Count Diran Bregant sighs heavily as he looks over the ledger in his hand. His most recent investments have been extremely expensive, and two of them have fallen through already. Worse, his business partner is preparing for drastic and dangerous actions, and only Arare the Preparer could know their fate if the madman follows through with them. Not that the Gods would share such insight with a lowly nobleman.

Not to mention the letter from Inquisitor Darson, the chief thorn in his side.

A knock at the office door interrupts the mental calculations he’d been doing, again, to make sure he could avoid pulling funding from any official projects.

“What is it?”

Devine, his butler, partially enters the doorway.

“The Baroness Corheart wishes to speak with you, my Lord.”

Diran sighs, but sets his ledgers down and gestures to have her sent in.

“Count Bregant, how gracious of you to see me on such short notice,” the dowager says, giving an appropriately deep bow for someone with visible back problems. Decades of too-tight corsets and a sour attitude couldn’t have been rewarded better, in the Count’s opinion. He gestures to the couch on his left, standing from his chair with a warm smile.

“Celene, please, have a seat. What brings you here today? Is this about Pericene's lessons?”

“If I were merely concerned with her lessons, your Grace, I wouldn't have done more than write you a letter.”

Diran heaves another sigh and sits on the couch opposite his guest, his smile fading quickly. He eyes her carefully for a moment. To his eyes, she is an aged crone, unwilling to part with the memories of her glory days in court. 

“Then what is your business with me?”

“It is related to your daughter's... persistent struggles. I am being forthright in bringing this concern to you, in the hopes you might understand my urgency. I truly believe there is a better solution for everyone involved, as well that my plan to resolve this issue will net you a profit in power and influence, at least compared to the risks entailed in this sort of... performance.”

He grumbles, frustrated with the way she picks over her words like a bird digging at seed. “I’ve recently spent a great deal of time watching expensive investments fall through on words of those demanding more of my money, Celene. I have little patience for games.”

“I am truly sorry to hear the state of your affairs, my Lord. However, this will cost you nothing but a lie, though you may find yourself spending a little less on food. My girl isn’t one of those dreadfully oversized unfortunates, but otherwise can assuredly fill the part.”

Now Diran leans forward, a glint in his eye wilting Baroness Corheart’s confidence.

“Enough dancing about, Celene. Explain what are you suggesting clearly, and also explain why should I not have you thrown into prison for the very thought of it.”

The Baroness produces a tattered leather riding crop, quite similar to the one which has become a recognizable part of her attire. Aside from its spine being snapped in two places, the handle and keeper are shredded as if a beast had teethed on it for years.

“This was stolen from me after my lessons with your daughter at the start of last month. I am not blaming her directly, of course, but I cannot believe anyone else in your estate would do such a thing. Her maid, perhaps under her orders. Regardless, the blame would still fall to the young Lady.”

Diran rolls his eyes, but gestures for her to continue. Perhaps she will get to the point.

“Indeed, my greatest concern is for how this behavior might spread to other aspects of her life. If this is how she behaves with an authority figure, how might she behave around those with even greater power? What about those with none? Indeed, the collapse of your house could come at the utterance of some foul thought suppressed for too long under the fear of her station.”

“The point, Celene. Before we both die of old age.” Not that he would hang around her rotting corpse if she keeled over dead this very moment.

“Of course, your grace. Pardon my delay. I have a proposal which your first instinct will tell you to reject, but please allow me to fully explain the benefits and downsides as I have seen them before you make a final decision.”

Harrowed of this conversation, Diran struggles not to slip into a coma, gritting his teeth and gesturing again for the Baroness to continue.

“Thank you for your consideration. I have long offered my services to your many sponsored orphanages as a teacher, to help the future spears and shields of our kingdom better understand the world they fight in and the cause they fight for. As you have previously acknowledged, this has been a net benefit, as more new soldiers are more enthusiastic about their roles.

