You said she was who?!

"Eating raw flesh?" Conrad frowned again, though this time it was purely out of disgust.

The Empire's lower classes did indeed have a custom of eating raw meat, but it had never had a place at the nobility's dining tables.

Raw meat, in whatever form, represented barbarism and uncleanliness, utterly at odds with the elegance and nobility the Sterling Family pursued.

The old butler looked at Elliot, about to admonish the young master who seemed to have developed an interest in "barbaric customs," but suddenly stopped with the words on the tip of his tongue.

He stared at Elliot for several seconds, a glimmer of understanding flashing through his eyes.

"I understand, young master."

Elliot: ???

What do you understand?

Conrad offered no explanation, however. He merely nodded and turned to leave, leaving Elliot standing there utterly bewildered.

"How strange... Did I used to like eating raw meat? Or did I have some peculiar taste in food? The Mourning Poetry Society... Damn it, don't tell me I used to like writing poetry, too?"

Now it was Elliot's turn to have a headache.

This was the trouble with having no memories. Any tiny detail could expose him, which was why Elliot had pretended to be obsessed with gaming to minimize his conversations with the old butler.

Unfortunately, Elliot soon discovered that his guess had been wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

That afternoon, Elliot made up a casual excuse to wander around the mansion, trying to use Spirit Vision to find traces of the supernatural. Unfortunately, he found nothing at all.

His only discovery was that [Spirit Vision] could be switched off at will.

He only had to concentrate, and his vision would tremble slightly, followed by a wave of mental fatigue.

It seemed maintaining it did indeed come at a cost, but one he could still bear.

That evening, as he prepared to return to the secret chamber to "play games" as usual, Conrad stopped him at the study door.

"Young master, please change your clothes."

"Change?" Elliot looked blank. "Change into what? Just have something sent to my gaming room for dinner."

"Not tonight." Conrad's tone held a rare, unquestionable insistence. "You have a visitor."

"A visitor? Who? Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Alarm bells rang in Elliot's mind.

Fooling the old butler, who knew the body's original owner well, was already difficult enough. If the visitor was a relative or close friend, or even Lady Camilla, who doted on him... the consequences were unthinkable!

The old butler merely smiled faintly. "You will know when you arrive."

Then he waved a hand, and two personal valets whisked the bewildered Elliot away without allowing any argument, beginning to dress him with meticulous care.

Dinner was a formal meal, and not the slightest carelessness in dress was permitted.

Elliot felt as though he had been stuffed into an exquisite shell-the stiff standing collar pressed against his jaw, and the hand-tied silk cravat constricted his neck, making even breathing somewhat difficult.

His hair was slathered with hair oil, and he was also sprayed with perfume. Fortunately, noblemen in this era did not need to wear makeup.

When he stood before the full-length mirror, he was surprised to find that he looked rather good.

A finely tailored black wool evening coat was worn over a light gray waistcoat with a subtle jacquard pattern, accented with enameled silver buttons.

His dark trousers were crisply pressed. His only complaint was having to wear suspenders-a belt? In the eyes of the nobility, that was a symbol of vulgarity.

Elliot grew even more apprehensive. Such formal attire-had his mother really returned early?

Remembering the old butler's meaningful smile, his heart slowly sank.

He had no idea whether he could handle this. Mothers generally knew their children with an almost instinctive familiarity, and Lady Camilla was said to dote on him excessively...

He entered the brightly lit banquet hall with a heavy heart, only for his steps to stop abruptly at the doorway.

A young woman was already sitting quietly in an armchair in the reception room.

She wore a long dress of pure, unrelieved black. Though indoors, she wore a wide-brimmed hat, its trailing veil like mist condensed from the night, shrouding her delicate face and fair neck entirely in mystery.

She held a cup of plain tea, her black-gloved hands elegantly overlapped, their intricate lace decorations like flowers blooming in the night.

Beneath her skirt, only the toes of a pair of little black leather shoes showed. The skin above them was tightly encased in sheer black stockings, which finally disappeared beneath her skirts.

She wore almost no accessories, save a slender silver chain that fell to her collarbone, suspending an elegantly posed Black Swan painstakingly inlaid with tiny pieces of agate.

The young woman sat there, and though the reception room was lavishly decorated, she possessed an indescribable air.

Mysterious, elegant, unfathomable.

Like an ethereal epiphyllum blooming quietly in the stillness of midnight.

For a moment, Elliot lost himself, stunned by her beauty, as though he were the guest who had intruded without warning.

Only after a moment did he abruptly come to his senses, then notice something unusual.

Noblemen's clothing emphasized understated restraint, primarily in black, white, and gray; women's attire, by contrast, was relatively colorful and dazzling.

Black and white were usually worn by maids to set off their mistresses' splendor.

Why was she dressed entirely in black?

Wait...

Elliot narrowed his eyes, suddenly recalling another possibility.

Mourning clothes.

Was she in mourning? Entirely black clothing-she must still be in deep mourning?

While he hesitated, Conrad bowed beside him and spoke, clearing up his confusion:

"This is the Mourning Poetry Society's Elegy Funeral Rite, Flora Prescott, also known as Miss Elegy. She oversees the entire Mourning Poetry Society."

Elliot froze where he stood like a statue.

His mind felt like complete mush.

He understood every individual word, yet could not comprehend them put together. He had only mentioned the Mourning Poetry Society because he wanted to read some information about it. Even if no information could be collected, he would not have minded too much. That was all he had wanted.

What did he mean, he had invited the person in charge of the Mourning Poetry Society here?

Weren't secret societies supposed to be investigated little by little, approached with the utmost caution, and then, only after lengthy tests and probing, could you finally brush against their fringes?

And now he was meeting the society's leader directly?

Miss Elegy-Flora-rose gracefully, lightly lifting her skirts with both hands as she offered him an impeccable curtsy.

Elliot numbly returned the greeting, a jumble of feelings welling up within him.

Was this what it meant to be nobility? A secret society that seemed utterly mysterious to ordinary people, one Vanessa could only spy on by lying on a rooftop-for him, a single remark was enough for its leader to arrive as arranged and pay him a visit?

Elliot glanced at Flora's face. She looked even younger than he was, yet she already controlled an entire secret society?

And besides...

A first formal meeting between nobles had to be a carefully arranged "chance encounter" orchestrated by an intermediary of comparable status. That was an ironclad rule. Directly inviting an unfamiliar noblewoman into one's residence was an extremely discourteous offense.

Yet Conrad had not only invited her directly, but had even dispensed with all the formalities...

This could only mean one thing:

Elliot's status was far above hers.

(It's the end of the month, everyone. Please cast your monthly votes!)