“The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”

Oscar Wilde

Passionate embraces, greedy kisses, languid moans. Two naked bodies, striving to join in complete abandon. The long canopy curtains, fastened near the ceiling, have been drawn back, so as not to restrain the lovers' movements in any way. The snow-white, crisp sheet, embroidered with a rather frivolous pattern, is crumpled in the corner of the bed, revealing the horsehair mattress. The other sheet, along with the blanket, has slid to the floor altogether. On the bed, besides the flushed bodies, only a scattering of variously shaped pillows remains — two stockings, one male and one female, and a flouncy petticoat, accidentally caught on the edge of the headboard.

This disarray is not in any way dissonant with the atmosphere of the clean and luxurious boudoir. Armed with a bow and arrow, the god of love, childishly chubby and apple-cheeked, gazes approvingly at the proceedings from the fresco decorating the ceiling. Expensive porcelain figurines depicting naked women and embracing couples share the positive attitude. Every detail of the interior indicates simultaneously the sensuality of the lady, her delicate taste and wide knowledge of every nuance of fickle fashion.

She is tall and graceful, with light, meticulously kept skin, with that natural pallor which is so fashionable in high society, maintained with the assistance of a profusion of ointments and other means. Her luxurious fiery red hair is barely kept within the limits imposed by a complex high hairstyle. He is a handsome brunette with a fair complexion, hazel eyes and dimples. They are so completely engrossed in one another that they do not notice the passage of time, and are unaware of their surroundings.

Out of the blue, a brisk knock on the door destroys the idyll. The knocker does not bother waiting for a response to their call. Instead, just after announcing her presence, a young woman in a lush blue dress with purple ruffles enters the room. Vigorously tapping her heels, she approaches the bed without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

At first, a quite colorful profanity escapes the redheaded beauty's lips, but recognizing the intruder she immediately calms down. The man is not so complacent. He pulls back sharply, forcing the lady to wince when their bodies separate. Pointlessly groping the mattress, in search of a blanket or a sheet, he exclaims:

"Who is that? How can someone come in here without permission?!"

I just purse my lips indifferently in response. I have never liked this guy, though I try not to emphasize this once too often in conversations with the lady.

"She – may", answers the woman, looking at me expectantly. My face adopts an extremely serious expression.

"Duke Almikonte is headed here."

"My brother?! God damn it!" exclaims Duchess Mireya Almikonte, leaping from the bed. "How did he find out?"

"Someone probably snitched," I shrug indifferently. Now is not the time to figure out who caused the problem, but rather how to solve it. We'll catch him later.

"What should we do then?" asks the man perplexedly.

His face is white as chalk. It is amazing how quickly he pales.

"Get dressed! Quickly!" orders Mireya, after her short moment of shock has passed. Both rush to look for their clothes. Not a trivial task, considering that various garments are scattered throughout the room. I quickly begin to lift women's clothing from the floor, completely ignoring the male.

"Should I hide him somewhere?"

Mireya is speaking exclusively to me. Her lover frantically pulls on his shirt. He is in such a hurry he puts it on backwards, so he has to take it off and start all over again.

I observe his nervous antics, somewhat disgusted. It is obvious that the reputation of the Duke's sister does not concern him in the least. The guy only cares to save his own skin.

In a way, I can understand the reasons for this — our Duke can be quite harsh. On the other hand, he should have thought of that before jumping into bed with a woman of such high social status.

"It won't work," I reply, helping Mireya dress. "If the Duke were alone, we could maybe risk it. But, Lord Cameron Estley is with him, and this man is too thorough. He will surely give an order to search every corner and leave no stone unturned."

"What should we do?" The young woman's confused gaze slides across the boudoir. –"Maybe he should climb out the window..."

"What do you mean, out the window?" gasps the gentlemen. "It's too high! We're on the third floor!" he protests.

