Reaching into the desk drawer, I pulled out a folder documenting the family budget expenditures from the past six months. The last entry, in my handwriting, read:
"House of Order. Vacant building left by the late Baroness. To construct a garden and organ hall. January 16th."
Baroness Agri. A widow who'd managed the grand House of Order, where she hosted Thursday dance lessons for young ladies preparing for their debut. Across several scenarios, I'd often discussed Margarita's education and hiring tutors with her.
She'd been a remarkable woman who loved bringing us seashells from her travels.
So, in this scenario, she was already dead. A shame.
"Did he say anything else?"
Margarita shook her head.
"No. Then he spoke briefly with Julian and rode off on a black stallion. His military uniform was so striking. I've never seen anything like it."
A chuckle escaped me. Margarita promptly punched my arm.
"What's so funny? He looked utterly dashing! Should I order you one? Lady Hildegard's salon tailors exquisite uniforms!" She circled me, tapping manicured fingers to her chin. "Hmm… emerald-green velvet would suit you perfectly…"
I gently tugged her sleeve.
"Unnecessary. High society would mock me for wearing it. I've never served."
She rolled her eyes, collapsing into the plush red armchair opposite me.
"Who cares? The ladies would fawn over you regardless."
We chatted a while longer. Through parted curtains, I watched liveried servants wheel carts of hothouse roses toward the terrace. May was warm, and the sweetish air drifting through the window wrapped me in a light, pleasant fragrance.
My final scenario. I will miss this world when I leave, even though it was extremely cruel to me.
My gaze fell on Margarita, carelessly nibbling candied dates with pearl-white teeth.
And I'll miss her too.