Waiting for Tomorrow

The Sage looked around the shop.

Fabric was stacked from floor to ceiling in various shades of color. She could name some, but not others.

Martha had already made herself at home, rummaging through the scraps on the workbench. Lillian wanted to stop her but didn't dare speak up; she could only gesture silently from behind, her lips moving without producing any meaningful sound.

The Sage withdrew her gaze.

Wearing a black robe to someone's wedding was indeed inappropriate. She looked down at her own robe, which was tightly wrapped from the collar down to her ankles.

“Then I’ll buy one,” she said.

Martha turned around, her eyes lighting up. “Really? That’s perfect! Lillian, take her measurements and custom-make a set—”

“There is no need for a custom order,” the Sage interrupted, her tone flat. “Ready-made clothes will do.”

“Ready-made?” Martha wrinkled her nose. “This is for a wedding! Aren't you going to get something proper?”

“The wedding is tomorrow. There isn't enough time.”

Lillian mumbled softly, her tone carrying a hint of a tailor's specific complaint—not directed at the person, but at the time constraints.

Martha finally realized the situation.

Lillian hesitated as she stepped out from behind the counter. She stopped after three steps, her fingers twisting the ties of her apron.

“Then... excuse me, do you have any requirements?”

The Sage thought for a moment.

“Something suitable for a wedding will suffice.”

Lillian was stunned.

The answer was far too vague. What color, what style, what fabric, how high should the collar be, how long should the sleeves be—at least seven or eight questions raced through her mind, but she didn't ask a single one. It wasn't that she didn't want to ask; it was that organizing language was a massive undertaking for her.

Martha couldn't take it anymore. “At least state a preference! What color do you like? A long dress or a short one? Should it be off-the-shoulder?”

“No skin showing.” This answer came quickly.

“Fine, no skin showing,” Martha said, counting on her fingers. “And the color?”

The Sage fell silent for a moment.

“...Not black.”

Martha almost laughed. “You call that a requirement?”

The Sage ignored her.

Lillian glanced at the Sage’s hands—they were the only basis she had for judging the woman's skin tone.

The skin was very pale, the kind of pale that didn't belong to someone who spent much time outdoors. Her fingers were slender, her joints well-proportioned, and her nails were neatly trimmed.

Lillian silently noted these details in her heart.

Then she turned toward the shelves against the wall. She stood on her tiptoes to reach for a roll of fabric, put it down, changed it for another, felt the texture, and put it down again. She repeated this four or five times.

Martha leaned in to look. “What are you choosing?”

Lillian didn't answer. This was one of the rare moments she didn't respond to others—when it came to clothes, this socially anxious girl would suddenly become a different person. It wasn't that she became extroverted, but rather that she became focused, so focused that all external sounds became background noise.

She eventually pulled out two rolls of fabric: one was a very light gray-blue, and the other was a warm ivory. She carried both rolls to the workbench, unfurled a corner of each, and checked them against the light coming through the door.

Then she turned to the Sage.

“These two colors...” Her voice was still very small, but steadier than before. “Which one do you think is better?”

The Sage took two steps closer. She looked down at the two pieces of fabric.

Her finger paused over the gray-blue one.

That color reminded her of something. Something from a long time later.

“This one,” she said, pointing to the gray-blue.

Lillian nodded. She didn't ask why; she simply carried the ivory roll back to the shelf, her movements gentle as if she were afraid of wrinkling the fabric.

After selecting the color, Lillian circled the shop. Her fingers brushed past several ready-made clothes hanging in the corner. She paused, then walked two more steps and took down a gray-blue dress from the innermost shelf.

The style of the dress was simple—high neck, long sleeves, a cinched waist, and a hem that reached the ankles. There were no extra embellishments, only a circle of extremely fine dark patterns embroidered with matching silk thread at the collar and cuffs. It wasn't flashy, but holding it in one's hand, it was clear that this was no sloppy piece of work.

Lillian shook the dress out and held it flat in front of the Sage.

“This one... the collar is high enough, and the sleeves are full-length.” Her voice was still quiet, but her speech was much more fluid—she had entered her domain. “The fabric is double-layered fine cotton; it’s breathable but opaque. It won't be too formal for a wedding, but not too casual either. Would you like to try it on? I can tidy up a place in the back—”

The Sage looked down at the dress.

Then she reached out and tugged at the cuff of her own black robe, compared it to the sleeve length of the dress, and glanced at the position of the waistline.

“No need to try it on.”

“...Huh?”

“This one is suitable.”

Lillian’s mouth fell open. She had been a tailor for over a decade—counting the years she spent assisting her mother—and she had never encountered a customer who said a garment was suitable just by looking at it. Clothes were one thing when worn and another when hanging. If the shoulder width was off by half an inch, the entire spirit of the outfit would be wrong.

“But...” Lillian summoned her courage and took a small step forward. “If you don't try it, what if the shoulder line is wrong, or the waist—”

“I have no use for such things.”