He has a point. First, Mireya's chambers are indeed located on the third floor, and second, the ceilings of the second floor are extremely high. Consequently, the Duchess' window is really too far from the ground. However, out loud I say something quite different:

"So what if it's high? It's still a good idea."

"I would die!" persists the man.

I don't even blink.

"So what of it? Are you worried your body would be noticed, and would compromise Lady Almikonte? We can throw down some rags to cover it up."

The man silently opens and closes his mouth in a fit of righteous indignation, as Mireya shakes her head, suppressing a smile.

"Nessa, now is not the time for jokes! How should we proceed? "

The Duke's sister turns her back to me, so I could help her put on the corset.

"I am contemplating just that."

Unfortunately no practical solutions come to mind, so I decide to think out loud.

"He can't exit the chambers. When I came in, I saw two spies outside. I think Estley sent them to guard you while the Duke is getting ready. No man could sneak out unnoticed…"

I stop and snap my fingers, latching on to the escaping idea. No man ... but what about a woman?

"Undress!" I say firmly, pointing to the completely dumbfounded lover.

"W-why?" asks he.

"Undress, I'm telling you!" I insist. "We will get you out of here in a dress, disguised as one of the ladies in waiting. My Lady, you wouldn't mind lending this young man some of your clothes?"

"I would not," Mireya supported me.

I had no doubt what her answer would be, and therefore have already come to the door. I open it a bit, and call the maid.

"Emma!"

Impatiently I beckon to her with my hand.

Emma is perhaps the only servant that Mireya could trust fully without hesitation. In general, the Duchess selects all her servants carefully, and tries to avoid having suspicious or disloyal people by her side.

However, Emma, the forty year old handmaiden, has served in the palace for a long time, and is more devoted to her mistress than anyone. If Mireya were to decide to slaughter some virgins and prepare a cocktail of their blood, Emma would agree to be on the lookout without a second thought.

"My lady."

The handmaiden drops a short curtsy.

"We need to turn this handsome young man into a lady." I outline the scope of work. "Not necessarily young and charming — most important is that it be quick. You will need underwear, shoes and some old dress, as high-necked as possible."

Nodding obediently, Emma disappears into the next room, which functions as a wardrobe. She comes back quickly, clutching an armful of clothes she has hastily gathered.

While Mireya with my help puts the final touches on her own outfit, the maid dresses the young man in a skin colored undergarment. This part goes off without a hitch, but the next stage causes a complication.

"Ouch!" exclaims the man. "What is that?"

"This is a corset," I helpfully inform him.

"I know what a corset is!" he snaps. "I just didn't think it would be so uncomfortable."

"Well, congratulations," I grin, critically sweeping my eyes over Mireya's outfit and straightening out ruffles in her dress. "You have a rare opportunity to learn not only what a beautiful woman looks like, but also how it feels to be one."

"But I absolutely cannot breathe!" he cries.

"You can, judging by how well you manage to talk to us." I am not so easily softened.

"Maybe we could do without?" the young man tries to take another shot at it, while shooting a look of loathing at the piece of clothing under discussion.

"No we cannot." I am harsh as fate itself. "First of all, without it the dress will not sit properly. And second, the corset will help you create the illusion of breasts.

"That is unnecessary!" At this point I am speaking to Emma, who is holding in her hands a thin sleeveless shirt, usually worn over a corset and under a high-necked dress. "Let's move on directly to the dress — they will be here at any moment!"

They manage to put on the petticoat, dress and silk stockings successfully. The shoes are a different matter: Mireya's foot, although not tiny, is still much smaller than that of the young man. For a while we try to no avail to fit his paw into the elegant shoe, moaning and groaning, like Cinderella's stepmother, struggling to marry off her own daughter to the Prince.

In the end, Emma brings, from somewhere in the depths of the wardrobe, a pair of much larger shoes, probably left over from one of the ladies-in-waiting, which fits the lover. The man stands up — and his legs freeze wide apart and bent at the knees.

