Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal
Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/
Chapter 17
Today was the first day of February. The ice and snow on the fields were gradually melting away. The main roads into the city had been cleaned early, and the gates of Hilly City were adorned with red and white satin ribbons. The city, silent all winter, seemed to suddenly awaken. Everywhere you looked, there was a bustling and busy scene.
All residents facing the street spent the whole day cleaning their houses and fixing up their gardens. People from nearby villages dress up and eagerly head into the city—every early February, Hilly City hosted a three-day and three-night festival to celebrate the passing of the harsh winter and the revival of all things. During these three days, all craftsmen and merchants brought out the goods they had accumulated over the winter to sell at much more reasonable prices than before the onset of winter. It was these rare discounts that drew many people who didn’t live in Hilly City to make the trip.
Some shops were busy removing rust from their doors, airing out colorful curtains and tablecloths, getting ready to welcome guests.
However, they knew that the real connoisseurs didn’t start spending heavily on the first day of the festival; the real highlight happened on the last two days.
Both sides of every street were wide enough to accommodate three carriages side by side, lined with shops. These spacious and expensive shops were usually very reserved, only hanging up doorbells when the sun was high enough to illuminate their second-floor windows. But there were exceptions among them. Nestled between the larger stores, appearing just as elegant but filled with things like men’s hats or novelty ink bottles that would puzzle a truly tasteful person, wondering who would seriously enter these shops to buy an out-of-season hat.
In fact, quite a few did.
Compared to some shops still reeling from the winter slump, Mr. Beard’s gift shop at 28 Sea Breeze Street obviously had its own loyal clientele. Almost as soon as the “Closed” sign was removed, carriages began to stop in front, with maids helping well-dressed ladies enter the shop, seemingly in urgent need to purchase gifts for the gentlemen of their houses to kick off the new year’s social season.
The manager of Mr. Beard’s shop, a proud and portly lady, didn’t greet customers at the door. Instead, she sat on an ornate stool in a corner of the shop, loudly criticizing a maid for not placing a set of glass decorations properly. If a lady with a fan covering half her face entered the shop, she would immediately scrutinize her from head to toe. Upon judging her handbag to be sufficiently expensive, she would then stack the flesh on her face into a smile and, with an overly enthusiastic voice, invited her to the VIP room at the back of the shop to see the real new arrivals, because “only bumpkins display their best goods in the front window.”
But if a plainly dressed passerby inadvertently opened the door and entered, a spectacle would ensue. The plump lady would meticulously file her already sharp nails even sharper and use the decorative hourglass on the low cabinet to time the visitor. If the hourglass ran out and the person showed no intention of buying anything, she would have the maid hustle the visitor out, arguing that the shop was filled with delicate and beautiful art pieces that could be damaged by the clumsy hands of textile workers.
So, when she saw a drab-looking girl enter the shop, she almost couldn’t control her urge to scream. She loved the festival for the business it brought but despised that it also attracted many country folk to the city, forcing her to constantly dust off the counters as if she herself was doing the cleaning, rather than the freckled, perpetually busy girl.
“Havena! Havena!” she called, not willing to get up from her stool to personally eject the country girl, but Havena was still in the back, and she needed to quickly get that dirty little thing out—
“Stop yelling and move aside.” The girl in a black cloak muttered. “Open the door. I need to get to ‘Eden’.”
The plump lady stopped her actions and eyed her suspiciously.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her eyeballs rolling under droopy eyelids.
The girl scoffed and extended her hand, causing the plump lady to widen her eyes at the sight of a tattoo on the girl’s pale wrist, then incredulously looked back at her face.
Despite the weariness from days of travel tainting her originally delicate complexion, her bright golden hair and beautiful blue eyes remain undimmed. Cici said in a hoarse voice, “Open the door.”
The plump lady hurriedly rolled off her stool, fumbled out a large bunch of oddly shaped keys, and the two disappeared behind the shop.
Minutes later, a freckled girl clutching a bunch of cloaks hurried out of Mr. Beard’s, turning the corner.
“Why do we have to dress up like this?” Eugene grumbled, uncomfortably tightening the women’s cloak around him as they quickly crossed the street.
“Low profile,” Charlie murmured from the corner of his mouth. Apart from Columbus, all of them were of normal male stature, especially Shivers and Eugene, whose cloaks made them stand out even more.
Luckily, they weren’t far from Mr. Beard’s. Havena nervously led them through the shop, careful not to let the curious little tin soldier touch their fragile displays.
“The young master is waiting for you,” Havena whispered, obviously tense around Eugene, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the keys.