The Sage’s tone carried no impatience; she was simply stating a fact.

Lillian wanted to say something more, her mouth opening and closing twice, but she eventually shut it. There was an aura about this guest that made one hesitant to press further.

Martha, however, was not one to give up.

She circled around to the Sage’s side and tilted her head to peek into the black hood—though, of course, she saw nothing. The hood was pulled too low, and the shadows completely obscured the Sage's features.

“Won't you try it on? Really?” Martha’s tone held a hint of something else. “It’s not often you visit a tailor shop; it would be nice to change and let us have a look—”

“I will change after I return.”

“Then how will I know if you look good in it?”

“...It is unnecessary.”

Martha was left speechless.

Lillian stole a glance at Martha from behind, her gaze carrying a bit of sympathy mixed with a subtle “even you have days like this” expression.

Martha caught the look and glared back at Lillian. “What are you laughing at?”

Lillian quickly looked down, her ears turning red, and began to fold the dress in a flustered manner.

The Sage pulled a few silver coins from her robe and placed them on the counter. Lillian glanced at the amount—it was too much. Not just a little, but nearly half as much again. Just as she was about to give back the change, the Sage picked up the folded dress.

“Keep the change.”

“But—”

“Those with good skill should be paid more.”

Lillian’s hand stopped in mid-air. She kept her head down, the redness spreading from her ears down her neck to her collarbone.

Her lips were pressed tight, and a very soft “thank you” squeezed out of her throat.

Why were all the recent guests like this?

The Sage didn't linger. She tucked the dress under her arm and turned toward the door. The hem of her black robe dragged slightly over the threshold.

“Let’s go back,” she said to Martha.

Martha looked at the Sage, then back at Lillian. Lillian was standing behind the counter, staring blankly at the silver coins, her expression one of the helplessness that comes from being praised without knowing how to respond.

“Well—Lillian, see you later!” Martha waved at her.

Lillian gave a small nod.

The bell chimed again, and the door closed.

The alley fell quiet.

Martha followed the Sage for a few steps, the questions she had been holding back finally becoming impossible to contain.

“How did you know it was suitable without trying it on?”

The Sage didn't look back, and her pace didn't slow.

“Even if it doesn't fit, I can adjust it with magic.”

Martha’s footsteps faltered for half a beat.

“Eh?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Wait—magic? You’re a mage?”

The Sage didn't answer.

Martha caught up in a few steps, circling to the Sage’s side and tilting her head to study her. A black robe, a hood, a gray-blue dress tucked under her arm, and the soundless hem of her robe as she walked.

Come to think of it, she still didn't know who this person was. She only knew she was a guest related to Klein, staying at the manor, and attending the wedding tomorrow. Nothing else was clear.

The Sage had no intention of explaining, either.

However, that didn't stop Martha from continuing to talk. Her tolerance for being ignored was extremely high—or rather, she didn't even realize she was being brushed off.

“So that’s how it is,” she nodded, her tone not one of surprise, but more like she had confirmed a suspicion. “Magic can even alter clothes? Doesn't that mean Lillian’s work was for nothing?”

“It was not for nothing,” the Sage said. “The fabric and the craftsmanship are a different matter.”

“Oh—” Martha drawled. Although she didn't fully understand, it sounded reasonable.

“So... what is your relationship with the young master?” Martha finally asked the question she had been dying to ask.

The Sage’s pace didn't change at all.

“Guest.”

“I know that! I mean—”

“We are here.”

Martha looked up; the carriage was parked at the entrance of the alley. The driver was sitting quietly on the bench waiting. Seeing the two of them emerge, he jumped down and opened the door.

Martha’s question was cut off. She opened her mouth, feeling a bit unwilling, but followed her into the carriage anyway.

The one who didn't say a word the whole way was the driver. Martha wanted to continue chatting, but the Sage leaned against the carriage wall and closed her eyes; she clearly wasn't in a mood to talk.

So Martha also shut her mouth and turned to pull aside the curtain to look outside.

It was evening in the countryside. Someone was driving cattle back along the ridges of the fields, and smoke drifted crookedly from distant rooftops. The air smelled of grass and soil. The last light of the sunset was caught on the distant mountain ridge, staining half the sky a pale orange.

She stole a glance back at the Sage.

The gray-blue dress was neatly folded and placed on the Sage’s lap. The cuffs of the black robe just covered the back of her hands, leaving only her fingertips visible. Those fingers were very pale and well-defined, resting motionless on the dress.

The lingering light of the sunset leaked through the gap in the curtain, falling right on that hand and illuminating a small section of her wrist.

The Sage’s finger moved slightly.

It was very light, as if she were unconsciously stroking the fabric of the dress.

Martha withdrew her gaze.

She felt that this person was very much like the madam—even though she didn't pay much attention to dressing up, she was actually quite fond of beauty.