"And what do you want to say with this stance?" I ask suspiciously, struggling not to burst out laughing.

"Heels!" he hisses.

"Yes? Heels?" I look at him quizzically, waiting for an explanation.

"Why are they so high?"

"Because that is what's fashionable," I answer.

"All right, but why are they so unstable?" persists the lover, unwilling to straighten his legs.

"Well, that is to awaken in men the desire to take care of us and catch us if we stumble," Mireya let him in on a little woman's secret.

Judging by the sour look on the young man's face, he is not overjoyed by the idea of a strange man catching him. However, I am mainly interested in his hair at the moment, which is in an atrocious state.

"Emma, please bring me any old wig," I ask. "I hope we still have a few of those lying around somewhere in the chest."

"Wigs are no longer worn," Mireya hesitates.

"Some still wear them," I say.

"Only old hags like Baroness Rego," winces the young lady.

"Well, fine. Let him be considered an old hag. What matters is that they allow him out of here."

I seat the man in the chair in front of me, and, equipped with brushes, begin to work on his face. He almost immediately sneezes, thus expressing his ingratitude towards all my attentiveness and care.

"You will have to endure it — beauty requires sacrifice!" I state optimistically. "Be grateful that the present King's father ordained a law banning the use of skin whiteners. Many women hate him fiercely for that. There are rumors that this decree is the reason his lover tried to kill him."

"So why did he issue such a law?" the lover wonders.

"Because the court alchemist enlightened him on the composition of most of those whiteners," I flaunt my knowledge, while quickly working with the brushes. "It turns out that whiteners contain lead, which in turn undermines one’s health severely. Hence noble ladies have paid for their short-lived beauty with their lives."

During this time I manage to somehow put a thick layer of powder on Mireya's lover's face, and then add some blush.

"It is quite the cautionary tale," says Emma, walking out of the wardrobe with a wig in her hand.

The white curls look absolutely unnatural, but back then — like the whiteners – it was a tribute to the flighty and sometimes cruel fashion.

"At least wigs are perfectly safe," I console the young man. Having hoisted the wig onto him, I begin to inspect the results. "Perhaps we are missing something," I mutter under my breath. "Earrings, maybe?"

"But my ears aren't pierced," answers the guy in surprise.

"So what? We can pierce them right here, right now," I am not discouraged.

The young man shrinks away from me, and Mireya, feeling somewhat compassionate towards him, comes up with a different suggestion:

"What about clips?"

"And what is a clip?" suspiciously scowls the lover.

"Clips are shackles for your ears," I say, smiling.

"Nessa!" Mireya reproachfully exclaims.

"But I'm telling it like it is!"

"Well actually, you're right in a way;" she admits upon reflection, and guiltily looks at the man.

However, I reckon wasting time on jewelry would be unreasonable. A few finishing touches, and the image is complete.

"Well, how about it?" I address my question mainly to Mireya.

"Great!" she grins. "No one will suspect anything."

"I would like to hope so." I consider the fruits of my labors with a more critical eye. "Well, we don't have time to improve it, anyhow. We will go and try to not run into the Duke, and you get rid of his clothes."

Emma begins to fuss, picking up a pair of pants, a coat and so on from the floor, while I nudge the lover towards the door.

"Most importantly, do not stumble as we are walking through the first corridor," I quietly instruct. "Try not to meet anyone's eyes. If we have to split up, turn right and descend two floors down the staircase. You know the place. We will send someone to help you from that point on."

Approaching footsteps attract our attention from the far end of the corridor. I have finished my coaching just in time, since there is virtually no chance we could have missed the group of four heading towards Mireya's quarters.

Two of the people approaching us are no more than servants, executors; hence they themselves worry me very little. But the other two could create a lot of problems, and I do not even know which of them should be considered more dangerous.

