Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do Chapter 45: Chapter 44: Girding One’s Self for Battle / Hierarchy Made Visible

Read chapter 45 of Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do by PrincessArylin on NovelPedia.

Chapter 44: Girding One’s Self for Battle / Hierarchy Made Visible The morning of the ball arrives far too quietly. For something that has occupied nearly every conversation, fitting, warning, and anxious thought over the last several days, I expected the day itself to feel different. Louder, perhaps. More dramatic, as if the world should somehow announce that today is the day everything has been preparing me for. Instead, sunlight slips through my curtains like it does every morning. The birds outside sing their usual songs to greet the day. Somewhere beyond my door, servants move through the halls with practiced efficiency… everything continues as normal and somehow, that makes it worse. I lie in bed for several minutes staring at the canopy above me, listening to the faint sounds of the estate waking around me. My stomach twists unpleasantly, not quite fear and not quite excitement, but some terrible combination of the two. I’m afraid that if this level of nervous energy continues, I might throw up. Tonight is Izzy’s ball. Tonight, I will walk into a room filled with nobles, royals, classmates, rivals, and every set of eyes my mother has spent days warning me about. Tonight, I will wear the ensemble Her Majesty helped complete. Tonight, I will be seen in a way I haven’t experienced yet in this life. I pull the blanket over my face. “This is not helping,” I mutter into the fabric. A knock sounds at my door. “My Lady?” Mary’s voice calls from the other side. “Are you awake?” “N-no,” I answer automatically. There is a pause… then, I hear her say very calmly, “I shall inform the Duchess that you intend to attend the princess’s ball while asleep.” I lower the blanket just enough to glare at the door. “That’s unnecessary,” I say loudly enough to be heard through the door while making it clear that I’m in a grumbly mood. The door opens, and Mary steps inside with the kind of composure only someone who has already won the argument can possess. “Perhaps,” she says. “But it’s effective.” I sigh and sit up. Mary smiles brightly as she crosses the room and draws back the curtains, letting the morning sun stream in. “Good morning, My Lady,” she says cheerfully I look toward the window, then back at her, my eyes narrow. “Is it?” I ask. The corner of her mouth twitches. “It will be.” She replies a moment after her smile snaps back into place. I’m not sure whether that is reassurance or a threat. Knowing Mary, it is probably both. The rest of the morning passes in a blur of quiet routine… breakfast is served as it always is. The usual breakfast tea is poured, and my toast goes untouched. My father makes a valiant attempt at normal conversation, asking after whether I had slept well and if I intended to make use of the conservatory gardens again before the week was out, as though tonight were no more significant than a social call and not a royal ball attended by half the kingdom’s nobility. I answer him as best I can while I pick at my food, my appetite making no attempt to return. My mother, seated across from me, says very little. She does not need to. Her gaze is sharp, measured, and entirely too aware of every fidget I fail to suppress. Every time I glance at the clock, she notices. Every time my attention wanders, she notices that as well. I don’t get the feeling that she is watching with disapproval… not entirely, anyway, more the quiet vigilance of someone watching for cracks before the pressure begins. Somehow, that makes the pressure I feel about tonight even worse. By the time breakfast ends, I have eaten almost nothing and remember even less of what was placed in front of me. My father notices. Of course he does. He sees as much as my mother; it simply feels less like judgment when he does it. As I rise from the table, he reaches over and rests a hand briefly on my shoulder. “Breathe, lass,” he says, low enough that only I hear it. “It’s only a ballroom.” I look at him. He smiles, warm and faintly apologetic, as if we are both a