By the time the carriage stopped at the manor gates, the sky had mostly darkened. The porch lights were lit, and warm yellow light leaked through the stone pillars, casting a thin layer of shadows on the stone steps.

They were just in time for dinner.

The dining room was already set. Klein sat at one end of the long table, with Ophelia beside him. Three candles were lit on the candelabra, their flames steady and still.

When the Sage walked in, Klein was saying something to Raymond. Seeing her enter, he gestured to her.

“You’re back?”

The Sage gave a nod and then pulled out a chair to sit down.

Dinner wasn't particularly grand, but there were two more dishes than usual.

After they had nearly finished dinner, Raymond stepped forward, holding a piece of paper covered in writing.

“Master, let me go over tomorrow’s schedule with you one more time.”

Klein took a sip of tea and then nodded.

Raymond began to speak. From what time to wake up and what time to change in the morning, to the guest guidance before the ceremony, the route for the couple’s entrance, and even how to move everything indoors if it rained—every item was divided into main points and notes, perfectly organized.

Klein listened intently, occasionally nodding or asking a small question, all of which Raymond could answer.

Ophelia was listening as well. Her posture was very upright, her gaze following the paper in Raymond’s hand, but there was a very faint curve at the corners of her mouth. That curve didn't look like that of a knight, but rather like that of an ordinary bride, a bit nervous and a bit expectant.

The Sage quietly sipped her tea.

Her gaze occasionally fell on Klein and Ophelia, then she would pull it back. Each time was very brief, so brief that no one at the table would notice.

It wasn't until Raymond had finished all the arrangements that she set down her teacup and spoke up.

“What do I need to do tomorrow?”

Raymond turned and gave her a slight bow. His attitude was thorough, neither overly warm nor neglectful.

“You only need to attend on time. Margaret will come to fetch you tomorrow morning and lead you to your seat. You need not worry about the rest.”

After a pause, he added, “If you have any needs, simply instruct Margaret.”

The Sage nodded and didn't ask further.

Klein put down his fork, picked up his glass, and took a sip of water, saying casually, “I’ll be troubling you tomorrow.”

The Sage looked at him.

Klein gave her a smile. It was his usual way of smiling—gentle, non-threatening, and making people feel he was easy to get along with.

“It is no trouble,” the Sage said.

Her voice was still cold. But she answered faster than any time before.

After dinner was over, everyone returned to their rooms. Only the sound of footsteps and the occasional chirp of insects remained in the manor's corridors. The moon had already risen outside the window; it wasn't quite full, but it was very bright.

Margaret knocked on the Sage’s door.

The door opened a crack.

Margaret said, “I will come to call you at six tomorrow morning. Is that enough time?”

“It is enough.”

Margaret was much more composed than Martha. she didn't try to peek through the crack in the door, but simply turned and left after her business was done.

The door closed.

The room was very quiet.

The Sage stood by the window, the moonlight shining in and casting the shadow of the window frame on the floor. She looked down at the gray-blue dress lying on the bed.

The dress was neatly folded. Lillian’s craftsmanship was indeed excellent—the stitches were even, the fabric was soft, and the dark patterns at the collar were faint in the moonlight, like a circle of fine ripples.

She reached out and touched that circle of patterns.

Her fingertips lingered on the fabric for a while.

Then she put the dress away and pulled the curtains shut.

As for Klein and Ophelia, because a guest was staying at the manor, the two of them did not sleep together today. They tacitly avoided discussing the matter.

After saying goodnight to each other, they went back to their respective rooms to rest.

Klein went back to the third floor.

Ophelia went back to the second floor.

Klein lay on his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling for a while. No lights were lit in the room, and the moonlight shining through the window was just enough to see the beams overhead.

He was getting married tomorrow.

He rolled over.

It would be a lie to say he wasn't nervous. But more than nervousness, it was a strange sense of groundedness—as if something were finally about to land.

He closed his eyes.

The last image that flashed through his mind was the faint curve at the corner of Ophelia’s mouth during dinner.

In Ophelia’s room, she sat before the dressing table and combed through her long golden hair once more. The mirror reflected her face, her brows relaxed, without the usual sharpness of a knight.

Her gaze fell on a small box in the corner of the dressing table. Inside the box were the earrings she was to wear tomorrow—a simple style, but truly beautiful.

Klein had found the time to make them.

With his own hands.

She opened the box, took a look, and closed it again.

Then she looked at her left hand.

The blackened skin and fine scales on the back of her hand shimmered with a slight cold light under the candlelight.

Ophelia clenched her left hand, then released it.

She blew out the candle.

The manor fell into complete silence.

There were no more footsteps in the hallway, and the kitchen lights were out. Only a single lamp on the porch remained lit, left by Raymond—someone would need it early tomorrow morning.

The moon moved from the eastern window to the western window.

The night was long, but everyone seemed to have gone to sleep early.

Tomorrow was a big day.