“Thank you,” Charlie said. His voice was as smooth as satin in the dim corridor, quickly putting Havena at ease, and she opened the door.
It was still dim behind the door, but the space was unexpectedly large. They seemed to have entered a circular salon. A row of soft sofas quietly rested in the corner, and across from them was a similarly dim corridor where two women, startled by their presence, quickly duck into a room.
The plump lady hastily descended the spiral staircase, holding a golden candlestick. “Go to the shop, Havena,” she commanded.
The second floor was also a circular salon and corridor, but with brighter lighting and more upscale decor. A branched chandelier hung from the ceiling, deep red curtains reached the floor, and not a sliver of sunlight could penetrate, filling the air with a faint scent of incense. Eugene sniffed hard.
The room at the end of the corridor seemed to be the largest, and the plump lady bent over to invite them in. Eugene hesitated—the room’s floor was covered with the finest handmade carpets, certainly not something his rugged boots should tread on.
The Duke had no such qualms. He stepped onto the soft carpet without hesitation and started issuing orders to Cici in the room. “I need a bath.”
Cici said with a smile, “The bath is downstairs.”
“Don’t give me that brothel nonsense,” Dwight said with disgust. “Where is the bathroom in this room?”
The mention of the brothel loaded the air with tension, and Eugene and Columbus turned their heads sharply towards Cici.
Cici shrugged nonchalantly and pointed them in the right direction.
It wasn’t just the Duke who felt exhausted. Indeed, days of forced marches had left everyone drained. Yet, they had to wait for Dwight to finish in the bathroom—God, the Duke of Brandenburg took a whole two hours to bathe!
And he still found reasons to complain: no attentive maids, everything had to be done by himself, and the soap was too cheap—he spent some time mentally preparing himself before he could bring himself to use it on his skin.
His bath, it turned out, was anything but relaxing.
Yet he personally instructed that ‘the freckled girl’ wash his clothes.
After the hustle, the sleep-deprived Duke finally got to sleep in a bed, and Cici’s family influence was apparent. The spacious room above Mr. Beard’s, while not fit for a king, was just acceptable for a Duke to lodge in. Once Dwight hit the soft pillow, he forgot all his noble standards, and when he next opened his eyes, the room was dark, filled with the sounds of breathing from various corners.
He frowned, sat up in bed, and as he moved, the corner of the duvet slid off the bed, swiftly grabbed by someone and yanked to the floor.
Even after showers, the smell of several men in one room wasn’t pleasant. The Duke glanced at Eugene sprawled on the floor and at Cici and Columbus on the couch, then got out of bed.
The rabbit head was missing.
The stuffy air in the bedroom told Dwight they’d been asleep for over six hours. He stepped out of the living room and noticed the curtains by the window weren’t drawn properly, letting through a sliver of light.
There was Charlie, sitting on the balcony, legs crossed, his shirt sleeves casually rolled to his forearms, and a long pipe resting against his wrist.
For a moment, Dwight felt a strange sense of familiarity—not the fluffy rabbit, but a fine, normal profile of a man.
But the illusion didn’t last long. Charlie turned, seemingly startled by his presence.
“You need some hot chicken soup.” Charlie tapped his pipe, smiling. “The Knight Commander would collapse if he saw your current complexion.”
Dwight stepped out onto the balcony indifferently. The room was surprisingly soundproof; only once outside did he realize the street was bustling. Even in the middle of the night. Lights and fire illuminated half the sky, with rough laughter and the sound of bagpipes mingling with the smells of ale and roasted meat.
“As expected of a major city on the border of Pennigra, it’s much livelier than Kamal.” Charlie exhaled a smoke ring, seemingly content with plenty of sleep and food, his voice unusually calm.
“It’s also our last stop.” Dwight squinted, looking down at a streetwalker joking with passersby. In the shadowy firelight, her age was indiscernible, but her exaggerated smile was clear.
“Does she know she’s standing in front of a property owned by the Fox family?” Duke Dwight scoffed.
“She does.” Charlie took another drag of his pipe. “But she won’t interfere with Mr. Beard’s business.”
He met the Duke’s inquiring gaze and suddenly smiled suggestively.
“There are several salons on the first floor, with handsome young gentlemen in different rooms talking, smoking, reading, playing cards, and bathing.” Charlie’s voice dropped suggestively. “Each salon has secret windows leading to the rooms where you can fully enjoy the young men’s activities from every angle. If they quicken your pulse, ring a bell, and a maid will lead the chosen Romeo to a small room along the corridor, where a small bag of gold can buy you a romantic date.”
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