"What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"
On the bustling street filled with people coming and going, Tales adjusted the shabby little hat on his head and quietly asked Shilai beside him.
Miss Cavendil had long since changed back into her practical, plain traveling clothes. Her hair had been messed up into a bird's nest again, and she had even dusted her face with a little ash. Anyone who saw her on the street would never think she was an Eldest Miss of a noble family.
"Nothing. You always used to wear fancy clothes, but now that I look at you, you're surprisingly well-suited to looking this poor."
Tales's expression stiffened.
"What do you mean? What does 'surprisingly well-suited' mean?"
He touched the standard "poor passerby number one" costume he had snatched from the theater. Even its edges were torn and curling up, and his expression turned strange.
"It's your skin. You're far too pampered, so it doesn't match," Shilai said, ignoring his objection. "Ah, I've got it. Don't move."
The Eldest Miss skillfully patted the base of the wall, then grabbed His Highness the Prince's face before he could resist. ("What are you do—mmph, no, don't, let go...") She vigorously smeared and rubbed it.
"Mm, much better."
Shilai examined the work in front of her and nodded in satisfaction. Only then did she withdraw her scrutinizing gaze and stride away. "All right, don't be naughty. Hurry up and follow me. The target is moving."
That left His Highness the Prince—or, more precisely, the shabby little Tales with a face covered in dust and soot—behind, angrily waving his fists and stamping his feet.
As the most famous tourist and entertainment district, every major street in the Iris District was filled with celebrating crowds:
Drunks hugged wine barrels