Raising Beast Cubs to Find a Husband-Chapter 86: The Iron Swan
Day Ten of Tutoring.
The West Wing had undergone a startling transformation.
Gone were the shadows, the butter-slicked floors, and the sense of impending doom. The curtains were thrown open, letting the sunlight stream onto the velvet rugs. The torn books had been replaced.
And in the corner, where Lady Ellia used to plot the demise of her tutors, a desk had been set up for Grand Duke Bastion.
He was sitting there now, reviewing military logistics reports while occasionally glancing up to check on his daughter. He looked tired—rebuilding a relationship with an eight-year-old is exhausting work—but the dull, haunted look in his eyes was gone.
Ellia was sitting at the main table, chewing on the end of a quill.
"This is stupid," she announced, glaring at a sheet of paper. "Why does ’X’ always want to be found? Why can’t ’X’ just stay lost?"
"Because ’X’ is the variable, little Lion," I said, pouring tea. "And in life, we must solve for the unknown."
"I prefer solving with a sword," Ellia grumbled. "Like General Rajah."
Bastion chuckled from his desk. "Rajah solves his grocery list with a sword. We aspire to be more versatile."
I smiled. It was domestic. It was peaceful.
It was also terrifyingly close to the deadline.
I looked at the calendar on the wall. Twenty-two days until the Imperial Debutante Ball.
I looked at the checklist the Emperor had sent me.
Standard Imperial Math (Check)
History of the Clans (In Progress)
The Waltz of the Seven Moons (???)
Fan Language and Courtly Signals (???)
Proper Curtsy Hierarchy (???)
I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck.
I am a Chef. I am a Mother. I am a Gamer. I can grind levels, bake a soufflé, and dodge a fireball.
But I have absolutely no idea how to be a "Lady."
"Um," I cleared my throat. "Lord Bastion?"
"Yes, Tutor?"
"Regarding the curriculum," I tapped the list. "I can teach her to be smart. I can teach her to be kind. But... I don’t know how to dance the ’Waltz of the Seven Moons.’ The only dance I know is the ’Macarena’, and I don’t think the Emperor would appreciate that."
Bastion blinked. "The Macarena?"
"It involves a lot of hip movement," I dismissed. "The point is, I’m a commoner. I don’t know High Society etiquette. If I teach her, she’s going to walk into that ball greeting people with high-fives instead of curtsies."
Ellia perked up. "I like high-fives."
"No," Bastion and I said in unison.
"We need a specialist," I decided. "We need someone who speaks fluent Snob."
Princess Leonora’s Solar
I found Princess Leonora in her garden, staring dreamily at a rosebush. She wasn’t painting. She was just... sighing.
"He called me ’Princess’," Leonora whispered to the rose. "His voice was so deep."
"Leo, snap out of it," I said, waving a hand in front of her face. "Rajah has returned to his duties. I need your help."
Leonora blinked, shaking her head. "Oh! Primrose! Sorry. I was just... thinking about... politics."
"Sure. Politics with stripes," I smirked. "Listen, I need a favor. I need an Etiquette Teacher for Ellia. Someone terrifyingly good. Someone who can turn a wild cub into a graceful swan in three weeks."
Leonora winced. "That is a tall order. Most etiquette teachers in the capital are afraid of the West Wing. The last one left because Ellia put a frog in her tea."
"Ellia is different now," I promised. "And Bastion will be there to supervise. I just need someone who knows the steps."
Leonora thought for a moment. Then, a look of pure dread crossed her face.
"There is... one person," Leonora said slowly. "But she is intense. She taught me. She taught the Empress."
"What’s her name?"
"Countess Giselle," Leonora shuddered. "They call her ’The Iron Swan’."
"Perfect," I grinned. "Hire her."
---
The next morning, Countess Giselle arrived.
She was a breathtaking, terrifying example of the Avian Clans. She was tall and impossibly thin, clad in a high-collared grey dress that looked like armor.
She didn’t have wings on her back; instead, her arms were covered in sleek, metallic-grey feathers that blended seamlessly into her sleeves. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, punctuated by three long, white quill-feathers that twitched when she looked around.
She walked with a jerky, fluid grace—head bobbing slightly, eyes sharp and beady like a bird of prey. She carried a wooden cane that she tapped rhythmically against the floor.
Click. Click. Click.
She walked into the West Wing. She looked at Ellia (who was wearing leggings and a tunic). She looked at Bastion (who stood up respectfully). She looked at me (wearing my apron).
"Disgraceful," Giselle said. Her voice was like breaking glass.
"Good morning, Countess," Bastion said smoothly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Giselle performed a curtsy that involved spreading her feathered arms like a wingspan. "Your Grace. I am here only because the Princess begged. And because I enjoy a challenge."
She turned her sharp gaze to Ellia. She tilted her head to the side, examining the girl like a worm she was about to eat.
"Stand up, child."
Ellia stood up. She slouched. She crossed her arms.
"Shoulders back," Giselle barked, tapping Ellia’s shoulder with the cane. "Chin up. Uncross your arms. You are a Lioness, not a gargoyle. Preen yourself!"
Ellia bristled. Her eyes flashed gold. "Don’t hit me with the stick, old bird."
Bastion took a step forward, protective instinct flaring, but I held up a hand to stop him. Let’s see how this plays out.
Giselle didn’t flinch. She puffed up slightly, the feathers on her neck standing on end. She leaned down, her beak-like nose inches from the feral princess.
"I do not hit," Giselle hissed, a low sound deep in her throat. "I correct. And if you call me ’old bird’ again, you will balance three dictionaries on your head while reciting the Imperial Lineage. Do we understand each other?"
Ellia stared at her. She saw no fear in the Swan’s eyes.
"Fine," Ellia huffed. "We understand."
"Good," Giselle straightened up, smoothing her feathers. "Tutor Primrose, fetch the fans. We begin with Non-Verbal Communication."
