According to the story of the original novel, the most beautiful woman in the world was supposed to be Lady Margaret. With her silvery hair and pale skin, she was said to appear as cool as the dew of a mountain in the morning, as gentle as the rain of spring. In contrast, Euphemie had been described as pretty, alluring even, with eyes the color of jealousy, and a warm and inviting countenance. Margaret, the author had said, wore elegant but simple gowns, tasteful and striking, and of course fashionable. Euphemie wore the latest styles, but always too gaudy and bright, showing just too much skin, like she was trying to garner attention.

It had always annoyed Amalia’s other self. If both wore the latest fashions, why was one demure and one gaudy? Why did the author seem to hate Euphemie for wearing such tasteless clothes, when they had been the one to dress Euphemie in the first place? And those times when Lady Margaret did dare to push the boundaries, she left the world around her breathless with her beauty.

Perhaps she was meant to be naturally beautiful, whereas Euphemie was false and performative. Perhaps the author had meant for Margaret to be goddess-like, so she might tread upon Euphemie’s profane humanity. 

Amalia was uncertain of all but this: the book was most certainly wrong, for even in the plainclothes she had been given, Euphemie was stunning. Now that she understood she was safe here, perhaps Amalia could dare to look at her? 

About two weeks had passed since her arrival. Today, as she often did, Euphemie lounged in a chair set up near the garden, drinking a cup of tea. Her manners as she did so were as regal as any aristocrat's, and she spilled not a drop on the dim, grey-blue fabric of her dress.

In truth, it was an unfashionable look. Amalia had given Euphemie her own old clothing to wear, from when she had been a teenager. In those days Amalia had grown uninterested in the desires of men and had not yet learned to scare them off with her gaze; she had dressed in drab garments so as to bore them. Unfortunately, Amalia had yet to learn that men did not actually care what you wore.

Worse now, her clothing suited Euphemie in a way that could rather generously be called “not in the slightest.” Even so she wore the stupid things with grace and beauty, as though they had been sewn all along to one day hug her body.

Imagine how lovely she might look in clothing made for her.

Amalia paused at this thought. It was, she supposed, strange. But then, was Euphemie not her favorite character? Of course she would be curious to see her dolled up. No need to pursue this inquiry further.

In the garden below, Euphemie placed her teacup on the table and stared out into the distance. Her finger lay just so on the cup handle, poised as though she might lift it once more, like a butterfly about to take off. 

Amalia found herself wondering what was going through the other woman’s head. What was she contemplating so seriously? 

Furthermore, why was Amalia so invested in it? Shaking her head, she returned to her desk. The work of a duchess was never done, and the Lioness of the North did little else.

Today on her desk lay letters from various residents of Mondlicht, messages left by the nomadic groups that still walked the northern plains beyond the mountains, multiple communications from the various dukes who made up the Holy Empire’s nobility, the tax collector’s report, notices from the local guilds, and a note from Leopold VI von Sonnenberg, current Emperor. 

The pile on her desk had never seemed daunting before. It was usual for her to attend all these matters by the day's end. Yet today she found herself reluctant to look at a single one.

Instead, she glanced back out the window at the garden below. Euphemie had turned in her seat to stare back at the manor; their eyes met.

Amalia turned her gaze away.

There was work to be done. She began to muddle her way through the affairs on her table, drafting replies when needed and making notes in a journal she kept in the rightmost drawer of her desk. 

The Emperor’s letter was next; his affect was that of a kindly old man, an impression Amalia was certain had been the case in the novel as well. She might have believed it herself, had he not been the one to order the invasion of the Kingdom of Lavender. No matter his bearing, an emperor was an emperor, and ruled earth and sky and sea as he saw fit. Just as Amalia would always be a weapon. 

As his sword, she had no choice but to reply. The emperor had asked questions of the impact of a recent imperial policy on Mondlicht. Amalia answered to the best of her abilities, and noted that she ought to survey the people when she could.

But this was a job for tomorrow! By now, the sun had lowered far down the horizon, so that its rays cut orange rivers across the sky. If she worked any longer, the maids would start to hound her. 

Unable to be idle any longer, she strode from her office to her room, removing her coat and the day's clothes and switching into lighter, more practical garments that left her arms exposed. Then she took her saber from its stand and strolled out to the garden.

This late, the garden was empty. Relieved, Amalia stretched, enjoying the way the cool spring air breezed across her bare arms. Then she settled into the simple stance a saber required, her feet spread and planted, her torso angled outwards, and began to slowly move through each guard. 

The saber, more than any other sword, was rather practical in its forms, with a collection of basic guards and a set of numbered cuts in all useful directions. She had learned them all in a day long ago, not because she was particularly brilliant with the sword, but because the saber had been designed this way.

No, there were far more beautiful and complex systems out there. The curved blades of Mondlicht’s nomads, the reaching, two-handed longswords of the Holy Empire’s past, the heavy needle of the rapier that required more strength than anyone expected. These as well, Amalia had studied. Yet it was the saber she had carried into battle on her hip, the saber that had protected her when her rifle had failed, and the saber that she now practiced in the garden. 

Ah, but it had been some time since she had managed to drill forms in this way. With each strike against empty air, she watched the sun’s last rays splash across her blade. It was so bright it nearly blinded her, and yet still she continued her movements, until the sun disappeared entirely beneath the horizon and left her in darkness.

Even then, Amalia persisted in her drilling, pausing only to switch her sword hand and practice again on her left. She swung and stepped over and over, and with each movement her mind drifted and drifted into thought.

In the days after her vision, Amalia had grown accustomed to reconsidering the world around her. That which she had taken for granted occasionally became suspect; things she once thought odd became normal. Of course, there was much left to parse, and much to be jealous of. The technology available to that other Amalia was far beyond what she had ever known to be possible. The medicine, too, seemed at times miraculous. Yet Amalia was certain her other self was missing out on the wonder that was swordcraft. It barely seemed present in her life at all.

Of course, Amalia’s vision had focused primarily on the reading of the book. Other details had been secondary. There was still much to work out. Amalia found peaceful moments like these particularly helpful for doing so.

A detail emerged to her: that other Amalia strolling down the street, holding hands with another woman. The identity of that woman was unclear, and the novelty of such a memory uncertain. Women held hands all the time, and it was not particularly noteworthy. Yet something about this instance felt different to her, if only she could parse what. Perhaps it was the weight that other Amalia herself seemed to place on it.

As the night grew darker and Amalia abandoned all thoughts of going to dinner, she allowed herself to parse this memory. The soft sensation of fingers laced between her own, the smell of lavender, the pretty little peal of laughter. Who was this mysterious person? Amalia could not think of anyone she had ever been so close to. As she continued her meditation, she pondered this question, and any others that came to mind.

She missed, of course, Euphemie, watching from among the hedges.