Duke Conrad Almikonte, a widower of thirty four years, has a commanding and rather gloomy look. Of average height and a not too imposing physique, he has unusually broad shoulders, which make his appearance a bit disproportionate. His eyes are such a dark hue that they seem almost black. He has sharp facial features, a powerful mouth, slightly curved downward, and a square chin. His hair, unlike Mireya's, is dark brown; it is curled in accordance with the current fashion.

Near the Duke strides Lord Cameron Estley, who inherited the title of Count from his father and the title of Baron from his uncle — a man who wields a great deal of influence in the palace.

As Almikonte's right hand, he enjoys all the rights and privileges that come with the position. He is involved in numerous matters that hold interest for the Duke, and I barely have an idea of a third of the areas that are under his influence. However, in issues related to my duties, his intervention is more than enough for me.

Lord Estley, a thirty-two year old bachelor, is significantly taller than the Duke, although he does not boast the same shoulder width. His black hair is pulled into a ponytail, covering the neck; his dark gray eyes have a piercing look, as if the owner suspects everything and everyone of a crime of some sort, and intends to solve the case with his gaze.

He has a thin oval face, a straight nose, and high cheekbones. Estley knows how to be charming and — much worse — is able to use it for his own purposes. However, he never tries to manipulate me, as he knows it won't work.

As soon as they reach us, I stop and curtsey. Fortunately, Mireya's lover is able to keep his cool, and performs something resembling a courtesy. It is rather awkward but in the darkness of the corridor it suffices. Especially since the Duke quickly passes us, without even bothering to nod in greeting. I don't blame him.

The Duke is often angry with his sister, but they do share a familiar bond. Mireya's first lady in waiting, on the other hand, who often assists her in affairs, he finds quite objectionable; all that Conrad Almikonte feels towards her is cold antipathy.

The servants follow the Duke into Mireya's chambers, but Lord Estley lingers. He, unlike his master, greets me with a nod, befitting the relevant rules of etiquette. I would, however, prefer that he behaved less gallantly, because the longer we are in his presence, the higher the chance that he will see through my companion's disguise and realize that he is not a she.

Cameron Estley is very intelligent and observant, which often makes me want to hate him.

"Lord Cameron!" I feign a joyful smile. "Would you mind having a few words with me?"

I hold out my hand and tilt my head in farewell, looking at Mireya's lover. Fortunately, he understands what I mean and hurries off. Estley takes me by the arm, and I lead him in the opposite direction, to the door behind which the Duke has recently disappeared.

"Fancy meeting you here. What brings you at such a strange hour to the female wing of the castle?" I ask, imitating genuine bewilderment.

"As you could see, I'm just accompanying the Duke," he replies.

Sure, he's just accompanying. I'm willing to bet that it was his spies who got wind of Mireya's date, reported this information back to him, and that he was the one who gave Conrad Almikonte the idea to come here unannounced and catch his sister in the act. It's a wonderful way to get her to dance to the Duke's tune at a later date. He can blackmail her, for example, by threatening to send her to a nunnery for disgracing her dynasty.

However, I don't allow my anger to show on my face.

"It seems the Duke simply wishes to visit his sister?" I suggest.

"You literally see straight to heart of the matter, Lady Inessa."

"But in that case, he could have warned her in advance about his visit, don’t you think?" I bat my eyelashes naively, trying to compensate for the rigidity which manages to slip into my tone.

"He could have," easily agrees Lord Estley. "However," the hint of friendliness in his eyes is replaced by searing cold, "this palace belongs to the Duke. And therefore, he has the right to enter any premises at any time, with prior warning and without it. Don't you think?"

I yank my hand. Now facing each other, we stop by the door leading to Mireya's chamber.

"Of course he has the right" I reply, calmly, but just as coldly. "According to the law. But the rules of etiquette require something somewhat different."

"Would you like to discuss the rules of etiquette with the Duke?" without batting an eye, Estley asks.

