Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do Chapter 21: Chapter 20: Wandering Hands / ‘The Demon Lord’s Dark Pact’

Read chapter 21 of Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do by PrincessArylin on NovelPedia.

Chapter 20: Wandering Hands / ‘The Demon Lord’s Dark Pact’ After a light lunch consisting of half a pork roast sandwich that was slathered with a sweet mustard and a fresh salad, I make my way back to my room with Mary accompanying me. I want to go out to the gardens for a little bit, but my mother insists that I need proper attire for my ballroom dancing lessons. According to her, my entire outfit is completely unacceptable for dancing, though I personally can’t understand why, considering it is just going to be introductory criteria today. The outfit I chose this morning is a simple dress with a brown pleated skirt and crisp white blouse. The matching flats I have on are designed for comfort as opposed to fashion, and Mary had put my hair up in a braid that is wrapped around my head, not dissimilar to a French braid, with the excess collected in the back, coiling into a tight bun. Once we arrive at my room, Mary promptly heads to my closet and picks three very formal dresses for me to pick from. “Aren’t those a b-bit too formal for lessons?” I ask, eyeing the dresses as she brings them out. “Her Grace was most insistent on you wearing formal wear for your lessons, Lady Beira,” she responds curtly. “If it is any consolation, I am keeping it to a selection designed more for comfort than fashion, but even then, your available selection is far from what would be considered practical… She also insisted you practice in heels, so I chose a selection of lower heels that match these three.” I grumble a bit to myself, not fully understanding why I would need to practice in formal wear, but knowing how strict mother can be when she wants to be, I acquiesce and point to the dress in the middle which is a deep forest green. “That one,” I say, and Mary returns the other two dresses to my closet. Mary helps me out of my current dress and into the formal gown, taking care to not mess up my hair in the process. Once I am in the dress and secured by the tight lacings on its back, she hands me a pair of shoes with a short one-inch heel. How hard can this be? I wonder. The heels are only about as tall as those on a cowboy boot. I had worn cowboy boots before as Michael and didn’t remember them being particularly difficult to walk in. The only difference with these was that the heel is narrower and slightly tapered in comparison. I slip the shoes on and stand, instantly feeling a little wobbly before catching myself. I walk around my room for a few turns, trying to get familiar with the shoes which, while not being overly challenging to my balance, require me to distribute my weight a bit differently on my feet. On top of that, they pinched my toes slightly which is not a level of discomfort I am expecting. Once I feel comfortable enough in the heels to move around confidently without fear of breaking my ankle, we make our way down to the doors leading into the ballroom. My mother is waiting for us in the hall leading into the ballroom where, upon appraising my gown and shoes with a critical eye, she nods in approval and motions for Mary to open the doors. Waiting for us inside is a stern-faced older woman wearing a dark purple gown with her grey hair pulled into a tidy bun and a young man who appearsnto be around my age with light blonde hair, grey eyes, and a thin frame. I offer a polite curtsy and greeting. “Welcome, Mrs. Christies. Th-thank you for taking time out of your busy s-schedule to instruct me.” “Hmph,” Mrs. Christies says, then turns stiffly to my mother. “I see her manners are still up to snuff.” “My daughter has always been a polite and well behaved, if sometimes stubborn, young lady,” my mother replies with a challenging gleam in her eye. “You are here to teach form and dance, Agatha, not critique her behavior off the dance floor. She has Mrs. Finnley for that.” “Ah, that explains the behavior. Well, Old Fab is good at what she does,” Mrs. Christies replies curtly. “Since the Lady Beira here is older than the last time I was her