“An additional unexpected benefit of this has been the discovery of a particular girl who has proven to be incredibly capable. Her abilities are as a caster, skilled in earth and air, and she is both accomplished and capable in these. Furthermore, she has demonstrated adherence to orders and reliability in action, not to mention she has become-”

“Celene.” His tone is flat, a single note for all of the sounds which make up her name. It cuts her words to a sharp stop. “What is this?”

“A replacement for your weakest family member, to better suit your needs.”

Diran straightens his posture, eyeing the Baroness carefully. It's an absurd idea, the kind that must be a ploy to infiltrate his household. The old hag has less than a moon’s breath to live, and no heirs of her own. Subterfuge is all that’s left to her outside of parties and piteous looks.

That said, the offer is unfortunately tempting. His daughter is an unceasing embarrassment, hardly able to show her face around the house she lives in. Theid’s behavior exacerbates it, of course, but Diran is less and less concerned with the childish heir to his household and more concerned with the dire straits of his accounts. A solution such as a properly useful daughter, fake or otherwise, would solve a lot of his long-term problems quite handily.

Especially if he has to make deals with more unsavory nobles. Better to have someone else's daughter to give away, then.

“Get on with it.”

Celene smiles, and it’s downright predatory. She rings the bell for service and a maid steps in.

“Please bring the girl who arrived with me. She is waiting in one of the sitting rooms near the manor's entrance.”

The maid gives Diran a surreptitious glance and bows to the Baroness when he nods, before leaving to fetch the child.

“You’ve brought her here for this?” he asks, and the Baroness shrugs knowingly.

“She doesn't know why this opportunity exists. Not to mention, she is rather enthusiastic about the whole idea. Thinks it's romantic, even fancies herself an actress, if you can believe it. Of course, I’ve made sure she understands the weight of this responsibility. This will be her life, and she thinks that’s a good trade.”

“She must still be a child.”

“Of course, but it is a rare seed who is as quick to flourish as her.”

A knock pauses their conversation, and the maid returns with a young girl in tow.

She’s wearing a simple dress, likely purchased from a ready-made clothing shop or second-hand from someone who didn’t need it. Shoes that fit, but are in dire need of aid, and socks that don’t fit and need even more help. A bonnet keeps her face slightly obscured from all but a headlong view, but she faces Diran and curtsies like a practiced courtesan. If it's all skill, the child looks closer to a stage performer in costume than a genuine orphan.

“An honor to meet you, your Grace,” she says.

She’s near enough in height to someone the five-year-old disaster still dirtying his name could have grown into, and Diran can’t help but reel at the closeness to his wife’s appearance.

“How old are you, girl?”

“I will enter my ninth year on the last Day of Beginnings this year, your grace.”

Despite himself, Diran can't deny this is looking better and better.

“Give us a show, then.”

Another deep curtsy, excessively polite but not inappropriate, and she gestures towards the table where a vase holds some day-old flowers. Water streams up out of it into a curl which dances in a circle before returning to the vase. Moments later, the table itself lifts gently into the air, its marble top floating up until it nearly brushes the ceiling.

“Good Gods,” he murmurs, as the table returns exactly to its position without more than a quiet tap. Ideas race through his mind, and without any effort, an excuse for this change appears in his mind.

All that remains is to dispense with the oversized ghost in the deserted wing of his home.

“Celene.”

“Yes, your grace?”

“Bring her back on the first workday next month. I have some things to take care of before then.”

“Is there anything else you need of me?”

“Find a way to kill rumors of my daughter's height in town, if any persist. Encourage that she mistook water for air as a child. She’ll debut at the Founding Day festival in two years, but until then there is a lot of damage to undo and far too many minds to change.”

The Baroness stands and curtsies gracefully, an elegance only achieved by aged practice oozing from her every movement.

“As you command, your grace.”

The two of them leave, and Diran can’t help but notice the look of surprise and glee on the girl’s face.

He just hopes she won’t come apart under the scrutiny of nobility.