I grit my teeth against my will. The bastard is unobtrusively pointing out my place relative to the Duke. I reside in the territory of Conrad Almikonte, I live in his palace, and no matter whom I serve, in reality I am the Duke's subject. If he so desires, he can always remind me of that.

This is just like the old Cameron Estley I know and despise. He loves to put people in their place. Well, that is his privilege. But once again I have been able to twist him around my little finger. The man wearing a woman's dress and wig has long since disappeared around the corner. It cheers me up, allowing me to swallow my pride with dignity.

"Of course not. I don't mean to criticize the Duke." My lips curl into an insincere smile. "I'm just worried that Lady Mireya will not be able to give him the welcome he deserves. She hates surprises.

"Well, let's see how she handles it," Estley says, glancing at the door.

Then he looks at me as if trying to figure out what is on my mind. He must have thought that I deliberately delayed him on the doorstep, so as to keep him from entering as long as possible. However, given that the servants and the Duke are already in the boudoir, he has undoubtedly realized that was not the case after all.

"Come on, Lady Inessa." His voice sounds a little more sincere than it had been until that point. "Of course, I understand, and in a way even respect your devotion to your mistress. But a musician as a lover!" He frowns expressively. "You have to agree that it's overkill even for Lady Mireya."

"And don't you think," leaning forward I retort: "that it is a private matter?"

Estley sighs expressively, as if lamenting the fact that he needs to explain simple truths of life to a stupid woman such as me.

"Lady Inessa, you are allowed to have personal matters. You are an independent woman who is not burdened with frequent communication with her parents. I may have personal matters. But Mireya Almikonte cannot have personal affairs, as she belongs to too noble a family to allow that. Any mistake she makes lays an indelible stain on the whole Almikonte family and undermines the authority of her brother. In addition, before she marries she is a ward of the Duke. This in itself rules out the existence of so-called "personal matters".

Well, yes, of course. This very convenient logic gives the brother the right to freely manipulate his sister.

"You ought to know, my lord." I humbly bow my head. "Wait a moment!" I look back at him, eyes wide. "Surely you don't suppose Lady Mireya is in the company of a lover at the moment?!"

I feign surprise on my face, as if the thought had just occurred to me. As if we have not just talked about it almost in plain language.

"Lady Mireya definitely has a lover in her chambers right now," Estley says, showing he doesn't buy into my game. "And you can distract me with small talk all you like, it's not going to change anything."

"Lord Cameron," I bare my teeth in a smile, resembling a snarl: "I certainly understand, and in some cases even respect your devotion to your master. But believe me, there is no lover in Mireya's chambers."

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, then opens the door and enters the chambers. He doesn't worry about such trivial things as letting a lady pass through first. Thankfully, I'm not the easily offended type, so I just follow him in.

Mireya lounges in a comfortable deck chair, and watches her brother, who towers over her like a statue, from beneath hooded eyes. He clearly has failed to induce any sort of shame or even a blush of embarrassment in his sister. Judging by the sound coming from the adjacent quarters, the servants are diligently trying to find a lover in her boudoir, investigating for this purpose one room after another — the bedroom, the dressing room, the bathroom.

"Ah, Lady Inessa," Mireya says, still keeping her eyes half-closed. When we are surrounded by strangers she addresses me much more formally than when we are by ourselves.

"Come in, sit down please. It seems this will take a while."

Needless to say, to the appearance of Lord Estley she doesn’t react at all.

Modestly inclining my head, I sit down on the edge of the white and green patterned banquette.

Cameron approaches the Duke, who in turn gives his assistant a worried look. It has become quite obvious that the lover will not be found in the chambers. Lord Estley frowns, clearly realizing that something is fishy. He begins to carefully inspect the room, then unhurriedly walks up to the window, draws back the curtain, and looks out.

"It's a good thing we did not settle on the lover falling out of the window," I think, "Or right now Estley would have found a corpse, and certainly would have thought something bad."

