"I look nothing like you," I declared the next morning, arms crossed firmly as I stood in the center of the bookstore. "Like, not even remotely. Not to mention—" I pointed at her ears. "—I'm not a beastwoman."
Alya, perched atop the counter like an irritated housecat, scoffed and flicked her tail at me.
"Details," she said dismissively. "No one at the academy has seen my sister since she was five. And even then, she barely left the manor. Honestly, most nobles don't remember their own cousins' faces—they'll be fine."
"That's reassuring," I muttered.
"It should be," she chirped. "Anyway! If you're going to take my sister's place at the academy, you need lessons." She hopped off the counter with a flourish. "Proper noble etiquette. Manners. Posture. Grace."
"…I don't like where this is going."
"You shouldn't," Alya said cheerfully. "Because you are terrible at all of those things."
I sighed. She wasn't wrong.
Alya clapped her hands together. "Lesson one! Sitting like a lady!"
She dragged me to the front table and positioned chairs across from each other. Then she sat down gracefully—back straight, chin up, tail wrapped neatly around one hip like the world's fanciest accessory.
I sat down.
Poorly.
Alya flinched as if I'd insulted three generations of her family.
"No, no, no—what are you doing?! Don't flop into the chair like a dying fish! You're a noble lady now!"
"I am definitely not a noble lady."
"You are now!" she insisted, pointing at me. "Sit up straight. Straight! Straight—not rigid! Oh gods, you look like a terrified board. Relax your shoulders!"
"Which is it?" I groaned. "Straight or relaxed?"
"Both!"
"That's physically impossible."
She marched behind me and tugged my shoulders back. "There—now you look almost human."
"I am human."
"That's debatable."
I swatted at her tail. She swatted my hand away.
"Lesson two!" she said, returning to her seat. "Tea." She placed two mismatched teacups on the table in front of us. "Noble ladies sip tea delicately—like this." She lifted her cup with two fingers curved gracefully. "Now you try."
I lifted the cup.
"Tilt your wrist—no, not like a broken chicken wing! Gently! Gently!"
"I don't know what that means!"
She groaned and physically grabbed my wrist, adjusting it into a softer curve.
"There. Now sip. Slowly. With elegance."
I took a sip.
Alya stared.
"…You chugged that."
"It's good tea."
"That's not the point!"
She rubbed her temples as if educating me was causing her physical pain.
I tried again, slower this time.
Alya's ears perked. "Better. Now, pinky up—no, not that high! You look like you're trying to launch it into orbit."
I lowered it.
"Good. Good… ish."
Her tail swung in satisfied approval.
Soon we moved on to posture training, walking training, polite greeting training, and even "noble laughter," which Alya demonstrated with a ridiculous high-pitched giggle that nearly made me choke.
"Like this," she said, clearing her throat. "Ahem. Hee-hee-hee."
I stared.
"No."
"Yes!"
"No, Alya."
"Fine, maybe not that laugh. But something softer. Try it."
I attempted a polite laugh.
It sounded like a dying raccoon.
Alya buried her face in her hands. "We're doomed."
I thumped her lightly with a pillow.
This continued for hours.
Sit straight.
Walk lightly.
Talk gently.
Sip elegantly.
Smile politely.
Don't throw books when customers annoy you (that was specifically directed at Alya, not me).
By midday, I felt like my bones had melted.
Alya sipped her tea with practiced poise.
"You're improving," she said suddenly.
I blinked. "Really?"
"Mm-hm. I mean, you still sit like you're expecting a monster to leap out of the floor—"
"I am always expecting that."
"See? That's the sailor in you!"
"That… is not reassuring."
Alya laughed, a soft sound this time.
"Honestly…" she said, tail flicking lazily behind her as she studied me, "you're really pretty for a sailor."
I blinked.
"Pretty?"
She raised a brow. "Yes. You know—beautiful. Graceful. A little intense, but in a mysterious way. You'll fit in fine at the academy."
My face warmed unexpectedly.
I looked away, pretending to focus on adjusting the tea cup.
I wasn't used to being called pretty.
Or graceful.
Or anything like that.
In the Hidden Kingdom, your value came from what you could carry, hunt, build, or endure. Not how you looked. Definitely not how you sipped tea.
Alya seemed oblivious to my moment of emotional malfunction.
"Plus," she continued, "your face looks noble enough. And with how fast you're learning? People will assume you're just… eccentric."
"Eccentric," I repeated, unimpressed.
"Exactly! Just smile politely when people talk to you and say things like 'I see' and 'How interesting' and 'What a lovely opinion.' That's what nobles do."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Oh, it is," Alya said dryly. "But you'll get used to it."
We practiced greetings next.
Alya bowed with one hand over her chest.
"Lady Mavis Van Buqeat," she said elegantly, "daughter of Count Van Buqeat of the Ipse Kingdom."
I tried to mimic her.
"Lady… Mavis," I began.
"Stop," she said instantly. "You sound like you're announcing your own execution."
"Well, that's how it feels."
"Try again."
I inhaled, straightened my posture, softened my voice.
"Lady Mavis Van Buqeat," I attempted.
Alya nodded slowly. "Okay. Better. Now, curtsy."
I tried.
I failed.
Spectacularly.
My ankle twisted.
My knee bent wrong.
I overbalanced.
The entire bookshelf wobbled dangerously.
Alya screamed and threw herself under it to hold it steady.
"NO—NO—DON'T—TOUCH—THAT—SHELF—!!"
She saved the bookshelf.
I saved my dignity… barely.
"Okay," she muttered, panting. "Maybe no curtsies. Just nod politely."
"That works for me."
We both collapsed into chairs again, exhausted.
But somewhere deep down, I realized something:
I was getting used to being called Mavis.
It didn't feel like a lie anymore.
Or a burden.
Or something fragile I might drop.
It felt… almost natural.
As if the name were shaping itself around me.
Alya rested her head on the back of her chair, tail swinging lazily.
"You'll do great," she said with an unexpected softness.
"You really think so?" I asked quietly.
Alya didn't open her eyes.
"I know so."
A small warmth crept into my chest.
The truth was simple:
I had never done something like this before.
I had never lived.
Never learned.
Never had a routine or a friend like Alya—annoying, dramatic, loud, but kind and honest.
And as ridiculous as noble etiquette was…
as exhausting as tea lessons and posture training were…
A part of me felt something unfamiliar.
Excitement.
For what came next.
Maybe, just maybe…
I could be Lady Mavis Van Buqeat.
At least long enough to find out who I really was.