Meanwhile, the people the Duke sent to search return empty-handed. Conrad Almikonte's jaw muscles clench from frustration. He glares at his sister, but she just gives him a calm, innocent look in response.

"Would you like some tea, gentlemen?" With the tone of a friendly hostess she asks. "A foreign cook supplies me with delightful strawberry jam. She's not willing to disclose the recipe to anybody. And also these... oh, I have forgotten." She snaps her fingers and turns to me.

"Bagels," I suggest.

"Yes, yes, bagels," agrees Mireya. "Funny name. No connection to beagles." When pronouncing the name of the animals, she somehow very intently looks at the men. "It's a sort of pastry. Very popular in the Orient. If you'd like, I'll order that they be served."

"Thank you." It is obvious from the Duke's tone that this is a refusal. "Why is your bed such a mess?"

We really have not had the time to deal with the bed; the only thing Emma managed to do to salvage the situation was to pick up the blankets and sheets from the floor.

"The maid was just about to lay new linens," Mireya calmly responds. "Forgive me, dear brother, but we had no knowledge that you would bless us with your visit now, of all times."

I try to hide a smile. In the end, and without my help, Duke Almikonte still receives a lesson on the subject of good manners. I glance at Estley. He continues to look around the room, as if searching for clues; his lips are pursed.

Suddenly, the Count steps to the bed and kneels, apparently unafraid to besmear his trousers. Then he bends down and draws a man's boot from beneath the bed.

Mireya starts, but immediately rushes to pull herself together. I bite my lip. Apparently, while trying to quickly get rid of the lover's possessions, Emma just missed this little detail.

Estley turns his find in his hands, surprisingly not the least bit squeamish.

"What is this?" He for some reason addresses not Mireya, but me specifically.

"A boot," I say, looking at him through the eyes of the crystal honest.

"A boot,” Lord Cameron repeats after me, and a smirk begins playing on his lips. "And what is it doing here?"

"It is my boot," I answer firmly.

"Yours?" The Count's smile becomes a little wider. "A man's boot?"

"A man's boot," I confirm in such a tone as though it is obvious.

Estley's questioning stare demands an explanation, and I do not disappoint him.

"No, of course I do not wear it. But it was I who brought it into Lady Mireya's chambers. You see, we needed it for... for the samovar."

"For the what?" asks the Duke.

"Do you remember, Lady Mireya mentioned a foreign cook? In the Orient, those devices are commonplace. I'm not sure how convenient it is, but my lady is interested in all sorts of odd trinkets, so we decided to find a master who would make us such a thing."

"All this sounds just wonderful," Lord Cameron interrupts me. "But can you tell me what the boot has to do with it?"

"You mean, you don't know?" I throw up my hands, supposedly shocked by such ignorance. "Boots are used as bellows for firing it up. You don't believe me?"

The men's looks leave not even a shadow of a doubt that they don’t believe me.

"Well, I'll prove it to you."

I rummage in the bottom drawer of the dresser, where several pamphlets are lying around, that Mireya and I sometimes browse before bed. One of them describes the customs of different countries, and was the source of the information that turned out to be very helpful to us. This just proves that education can be useful in the most unexpected of situations. Taking out the aforementioned book, I find the right page, and triumphantly hand it to Lord Cameron. That page features an illustration of a samovar with a real boot on top of the pipe. The Count's eyes widen again, and he presses his lips again in dissatisfaction.

He shows the picture to the Duke, and then gives me back the brochure.

"Well." The Duke steps to the door, not bothering to conceal his anger. "I'm not going to keep you any longer."

After giving me one last heart-searching look, Lord Cameron follows him. I accompany the two of them, not so much out of politeness as to ensure that they are really going to leave.

At the last second Estley stops and turns around

"One day you'll have a fall," he says in a low voice.

"That's when we'll talk," I respond, smiling politely.

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If you like this book, please consider buying it:

Half a Step Away from Love by Olga Kuno

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